The 108 Chapter 52: The Judgment Archives (Patreon)

Despite my worst expectations, Antares doesn’t immediately turn me into a flesh cube made of nerve endings. We’re outside the Garden, meaning no one is coming to save me, yet he remains pleasantly quiet. It doesn’t really cost me anything to try and engage with him, to be fair, and I would still like the opportunity to get to the archives so I can figure out which avatar’s always ruining my plans and landing pipes on teenage foreheads.

“How did you figure it out?” I eventually ask.

“First, you came out of nowhere. It might sound strange to you, but we do not exactly have an overabundance of talented third awakening disciples.”

“You have thousands,” I object.

“And they are all accounted for, with a past and mentors and connections and a flight plan leading them here… all except for you. That wouldn’t be proof enough by itself as we have a few, shall we say, eccentric masters we don’t track too closely.”

“Why not? Sounds dangerous,” I ask, not trying to derail him.

“It’s like a titan bear sleeping in a cave. If you leave it alone, and perhaps very carefully spy on it, you might learn if it is indeed hostile. If, however, you poke it…”

Antares winces.

“I can imagine how provoking someone who can spread gene plagues at will might be a bad idea,” I agree.

“Indeed,” Antares says, his current mature woman’s appearance giving him a ‘kind teacher’ persona, so much so that I almost forget who I’m talking to. 

It’s uncanny.

“Second reason: Antea’s sudden interest in you. All of us grandmasters rely on agents, but agents are kind of my specialty,” the powerful guild’s spymaster says. “And I know you’re not one. Too, shall we say, visible. Third, you appeared in the Garden four seconds past midnight on the first day of the Year of Judgment, right after the avatar were invested, using a spell we are repeatedly been told is impossible.”

He raises a brow.

“Ah, uh, yes.”

“Four, you were not on station before that time as far as we know. No records besides a citizenship application filled on your behalf by confidential parties.”

“Yeah…”

“I’m not a complete moron, Steve.”

Antares smiles patiently. He feels… amused.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Given your anger when I mentioned Kerentis, and the fact you were not surprised at the nomination, and given your cavalier attitude towards my dear sister…”

“I am not cavalier,” I protest. “I have the utmost respect for Antea.”

“Steve, Steve…” Antares shakes his head. “We are grandmasters. I have had planetary leaders bow to me, and you treat us like senior colleagues at a bakery. You do not have the cultural background to show proper respect.”

I cross my arms because this isn’t true. 

“There is a chasm between showing respect and acting like a sycophant.”

“True enough,” Womantares concedes. 

He stops at a food vendor to buy some deep fried snacks I haven’t tried yet. We’re in Elysion, which means the atmosphere is pleasant enough — alleys and parks and illusory blue sky, the rare smell of greenery in the air. I’m sensing he’s trolling me a bit as I politely wait for him to finish his bite of flaky dough.

“So, what I am saying is that you are not just an avatar, you are the Avatar of Time,” he finishes.

I roll my eyes.

“Is that why you’re treating yourself?”

“No. I’m four hundred cycles old. I treat myself if I damn well please. With that said, you seem weak for the representative of one of the harbingers.”

“I get that a lot. I’ll just say that it’s still early in the game.”

“You’re going to gain three awakenings and an empire in the next six months? Because that’s what it will take to stop her,” Antares states.

“No. It’s…. complicated.”

“Well,” he says with an evil grin. “Take your time.”

“Oh no you didn’t.”

***

Antares and Antea glare at each other over the ancient bone table. This looks like a more official part of the Garden, one I’ve never been to before seeing as it’s for important people. Kimera was invited, though she huddles against me and I don’t need my soul to tell she’s nervous. By rule., I cannot be interrogated without my mentor present, and those two appear to be mostly sticklers. I find myself curious.

“Were you going to keep him for yourself?” Antares asks with mirth in his voice. He’s back to his masked persona.  “You know, if you wish to achieve soul awakening, I could teach you.”

“It would be wasted this year,” Antea replies.

