II-118Recruitment

Let me tell you a story. It is a funny story. It is an amusing story. It is a story about people who are stupid. My people, my Sinners. However, they are a particular kind of stupid. They are impulsively stupid. They’re not scheming stupid or ignorant stupid. No, they are emotionally stupid. They like a little bit of pleasure, and then, after that, they stop using their brains.

This, this is the start of that funny story, and that funny story I like to call democracy.

Now, many, many of my sinners imagine themselves to have some say in their fate. This is not true. At any moment, I could take that class away from them. I could render them useless, crippled, blind even. However, because they feel good when they have a little bit more levels, they crawl up, they conform, they mold to this grand social hierarchy known as the Claimed Hells, and they think that each of them—theoretically, possibly, especially—have a chance of becoming Hell’s Vanguard.

Now, the circles are in competition with each other. This is false. They do not notice that the victor has already emerged, and he, unlike all the other stupid fools—well, he’s also an idiot, but he’s a boy, and he can learn. But most importantly, he is under no pretensions that we live in a democracy. No, this is a psychocracy, a madhouse ruled by me, shaped by my concerns, my desires, my needs. And right now, my main desire is to get a certain boy with a certain system to a certain realm, so that a certain requirement may be met. A certain gate might be unlocked for me.

-Mepheleon the Harbinger

II-118
Recruitment

“Dr. Kalrus, I think you outdid yourself by far this time,” Wei said. He looked upon his personal missile—its length grand, its alloy hard and brilliant—and felt his heart swell with anticipation. Around its shaft, enemy sinners were chained like grotesque gems: slavers, torturers, murderers, rapists. Unlike gems, they writhed, kicked, and screamed. Still, Wei was pleased. This was no mere warhead but an intercontinental essence bomb he could pilot, crash, and detonate in a wave of purest destruction. Better yet, he could leap away at the last moment—slipping between anchors to avoid the blast, or even parrying it with his clasp.

“Yes,” Wei thought, picturing ground zero aflame. He would descend upon his missile, his glaive aglow in the heart of the explosion, spirits charring, flesh melting, then use his sycthes to break the through the inferno like an incarnation of death and destruction.

“Wei, close your mouth,” Bishop muttered from the side. “You’re practically drooling.”

“That is because I see a deliciousness before me, Bishop,” Wei replied, his breath hot with near desire. In the corner of his vision, he saw Agnesia leaning forward, observing his expression and laughing. Flushing, Wei quickly shut his mouth. “Ahem,” he coughed. “Agnesia, how do you…?”

Then he saw it: the gun Dr. Kalrus had prepared for her Draconic Avatar. Immense and powerful, the avatar needed an immense and powerful weapon. Kalrus had taken inspiration from the “Big One,” the colossal artillery tower used by the forces of Wrath under General MacArthur—part tower, part fortress, part bunker, part gun. Now its unfinished twin lay modified in the black, burning hands of Agnesia’s avatar.

And it was the size of a small tower.

This was why they were doing this is an open field behind the grinding camps. Because nowhere else had the space.

“It works relatively similarly to your normal rifle,” Dr. Kalrus explained, “but its firepower is greater, its range far longer, and the slug—because of its immense size—takes longer to return.” He smiled at Wei. “I thank you for negotiating with the Lodge on our behalf. We’ve been pleased to receive so many Earth-sourced supplies.”

“The pleasure was mine, Doctor,” Wei said, gazing at the missile. “There are many things we will do together—here and on Earth. I look forward to it.”

“And I,” Kalrus replied, “look forward to returning—to imagine my colleagues at Raytheon looking upon me with envy, showing them what new frontiers a merger of spiritual weaponry and practical science can unlock.”

Off to the side, Bishop muttered something about everything going to hell and the likelihood of needing to assassinate a few people before this was over. Wei waved him off. “Don’t mind him, Kalrus. I understand that you are”—he paused—“you are focused on the future, on significant martial advancements, like a true warrior of the mind.”

On some level, Wei knew he was lying to himself—Kalrus didn’t care much for people. But Kalrus was practical: whatever was convenient for him, he would do. And Wei needed to make relatively moral actions convenient for the Doctor. If sacrificing one evil child to forge a mighty gun could protect countless innocents, perhaps capturing those children and redirecting their lives toward good was justifiable.

Bishop, overhearing, shook his head and sent a brief telepathic missive to Wei: “We’re going to need to talk about some shit—like real soon. Ethics and other stuff.”

Wei turned to Bishop. “Of course, Bishop. We must do the right thing.”

Bishop sighed. “Wei, you keep repeating that mentally, and I don’t think you mean it.”

