II-137 Gathering

Be mindful of the enemies you make. Or make sure you kill them. Those are my only two bits of advice.

If you let your enemies live, sooner or later they're going to come back for you. They will be a problem. They will hurt you. They will do everything in their power to bleed you, to break what you've built, and to attack you when your guard is down and you are most vulnerable.

You think getting a class makes you powerful? No, it puts a target on the back of your head. The target because your power will come at the expense of someone else. So you want to learn why the fathoms is so bloodthirsty, why people die constantly here by the billions? Because to spare an enemy is to leave one's back open.

I'm not saying be cruel. I'm not saying be a butcher. I'm not saying any of that. I'm saying be thorough because you have to be thorough because if you're not thorough someone else will be thorough with you and they will resolve your equation.

-The Trespassers’ Compendium

II-137

Gathering

The sound of Haythem's staff striking the cracked ground echoed through the massive hall. There were eyes following him, eerie green eyes infused with a miasmic Essence. He came here alone, a solitary excursion beyond the notice of the other High Consuls. They were apprehensive after the ambush Moonscar arranged for them. The inheritors were mustering their forces, gathering all they had to prepare for an invasion of the claimed hells. An invasion that Haythem knew would never come to fruition if they were to do it alone.

The claimed hells was a diaspora, a place where countless class went when they needed something essential, a place of connections, of great powers, and more. Most importantly, it was the home of Mephelion. And the Harbinger was playing a strange game. A game that Haythem, to his shame, couldn't fully understand. If Haythem had been the Harbinger, he would have dealt with the matter of Wei Anwei already. The boy was a danger, uncontrolled, furious, willing to destroy everything just to take his so-called revenge. Worse yet, he had the capacity to achieve his desired outcome. He had the concept breaker, and with every passing day he grew more powerful.

The Trespasser's Lodge was using him now, manipulating him openly, but the boy didn't seem to care. They had promised him Haythem's head, promised him revenge. Perhaps they even betrayed Earth to the half-fictional, and that wasn't something that Haythem could accept. And so, because he was faced with one bad choice, he made a lesser one of his own. He sought out allies who couldn't be allies in the long run, an enemy fated to be. But for now, for now, the Unfallen greeted him in their great tomb of tombs.

Thousands of deaths forged his tomb. It was made from the bones of trillions, and a shadowy absence seeped from every crack. Here, most would simply wither and die. The fetid air would boil their lungs from within. Their skin would blacken and rot. Their very power would seep away from them, dissolving into more miasma that would feed the Unfallen. But that wasn't the case with Haythem. He was a mage above mages. He was a Hierophant, as regarded by his Class. And as a hierophant, he knew all there was to know about Essence. 

He knew because he was a storyteller in his previous life, an author, a cult leader, as some might have called him. But he wouldn't regard himself as such. He was simply a visionary, one who led his people to a promised land. There was a reason why they were the inheritors, after all. He always had special abilities. He could stare beyond that thin barrier, that fine veil which parted the worlds. And when he caught sight of the fathoms, he's dedicated his entire life to learning how to cross over.

Comparatively, these fictionals had nothing again before it that could match his power. But he hobbled, he coughed, he played with them, he played to their pride, because he needed to give them something. He needed them to feel powerful. And he saw their necrotic rictuses turn into vicious smiles as he hobbled and wheezed. As he made his way to the twin doors awaiting him, they were tall, taller than some mountains, and skulls lined the doors. Each of them chuckled as he drew close, "watch, listen, behold, witness, witness the proud and mighty high consul of the inheritor's approach."

Haytham lifted his head, his beard shivered in the foul pungent air, and he straightened his back thereafter. The time for theatrics was over. He held up his staff, and a faint glow emanated from its tip. The miasma peeled away from him for a moment, and the laughter, the smiles, the whispered jeers stopped. "I am here to see Netzach. They know of my promise. They know of my presence. I informed them beforehand. Let me pass."