They speak very slowly for their level of awakening. I can’t tell if it’s for my benefit or just general Enderlithian courtesy.

“And you are talking about an avatar, ‘brother’, one who will one day, I hope, join our hallowed ranks.”

“We have not had a proper guildmaster for a while now,” Antares concedes. “With his assistance, I am sure one could be decided.”

They both smile with their teeth. It’s like watching a tiger and a lion separated by a flimsy fence made of crispy bacon.

I clear my throat. Both turn to me like they’re remembering that I’m here and not an actual resource they can call upon at will. Kimera looks at me like I placed my balls in a wolf’s jaw, and then, slapped him.

“So, how many grandmasters are there anyway? I feel like it’s a valid question. The organizational chart here is, uh, it doesn’t exist.”

“We cannot be sure,” Antea explains. “It relates to the way we age.”

They exchange a glance.

“Awakening never fully stops aging. Even the most powerful elders eventually feel the weight of time catching up to them. It’s an issue that goes beyond mere biology. Fleshcrafters, however, are different. We are ever-changing and ever-renewing. After a while, we just… stop. Go into something we call the eternal torpor. I am sure you have seen the shells of those who have agreed to leave their bodies to defend the Garden near the entrance. They are functionally dead, but in reality still there, sleeping.”

“You must have felt their souls,” Antares says. 

I did. Antea continues.

“It is sometimes difficult to assess if one of the oldest grandmasters is still alive and resting, or meditating, or if they’re just… gone. By the time they reach that stage, they would have delegated their authority to the younger generation like our master did.”

“Then you must have a list of active grandmasters, no?”

“Active is such a nebulous concept,” Antares muses.

“No, it’s not,” Kimera mumbles.

“Some masters will meditate for seven cycles before coming up with a brand new war form,” Antares explains. “It counts as still active. Speaking of! I want in on your little arrangement. Now that you are my disciple, you will memorize a book for me. In return, I will grant you genetic material. Your arsenal is still so very barren…”

Antares tuts. Antea sneers, her temper rising in a way that I hadn’t felt since she basically ate Phage in that crazy run a few loops back.

“You were always too focused on the tools! He has enough to master right now,” she says in a way that feels very much like she’s denying me dessert. “Let him learn how to merge cat and bouncer, and then he can add a third.”

“You very well know that it’s easier to learn that when you have at least five forms.”

“Only when one is lazy!”

“To follow the path of least resistance is no laziness but good sense when the end result is the same.”

“Is there something between the two of you?” I ask, interrupting their squabbling.

Kimera pinches me with pure panic, but I ignore her.

“We used to be closer,” Antea confirms with a haughty sniff that radiates her disapproval. “But my dear ‘brother’ always favored games over rigorous progress.”

“So is it not… incest?” I hazard.

Kimera kicks my chin but I ignore her.

“We’re adopted,” Antares says, though his soul is laughing at Antea’s increasingly human loss of composure.

“Taking liberties, disciple? Antares. You have a terrible influence on the youths.”

“You liked calling me brother though.”

Kimera and I flee the room before it can be fully destroyed.

***

After a few more training sessions, Antares gave me a choice of frame between two options: the mantis and the sniper. The mantis is a dedicated assassin and infiltrator with scythes capable of cutting through enchanted armor. Kimera’s own favored frame is a variation of the mantis designed for close quarter combat. Kimera isn’t a fighter, so she relies on the frame’s overwhelming power to kill quickly before the enemy’s skill can come into play. The version offered by Antares is, of course, a simplified version.

I didn’t take it.

At first glance, the sniper frame is ill-suited to fighting on station. It’s a long-range, flimsy option with limited projectile numbers, a slow rate of fire, shit defense and virtually no mobility beyond climbing, which it does very well. It answers the Garden’s need for a long range option when archers would be better. Actually, most affinities would do better, but fleshcrafters are all about being thorough, so a sniper was designed. And it works. If I want to kill twenty people by nailing them with a keratin needle that almost breaks the sound barrier, I can. I could also break the sound barrier but then I might as well draw an arrow on my ass with the words ‘kill me’ written in comic sans. The frame is also bad at dodging. 