“Of course I mean it,” Wei insisted. “We must kill all the evil children—and do it for a good cause.”

Bishop’s mind trailed off as a long-suffering sigh emanated from the Trespasser. “You know what? You really are Williams, kid.”

“I’m not—” Wei began. He clenched his teeth. “Do not conflate me with that man” 

“Well, you’re acting like him,” Bishop said. 

“You don’t want me to kill evil children, is that it? You want me to spare all the evil children in the world?”

Kalrus stared at them, very puzzled. 

“Wei, I don’t want you to kill any kids.” Bishop sighed.

“What if they’re evil?” Wei shot back. “Did you think about that?”

“Yeah. And I think it’s pretty fucking stupid, Wei? How is your ass gonna know if the kid is pure evil?”

“By seeing if they arrive in the Claimed Hells! How about that? Most children here are either vicious warriors, born of Sinners, or evil!”

Bishop opened his mouth and then coughed. “Shit, maybe that might work… Look, how about we take this slowly? You and Dr. Death over there can continue enjoying your missile, and I’ll come up with cruelty-free ways of building new weapons. How’s that sound?” Bishop offered.

Kalrus blinked and shrugged. “I just want to make the weapons.”

“I know you do,” Bishop said, “and this one here”—he gestured at Wei—“was about to pretzel himself into any shape just to see you forge another missile.” He leaned closer. “Wei, you’re really kind of a kid sometimes.”

Wei glared. “Do not mock me at my moment of greatest joy.”

“Greatest joy?” Agnesia interjected, eyes narrowing, voice climbing to a dangerous octave.

“A second-greatest joy.” Wei coughed. “Regardless, we must test this missile immediately.”

They moved outside the grinding camp, and Wei considered his next move. Many nearby Circles had already been massacred, but he hungered for more power. Perhaps it was time to kill another count. It might be risky, attract attention—but what else could he do? He had authority, resources, and a growing sect. What he needed were more champions—Vendrian, Rafael, Agnesia… and perhaps even his former competitors.

“Bishop,” he said, “It’s time we hit some new targets. Some true targets.”

Bishop stared. “What are you talking about, Wei? 

“Let’s deal with the challengers immediately—fast, quick, decisive. I know there’s that maniac in the theater I still need to kill, and that fool who has to run everywhere or he’ll die. Wait? Isn’t he in the Base? Let’s find him first.”

“Oh, yeah,” Bishop said. “Right, him.” He shook his head. “With all that shit happening, I almost forgot that was a thing. All right, I’ll ping the Lodge for his exact location. Good.”

“Kalrus,” Wei said, turning back to the missile, “prepare the bomb. I, Wei An Wei, Patriarch of the Drowned Sky Sect, will ride today.” Agnesia snorted. Wei managed to keep a straight face.

At that moment, Rafael and Vendrian appeared. Raphael was explaining to Vendrian how much they could profit by selling repossessed land back to the public—something about collective shares. The Scion of Death wasn’t listening; he stared at Wei’s missile with an ugly grimace.

“What the hell’s this?” Vendrian asked, cradling his infant son, Justice, who cooed happily. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Wei… Really?”

“This is why you have come rightly, Master Vendrian,” Wei declared. “Soon I will take to the sky. Soon I will rise above all weakness and bring down fire and perdition upon my enemies. I go to recruit some more members for our sect—recruit or eliminate. They will join when they will die.”

Bishop sighed and turned to Agnesia, who looked at him in confusion. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he said. “I was just kind of hoping after you two… that both of you would, uh, get better or something. Healthier mentally. After that getting to be happier and shit.”

“I am not mentally unwell,” Wei whispered. “I am as well as I have ever been.”

“It’s a work in progress,” Agnesia repeated.

“Jesus,” Bishop muttered. “This can’t end well.”

***

“When will this end?” the Gainsmaster screamed. “When? When?” He howled into the sky, misery growing with every step, his legs burning. “Somebody just kill me!” But the bullets and bombs and skills and spells that flew around him moved slowly. He constantly ran through the base—his only chance to survive. Every time he took a step too slow or lingered, he began digesting himself: the blessing (or curse) of his Legendary Specialization. This place was truly hell.

But the thing was, the Gainsmaster didn’t want to die. He hated dying even more than he hated fitness, so he kept running. They kept shooting at him. And he kept running. Hell became a special kind of purgatory—and he had no choice but to endure it.

What made his torment unbearable were the messages coming in from above:

“Gainsmaster, we need you to run here—everyone there is too strong. Go faster!”

“Gainsmaster, run through this base. If you get shot, we’re not helping.”

“Gainsmaster, run back to our people—they’re about to be overwhelmed!”