The many skulls lining the door glared down at him, but otherwise said nothing. Almost nothing. One skull at the bottom had to make a comment. "So you come to us now, inheritor. You come to us in your moment of desperation. You, a special Trespasser, a soulless creature that we cannot contaminate with our miasma. And here you are still, seeking the aid of fictionals."

"I am seeking the aid," Haytham began, trying to hold back his ire, "of like-minded associates to handle a mutual problem. Any differences between us?" He clenched his teeth. "Should be settled by those who reign, instead of those who serve."

The skull wished to say something, but they shattered. Bone powder flooded the air as a burst of miasma replaced that skull with a pocket of absence.

"Let  him through." A deafening voice shook the massive tomb, and at once the eerie green lights that radiated from the eyes of all the unfallen faded. They fled. There was no more time for pleasure, no more time for mockery, or leering from the dark. Their great master had spoken, the master that was bound to all of them, the master of above masters. 

Netzach, system bearer, and gestalt mind of the Unfallen, knew, welcomed, Haythem Winters into his home.

The great door swung open. They groaned, and it was like thunder detonating across the air. As Haythem walked in, the ground wasn't so withered and cracked anymore. Instead, it became something of reflective black marble. He stared down and saw his own reflection. His pale white beard trailed through the air like an iridescent wisp. His robes were pristine as well. He was a spot of purity in this sea of black foulness. 

And further he went, untouched, untainted, but ultimately spared. As powerful as he was, he could feel the sheer amount of Essence choking the air. Netsak was withholding their power. If they so desired, however, they could overwhelm Haythem in an instant. Alone, he too was limited. A single individual, classed or not, could not overcome a system host empowered by countless minds. 

But there would be consequences to striking Haythem if Netsak dared. And they didn't. They were wise for all their faults. They had survived the Fathoms for a great many years. And so long as they remained wise, the Inheritors would see to it that the Unfallen were called last.

Haythem walked in that dark room for what felt like an hour. And then, finally, there was a flicker of light ahead of him. They glinted in the darkness as if fireflies dancing at midnight. But they were colored green, and they left a foul trail in the air, like smoke, but glossy. And as he followed them, he saw a massive cluster of jagged bones, of lined skulls, of jutting arms and legs, all sticking out of the massive nightmarish humanoid. 

Black plates were layered across its body. Its chest was lined in skulls as well, each of them bearing a different expression. The creature, however, had a head, and it resembled that of many of a stacked hound. The jaws of a wolf were layered in the jaws of a hyena, in the jaws of an even smaller canine, and all this was derived from the hound of the withered moon. In fact, without the hound, there would be no one fallen. 

There would be no decay. Death was a companion to entropy. Both were embodiments of the end, but only one got to keep those who passed from this life. Only one was the archivist, the other merely broke away their physical bodies and was empowered for it.

"So," Netzach said, in their voice a chorus that made Haythem's skin crawl. "You come to us to beg our favor. Tell me then, High Consul, what do you offer?"

"I offer nothing more than what you offer," Haythem began. He planted his staff on the ground, and the room came alight just ever so slightly. He didn't overdo his posturing. To rise too much, straighten his back too rigidly, would provoke a brutal response from the system host standing before him.

Netzach strode up to Haythem. He towered over the aged inheritor by three times over. "Nothing but what I would have offered. I have offered you nothing, Trespasser. You came to me."

"I came to you," Haythem continued. "Because we share a mutual adversary."

"And one we can deal with," Netzach said. “Alone.”

"So why hasn't he been dealt with?" Haythem asked.

"Because it is not of our desire yet, not of our time. He will move on Earth, and when he does, we will intercept him. We will take from him his life, his system, and then we will use his power to open our way across."

Haythem scoffed.

"Oh," Netzach replied. "You doubt us. You do not think we have the capability."

Haythem shook his head, and he began circling the colossal system host. "I believe you have a great many capabilities," Haythem began politically, placatingly. "But that is not my doubt. My doubt is not in your power, it's not in your nature. It is quite simply insecurity. Why risk so much? Why not control all the variables?"