What I’m most interested in is the launch system. After acquiring it, I observe that the frame uses a system of latches around a group of springs to develop the kind of power mantis shrimps use on innocent crabs. The good news is that it can be miniaturized. The bad news is that I’m going to need practice. It’s not just a problem of flesh manipulation. I just don’t know how to aim. I should have taken those archery lessons like my old man suggested, but I picked swimming instead. I guess the joke’s on me now.

The launch system will give me options. Enderlith might be mostly made of enclosed spaces, but there are places like Elysion or the Needles where range matters. I’m also eyeing the time-related upgrade ‘projectile hyperacceleration’. I have… an idea. I’m not sure how feasible it is right now, but I think there is a way to stop the bomb without fighting at all. 

Training continues as the month goes on.

***

The explosion goes off on time. I manage to pull Krane and Deza out of it who, in turn, pull their relatives and a few key agents out of Elysion before it ends as a space coffin. I take a few days a week following Namun and Deza around without their knowledge. I sweep the land around them. I use every infiltration trick Antares taught me to find a tail. I spot thieves, perverts, and door-to-door missionaries. No assassin, however. No suspicious presence hovering at the edge of the district, weaving fate in the most catastrophic way possible. I suspect the third avatar must have a superior range, an ability to seed disaster in advance so that misery eventually happens, a chess player whose pawns are coincidences and engineering defects. A difficult adversary indeed. Can’t wait to punch their fucking teeth in. 

The disaster ravages Law’s leadership so it takes a while for Deza’s request to get approval, but the power vacuum means most reasonable requests get approved. It’s enough for Deza to write about the Avatar of Malice and the help of the Avatar of Redemption to get ourselves a ticket in. I join as a ‘special consultant’, having offered my fleshcrafter expertise in the case. It’s only half bullshit. I did identify Egun, and let the templars get a portrait even though the owner is space powder right now. But they don’t know that, so my presence is authorized, I suspect because there is no one left alive to really forbid it. Krane’s influence is notable as well despite his war criminal status. Apparently, Avatars of Redemption are just trustworthy.

The archives are kept in an isolated part of the spaceport, near the massive ring where ships dive to anchor themselves to innumerable tethers. We watch them through the windows of the train: pleasure boats, now rarer after many patricians evacuated their children, Might’s destroyers and frigates, mercenary ships, merchant vessels now stranded by circumstances, ore miners operating in the nearby asteroid field and a multitude of other crafts ranging from one-person tugs without atmosphere, to the two-kilometers long golden frame of the Fortuna, the only void ship anchored at the station. Its presence offers little comfort to the workers now still cutting through the molten block of savaged districts in the vain hope of saving someone.

Now that I think about it, it’s a little strange. Shouldn’t there be, I don’t know, more warships around? This is the Year of Judgment. One would think an armada would bring a lot of negotiating power to the table. I turn to Deza next to me.

“Why don’t we have more voidships here?”

Krane replies instead.

“The voidships can return to Enderlith in mere days by latching on its beacon. There is no need to stay close to what will be an epicenter of godly nonsense when you can come when ready instead. All four of Might’s fleet are deployed at the moment.”

“Unfortunately, the beacon was damaged by the explosion,” Deza continues. “Or so I’ve heard.”

That explains a lot.

“How does the beacon work, exactly?”

“That’s beyond my expertise as an investigator,” Deza jokes.

“Beacons rely on the same technology as faster-than-light travel. Rather than going semi-blind, the navigator uses the beacon as an anchor and so it tunnels much faster and lands much closer to the station, which saves a lot of travel time,” Krane explains. “That’s why it takes a long time for a fleet to deploy to a hostile world, but returning to Enderlith is significantly faster.”

“I see.”

Come to think of it, I wonder if I’ll get to travel aboard a void ship. I think the Fortuna leaves at some point so it might be technically possible.