“Gainsmaster, you need to circle our facility to ensure no one breaches.”

“Gainsmaster, we need you—right now!”

It was insane. They drove him insane, sending him sprinting through barbed wire, evading missiles and artillery. For what? To find a strange “wonder kid” he would never meet—someone who’d made a colossal mess above and was now slaughtering his own Circle of Sloth. And the Gainsmaster ran again, back toward his base, the mountain of trash and waste looming before him. The stench hit him even before the bombs did, but still he ran through it—because if he stopped, he would die.

Suddenly, a massive streak of color screamed overhead, accompanied by screaming. The Gainsmaster looked up. “Is that… a missile?” he muttered. He was pretty sure he’d seen something like this on TV or in a video game. “Why is there a missile in the Claimed Hells? Why is it heading for my base?” Before he could finish, it impacted. A titanic mushroom cloud of essence splashed over the land, ripping everything asunder.

“SHIT! SHIT! SHIT!” the Gainsmaster squealed, turning on his heels and running with all his might—his hips pumping furiously, his joints disintegrating and reforming with every stride. As the blast wave of essence barreled toward him, a pulse of light and shadow cut across its path, shattering it. The Gainsmaster slowed for the first time in years, curiosity overtaking terror.

He felt his body swell, bones quiver and liquefy, his gut melting from searing heat—yet he turned to see what had saved him. The world around him had changed. The trenches had vanished, leaving a desolate plain stripped bare. Above, the sky was a gloomy void marked by a scythe in place of the sun. Standing opposite him was one man radiating power beyond any clasp: hair flowing like black silk, a burning glaive in hand, eyes shimmering white, a wide smile on his face.

“Are you death?” the Gainsmaster gasped, legs quivering.

“I,” the stranger replied, sounding pleased, “am satisfied. That missile ride was fantastic.”

“...Who are you?” the Gainsmaster blinked.

The man narrowed his eyes at the Gainsmaster—and in a blur, the scythe severed the space between them.

“What? How—what just happened?” the Gainsmaster stammered. “What just happened?”

Without answering, the stranger planted a hand on his shoulder and struck three times with the manifested scythe. The Gainsmaster screamed and tried to push him away, but no wound appeared. Instead, he felt a hunger within him break and fade.

“What did you just do?” he wheezed.

“Oh, I broke one of your Skills,” the man said, sneering. “It was draining you. I’ve set you free.”

The Gainsmaster waited, expecting the gnawing hunger to return. When it did not, he laughed with relief. Tears of euphoria streamed down his face. “Finally, I can sit still,” he sobbed. “I can just wait—and pray. Thank you.” He fell into the man’s arms.

The stranger stiffened, then gently asked him to step away. 

“I,” the man began, “am Wei An Wei…”

“Wei?” the Gainsmaster blinked. “The guy that’s been killing everyone?”

Wei frowned. “Clearly not. There are many still alive—many I wish I could kill right now.”

“Okay, but like, I’m not among them, right?” the Gainsmaster replied, rubbing his foot against the barren ground. “You saved me—so you can’t be all bad, right?” Wei studied him. But said nothing. “If someone helps you, then kills you… well, there is no shortage of psychopaths in hell.”

“I have come seeking a service of you.”

The Gainsmaster sighed. “No free lunch. So what do you want me to do?”

“Uh, I’m not doing slave stuff, okay?” the Gainsmaster held up his hands. “I’m not a great guy, but I can’t look them in the eyes. It’s wrong.”

“That’s fine,” Wei said. “We’re on the same page. We will hurt those who enslave others. But I want your significance and your support. Join me.”

“Your Circle?” the Gainsmaster asked.

“No Circles. We’re a sect now—and we do collective shares,” Wei explained. “Rafael says it’s popular, especially among the poor.”

“You’re a communist?” the Gainsmaster frowned. 

“Is that another sect name?” Wei waved a hand. “No matter. Do you wish to join? If not, promise to surrender your intentions for Hell’s Vanguard.”

“Yeah, sure,” the Gainsmaster said. “I’ll do stuff with you. You fixed me, and I feel free—for the first time.”

Wei looked around, expecting resistance but getting a pretty reasonable person. “Good. We can return to my abode here to discuss details.”

The Gainsmaster nodded slowly. “Hey, I’m not going to be made to exercise in front of you or stretch in weird ways, right? I had to do that for Lust in the Hearted Realm. It was messed up. The, uh, Starmater… She stuck somewhere and made me do lunges for a week.”

Wei’s face twisted in disgust. “You poor man. You poor creature. Let us get you out of here. Worry not, no one will make you an instrument of their desire.”

“You are already the best man I have met in this place.”