"You ask me to control all the variables while you wish for us to join forces against the Concept Breaker, the Keter. There are nothing but variables. Everyone wishes to possess what he has, and everyone will fight each other to take what he has."

"But not everyone," Haytham replied. "That, you must see, is a known variable. The fact that we will be enemies. You can be certain that. Even the dying queen can be certain of that. But what we can't be certain about is what Mepheleon might do, and what this boy might do. They are both, of their natures, wild cards. We cannot predict them. I do not understand them. Do you?"

"It doesn't matter if we understand them," Netsak continued. "I will simply break them."

"There is nothing simple about this," Haytham's patience was beginning to fray. He clenched his staff tight, and he forced himself to calm. He was still within the tomb, still at the tender mercy of the most merciless adversary. But they were foolish, they were blind, and they were trying to get Haytham to bribe them. He did come here with a bribe, he knew how they were like. So he intended to play on their pride as well, to make it seem like they forced a concession out of him, rather than this being what it was, a planned business transaction on the part of the inheritor High Consul.

"We are not as scared as you, it seems, Trespasser," the massive avatar of Miasmic Death said, "you think that he will trouble us. You think that we fear the Harbinger, that we cannot handle just a mere boy. You think so lowly of us. I suggest that you perhaps just wait. Wait as we break the claim, Pels. Wait as we take everything you were too scared to."

"Wait," Haythem echoed their words. "I will not wait. That is why I'm here. Because I am not waiting. Because I need to see things done and done properly. But if it is an offering you want," Haythem made himself sound ever so reluctant. And then, as he reached into his robes, he produced something. Something almost no one knew he had.

"What is that?" Netzach said. It looked like a patch of fur. Like a bit of bone. 

“It is just a sliver." Haythem began. “A slither of the withered moon's Essence. Perhaps you could have use of this. Perhaps your system desires it to complete your progress as a pillar of decay and movable, rather than adhering to his rules of... Rather than adhering to the Hound's rules of recollection and eternal memory."

And because Haythem was no fool, he layered his offering in a shroud of power. If Netzach reached out or tried to do anything to Haythem, it would simply combust, and they would never be able to taste the special sampling he had on offer.

"Do you have more?" Netzach asked. And that was when Haythem knew they were lost. Lost to him. Lost and willing to make a bargain.

"Perhaps," Haythem said, "are you willing to listen?"

"We might be considering your words again," Netzach said. They began to click their hands together, the many limbs jutting out from the colossal beast, tapped finger to finger, and its largest hands were clasped in a softer gesture. 

A seat suddenly rose from the ground, a seat made from bones, still weeping miasma, but it was offered to Haythem, and he gladly took it. He sat down and let out a sigh. "Finally, some hospitality."

"Yes," Netzach said, "we apologize for being so scornful. It has been some time since an outsider has visited us."

"I wonder why," Haythem replied, frowning at the miasma.

"Oh, do not be so soft, Inheritor. If you have the capability of surviving our miasma, then any Trespasser who has earned their power can walk these halls. We do not close our doors, after all."

"No. In fact, you are quite willing to broaden your horizons, to broaden your reach, and take countless worlds. And that is exactly what we need," Haythem said. "I need that miasma, the miasma you use to swallow entire realms, dimensions, entire worlds. I need your numbers, your forces. I need you to form a blockade."

"A blockade?" Netzach said. "I thought we were going to join forces."

"But you were being honest before, and we should be honest still. Do you see your unfallen truly being able to stomach my inheritors, my Trespassers, and their," Haythem paused. “Arrogant ways?

"No," the system host answered. "Not even a little."

"Exactly. And when we reach out to the queen, what do you think her forces will do when they encounter yours?"

Slowly, Netzach began to laugh. "Oh, this is going to be a marvelous mess, isn't it?"

"Quite so," Haythem finished.