While I daydream about getting away for a vacation on a paradise planet, our train arrives at the docks. This must be the station’s busiest terminal, yet we have no difficulties moving through its winding glass corridors and the ebb and flow of an eclectic crowd. Krane is fourth awakening. This is all it takes for the people of Enderlith to part before him in a flow so smooth it must be unconscious, an instinctual reaction rather than a custom. They don’t even look at him, not really. They step aside like he’s a boulder rolling down a hill.

I’m a bit nervous. Nothing should go wrong, but obviously the third avatar is still out there, so it will. I am up to date with my stack of nodules and notebooks, so nothing should be lost. I still feel nervous.

After leaving the crowded alleys of the spaceport, now even grimier and more desperate after the explosion, we follow an unmarked path towards the edge of the circle. There are no directions except for letter and numbers, and the number of pedestrians we come across drops to the single digits. Some of the alleys have rats’ nests of covers and crates containing the meager possessions of those who’ve gained Enderlith and lost everything else. One of them has an actual sleeping baby in it — she’s healthy so I leave her alone. Soon, the only souls I feel share the structured, caged pattern of the servants of Law. We reach a silvery gate guarded by two templars in the adorned white armor of their more elite members — third awakenings, both of them as far as I can tell. It’s funny how that used to be an impassable wall.

“Deza Semri, investigator here to access the Judgment Archives. Here is my identification,” Deza says.

I’m the only one here who’s nervous. The guards made a token show of checking, but she’s expected and we soon make our way in. Another dull crystal corridor leads us to an atrium overlooking a well-lit central arena. We make for the impractically long counter waiting at the end of the path overlooking the chasm below. I give it a good look while Deza repeats her line to a patient admin in an equally white uniform. 

The central area is surprisingly deep, perhaps sixty meters with a rare wood floor at the bottom. Floating over the empty air are glass cubes containing ancient shelves and archaic computer systems so old they might be dating back entire eras. While the cubes are absolutely pristine, the books, files, parchments, drives, and scrolls inside are ancient beyond reckoning, the most surprising thing being that they’re still somewhat intact. While I still watch, we’re cleared to enter. A stern, slightly effeminate man in white robe with red embroidery comes to welcome us near the atrium’s only elevator. I know he was waiting for us because I felt his soul, so I’ll give his solemn entrance an A for ‘A fort’. He has the quiet composure and gene mods of middling Patricians, though his second awakening shows he prefers the scholar’s path. 

“I am Librarian Whitehall. Welcome to the Judgment Archives. Could you please identify yourselves?”

“Deza Semri, investigator.”

“Dantus Krane, war criminal, Avatar of Redemption.”

“Hmm,” Librarian Whitehall says as he takes notes on a sleep tablet. “And you?”

“Steve Prentiss, Fleshcrafter Guild apprentice.”

“And the reason for your coming?”

Deza recites the answer, that we’re here to find out which power would have a random element of destruction. Whitehall knows all of this. He’s following protocol. While he does so, I feel templar souls closing in above us. They’re moving too fast for this to be a routine patrol. They’re too strong as well.

“We have company,” I send my two companions.

“The strong one is fifth,” Krane sends.

Ah shit, looks like they really sent the cavalry on this one. Deza shifts her posture, calming herself down while Whitehall drones on. Maybe we’ll get what we want anyway? To my surprise, Whitehall finishes just as they reach the main gate. We enter the elevator, descending at a snail’s pace. Beyond the window, the various glass cubes rotate and reorder themselves seemingly at random.

“Yes, your request is specific enough that I narrowed that powerset down to a handful of possibilities, you see. Wait, what —”

The elevator stops. A dull alarm screams through the archives.

“This facility is in lockdown. Please follow protocol.”

Whelp. We’re going back up. Whitehall’s soul briefly spikes with fear, but our quiet concentration calms him down. The gates open with a lazy ding at odds with the crisis. The admin that was there just before is gone, replaced by four elite templars led by a wardrobe of a man with a carefully engraved, white on white armor of dented splendor, luxurious and pockmarked at the same time. His face hides under an impassive mask, though his voice is the most disgusted, haughty one I’ve heard.

“Steve Prentiss is under suspicion of being a restricted avatar. You will follow me. The rest of you will stand down.”

Despite the shit we’re in, I can’t help but remember the time when I was working with Sethri derelicts and we came across an Elder hiding inside of a dormant ship. He’d been one of the bishops of Vrok, the previous archon, so I can imagine why he would want to fuck off into space considering what happened to his boss. Facing that man had been like facing a deity, someone whose very presence dominated the space around them. This newcomer is still far beyond anything I can manage at the moment, but this time I’m no insect. I’m no longer sneered at, or called a cripple. While he’s still beyond my reach, I can see a path to him. I have already made enough progress that when his presence pushes against my soul, I ignore it. He doesn’t scare me. What can a servant of Law do that the game has not done yet? And besides, we have a plan.

“Who’s that fuck and why does he look like we pissed on his nan?” I send the others.

“That would be Inquisitor Idris. We usually call him Captain Dogma back at the station,” Deza replies.

Ah goodie.

“Then I’m in your care,” I send back.

“That you are.”

Deza doesn’t step forward, but somehow the focus seems to shift on her despite her being the very obvious weakest fighter present. 

“On what ground?”

“Do not waste my time, investigator,” Dogma warns.

I shield her mind from the pressure as much as I can. Inside the cage of her soul, Deza stands for what she believes.

“You’re attempting to arrest a task force member without the approval of his superior, so I ask again. On what ground?”

The inquisitor’s mask moves minutely to the side, actually considering her for the first time.

“I told you, suspicion of being a restricted avatar.”

“Which one?”

“You are not required to be told.”

“You will list the entire charge as is your duty, inquisitor.”

The room is strangely quiet.

“On my word I will have you demoted, Deza Semri. Citizen Prentiss is suspected of being the Avatar of Time.”

Whitehall scoffs, then blanches when the rampart of armored fucks somehow indicate they’re paying attention to him. Deza’s not done though.

“Time is not a restricted avatar.”

“It is as of the first of this month by decision of Lady Vestalia, Avatar of Law.”

“I contest this decision under amendment four: politics.”

Idris seethes with rage, a torrent that bleeds through the cage of his soul in waves of bloodlust. This is an Elder being disrespected by a nobody investigator. If he kills her now, no one would punish him, but he’s not a sect kneebreaker. He’s a templar.

“And as such, I challenge you to a Trial of Law.”

He doesn’t hesitate.

“After the Goddess strips your soul of her blessing, I won’t give you the satisfaction of a merciful death.”

White light engulfs the two of them, joining as a strange, muted star in the middle of the room. Gods do not enjoy mortals demanding their attention. There is almost always a price to be paid, but Deza is sure of herself. Law is, sometimes, a matter of interpretation. Siding in a war isn’t justice. I think so. Deza agrees. We’ll see what Law herself has to say.

I’m not holding my breath.

The guards stand like gargoyles, radiating smug confidence that this will be immediately over and, if I understand what Deza told me, that the trial will end with her depowered carcass tossed out to die in agony or survive in crippling pain. However, the trial doesn’t take one second, or five. The guards’ caged souls of bored certainty turn to confusion until the lead shifts his attention to Krane. His voice drips with venom.

“The Butcher of Tulku. It appears you’re short a shield.”

Krane pulls his sleeve, revealing a gleaming metal armguard. With a simple press of a button, the metal deploys as an iris of interlocked petals that reach down to his knee. Ah, Silverine products. Always reliable. Krane taps one of his gnarly nails on the metal once. It rings like a winter morning chime in the awkward silence. The head guard takes a step back. This is it.

“Thank you, friend,” I tell him.

“Always.”

Then the guards in a din of metal on metal. Time’s short. I turn to Librarian Whitehall, who stands his ground despite his paler face and the shiver of fear in his soul.

“The library’s locked down. I couldn’t help you if I wanted to. Do your worst,” he states with much more confidence than he feels.

“I know exactly how to change your mind.”

I kneel.

“I solemnly swear that my only goal is to find whoever triggered that bomb. I am the Avatar of Time. I can rewind what was done and prevent the bomb from exploding if only you can help me.”

The oath settles on my soul and, just like last time, fails to find purchase. Whitehall cannot perceive it, however. Not that I wasn’t telling the truth anyway.

“Let me know who can manipulate causality to do great evil. That’s all I need to know.”

“You will not ask about Law’s weakness?”

“What? No, that’s the least of my worries.”

“Even though she obviously sided against you?” Whitehall asks, a brow raised.

“To quote my old planet, it’s not Law I have a problem with, it’s her fan club.”

“Why not just smash through the glass? You certainly feel strong enough,” Whitehall challenges.

I roll my eyes.

“I’m not stupid. This is a library. It would take days to parse through everything assuming I could even read it, or even keep it intact. I can’t do it without your help, which is why I’m asking. Help me save the station, for Founder’s sake. Tell me who inflicts evil by manipulating events.”

I open my soul so he feels my sincerity, despair, and the desire to protect the station. His eyes widen. I should try that more often.

“You… you really are Time… Why are you…”

“I get that a lot.”

Krane is forced back against the room’s counter which shatters under his bulk, but a shield bash deflects a halberd and then he’s gone again.

“You know the truth now,” I tell Whitehall. “Please decide.”

He nods.

“Very well. I will help as much as I am able to. First, I’ll say that what we have is but one fragment of the truth. Records were lost over time. Our knowledge remains incomplete, even assuming that gods keep drawing from the same pool of abilities.”

“I know, I know,” I say with impatience. The battle still rages and the trial is holding for now, but it won’t last.

“To our knowledge, there are only four gods who grant causality-defying powers. Five, if we include time.”

He gives me a pointed look.

“Carnage offers curses, not blessings. Their avatars have the ability to invite conflict everywhere they go, so I doubt this is what you’re dealing with as the source is usually both obvious and vocal. Luck and misfortune also work as opposite versions of the same aspect. It cannot be luck as the events tend to ‘line up’ instead of going wrong. It’s a defensive blessing that favors the avatar, not one that inflicts damage from afar. Misfortune is the opposite. The last one is chaos.”

“One of the heavenly court members,” I remember.

“And the darkest one as far as we know, perhaps not as cruel as Malice or broadly destructive as War, Chaos weaves the threads of fates from the shadows to guide the game to its worst possible outcome. They are the most insidious of all the dark gods.”

“This sounds familiar.”

Whitehall folds his fingers together in a very scholarly gesture, as if high awakenings were not dishing it out behind us.

“Judgment Years where Chaos escaped notice inevitably led to great tragedies, though the avatars are always tracked down, in time and with great effort. If things keep going wrong, this is where you should aim your efforts. Chaos, with Misfortune as an option.”

“Ok. So. How do I find out? They have tells? Signs?”

“Unfortunately, as a Librarian, I do not know. I am not authorized to possess that knowledge. I merely know where it might be found. This is all I can tell you.”

“But accessing the entries on Chaos and Misfortune would let me learn how to find them?”

“Yes, to the best of the abilities of the ancients. If we hadn’t been so rudely interrupted, the elevator would have dropped us on the collecting deck where relevant documents would have been gathered for our perusal.”

“Ok. Ok, that is good. I can use this. I hate to ask this, but can you give me the access codes?”

“Pardon?”

“Look,” I say. “The facility is in lockdown anyway.”

“It does not matter, avatar. I literally cannot tell you, as it would break the law.”

Ah, I’m an idiot. He’s like Deza. The cage around his soul prevents him from knowingly committing a crime. Arg. I know where to look now, but without the access code… I’m not torturing innocents and besides, torture has been shown not to work well as a way to get information. I guess I might have to do it in another loop, dammit.

“Steve!” A voice warns.

Krane is pushed back, and I see why. The two gate guards have joined the battle and it’s now six on one. Even with his low fourth awakening, Krane can’t hold. He’s a defensive fighter who needs teammates to work with. Guess it’s time.

“If you’ll excuse me.”

I charge in, duck under the shield and use the blind spot to smash an augmented arm into a helmet. I dodge a polearm and weave under two interlocked staves.

Hey, this is familiar. Why is this so familiar?

The templars try to pin me down. My instincts tell me a war form would be stupid here. Most templars have polearms. Instead, I repeatedly mess with their formation while Krane acts as a battering ram, demanding attention with punches and shield bashes. One of the templars is sent cracking the glass separating us from the archives with a loud clang. He doesn’t get up, though he’s alive. Krane and I will not murder cops unless we have to. I send another flying down the corridor. I realize… Antea trained me for this. She used flesh templar shapes to fight me the first time she assessed my combat abilities, and has since done it on the regular. Did she expect this? What am I asking? Of course, she expected me to fight the cops.

“Should we break through?” Krane asks.

We could escape, but…

“I have what I could get, but I don’t want to leave Deza behind.”

“She would want us to go,” Krane says, soul carefully neutral.

I kick a templar into another one. Krane pins them to the wall with a shield charge. They fall into a heap. The last two templars slowly back up. Suddenly, the white light of the trial of law fades. Too late to run anyway.

We all turn to see Inquisitor Idris stride out, soul intact.

Shit.

And an instant later, Deza does the same. She looks struck with disbelief. I might be, too. This shouldn’t be happening. 

For the briefest moment, I feel a great attention on me. The feeling is strangely similar to when Mercy gave me a short and meaningful lesson. Emotions carry through that connection even if the contact is extremely brief. Sadness. Maybe… regret?

“The… the trial is over. Judgment… is postponed,” Idris mumbles, shocked to his core.

I don’t believe my eyes. The Trial of Law lets two of her servants call upon her judgment. Someone always ends up with their soul stripped of the blessing, either for making a mistake, or for calling upon her in vain. I didn’t think a draw could ever be possible?  Deza made it clear to me before we decided to go, that the trial only had one outcome. How could this be? Maybe because it was Vestalia’s decision to add me to the list of illegal avatars? And she’s dead, so she can’t defend the position? But surely Law would account for that. Unless she knows this is a loop, and would rather wait? She probably does know. What does it mean?

More importantly…

“So can we access the archives now?” I ask, full of naive hope.

Steely pressure crushes on my shoulders.

“Get. Out!”

Krane gently pushes me forward. Well, we made it out alive. Without what I was going for, but still very much alive. This was all very unexpected. Ah, but I have almost everything I need! I’m only missing the very last piece! If only there was a way to get the access code. 

“Let’s get back to the Garden,” Krane suggests. “Before he realizes we beat the snot out of his squad.”

I grab Deza on the way out while a silly idea worms itself in my mind. Surely, it wouldn’t work, right?

***

Librarian Whitehall frowned when his datapad pinged with a message from — he checked — the Temple of Law’s internal standards committee. 

“You have recently received reinforcement following a crisis event. Please fill this anonymous questionnaire to relay your experience. Your opinion is important to us! 

Reinforcements? The audacity of this inquisitor!

In a fit of rage, Whitehall logged in to the offered page to let the committee know exactly what he thought of the ‘reinforcements’ and the ‘crisis’ they responded to.

***

“I cannot believe that worked,” Antares said, sounding like a child discovering the concept of Christmas.

By his side, the Shadow technician stares at his screen with orgasmic intensity. The false temple page blinked in all its white glory. 

“It’s called phishing,” I explain. “Back on my home planet, my, ahem, close friend had to follow training not to fall to those and she explained how it works. Honestly, it’s hard to believe it doesn’t exist here. Maybe because the Endernet is so fragmented and underdeveloped? You just need the mail template and a false website that imitates the real one and most people will enter their credentials without a second of hesitation.”

“Disciple, this is all quite cunning. You have earned yourself some personal training. Let me just… edit my notebook. Now.”