Chapter 438: A Dinner with Immortals

Double release; read the 347 before!
There was a third chappie, but I want to edit it a bit before posting. I'll do that after getting some sleep!

PS: Priam Character Sheet 
PSS: Discord to say hello and discuss the chappies!

*

A dome of mist covered the arena. It was not Priam’s doing, but the will of the Seven to shield the secrets of their elites. Spectators were no longer welcome. Breath wasn’t either. The Tier 0 Concept neared Unity without quite reaching it, and the Symphony stage was not enough to make a Duke waver. Past wave eighty, Pyro became necessary.

Before the fury of primordial flames, Zelgius vanished as quickly as he had appeared. Yet despite the swiftness of the five battles, Priam underestimated none of the giant’s incarnations. Even draped in filthy furs and wielding a rust-pitted greatsword, the warrior held a terrifying quality: a madness that foretold he would one day become one of the rare apocryphal beings to tread Sector Hope. To leave an indelible mark upon its history.

When Pyro finished incinerating wave eighty-four, Priam used the break to open the Concept Archipelago. Through the rift, Sna appeared.

“My next match is against the curse mage.”

The shaman handed him a vial in which a liquid of shifting colors writhed. From blood-red to pitch-black, the potion almost seemed to throb.

“Looks alive,” Priam murmured as bubbles burst across the surface of the magical brew. “Is this actually drinkable?”

“Not if you want to live.” Sna reached out, and Priam let her take a drop of his blood, which she poured into the elixir. “A weakness curse, tailored for you from your own blood to bypass all natural defenses. It will compound with any present curse to create a monstrous abomination that will bring you to your knees. Are you certain you wish to drink this?”

“Are you certain it counts toward an ideal prerequisite?” Priam replied.

“It’s a T3 curse.”

What more needed to be said?

“I would’ve preferred a T4. Just to be safe.”

From the Juggernaut, it was less greed than perfectionism.

“Do you have a year to spare?” Sna blinked, her pupils splitting. “A curse is not a sword stroke: it is a magical construct that requires long preparation, complex rituals, rare ingredients, and esoteric events. Its formation is an art, and its Tier depends as much on its creator as on its target. To infect you with a T4 curse, I would need to begin its creation on the day the Dragonslayer’s comet returns; to inflame your draconic bloodline. Forge the bulk of it during an eclipse of the Last Sun; to petrify your phoenix bloodline. Release it by sacrificing one of your rivals under the Fate Constellation; to clog your Juggernaut Path.” With each step, her voice grew softer. “If that is what you want, say so plainly, and let us not waste more time.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to question your abilities. Nor imply you hadn’t thought long and hard about how to kill me,” he said dryly.

“... You were an enemy—”

Priam waved the excuse away. “Not a reproach. Anyway, from what you’re saying, I’m almost surprised this curse is Tier 3.”

“It was meant for Léo. I spent years and sacrificed many Aelbes to raise it to Tier 4. The fact it only lost one Tier when changing targets is due as much to my genius as to your identity. You stole its purpose.”

Killing Léo had allowed the weapon to be repurposed.

“Hum.” Priam swirled the concoction like a fine wine. “Do I start by drinking this, or by buying the last Merit of [Life is Hard; I’m Harder]?”

“You start by drinking. From what you told me, you’re still missing two ideal prerequisites for [Curse Resistance]. If you buy the Merit now, you’ll only get a high variant and would have to downgrade it later. So drink, pray that Clock is as strong as you think it is, and only buy the Merit once you’re sure.”

Priam gave her a thumbs-up. Then, pinching his nose, he swallowed the contents of the vial. The liquid scraped his tongue as the hair on his arms stood on end.

“This is vile. I’ve never tasted anything this bitter, and my dad used to feed me cod liver oil when I was a kid,” Priam complained as his stomach gurgled. A heartbeat later, and despite all his upbringing, he burped. “Sorry,” he muttered, flushing.

Sna merely blinked, unfazed. “I’m used to it.”

Tribes weren’t known for their manners.

Before Priam could answer, a glacial fire spread from his stomach through the rest of his body. When it reached his left eye, Sna’s curse discovered HNM, and attacked. The latter fought back, releasing a monochromatic shockwave.

Sna recoiled as if slapped. “You—”

The System shut the portal just as the gong of the next wave resounded. Colosseum rules didn’t ban any power, but an internal pocket couldn’t be inhabited without risking interference. That alone was forbidden.

Hand pressed to his rebellious eye, Priam fell to one knee. His strength was bleeding out of him. The two curses were devouring each other, and his body was their battlefield. Banished by HNM, aether drained from his tissues. His muscles weakened, and his bones regained an almost mundane fragility.

[Aether Reserve: 72%
57 seconds until depletion.]

His senses swimming, Priam felt more than saw the sand vanish beneath him. The boss was arriving, and the arena was shifting.

The fog dissolved, revealing a cube with white metal walls. The liminal space was uniform save for a circular opening in the ceiling. Through it fell a copper mass that unfolded as it hit the ground. Soon, a humanoid automaton stood before Priam.

A frame of moving metal plates, bladed appendages for arms, rune-inscribed panels for armor. At the head, six polished mirror-like optics ensured an omnidirectional field of view. The chassis rotated, revealing that its limbs were magnetically attached. 

Gears clicked awake and, in a puff of steam, the clockwork mage straightened fully.

“Clock the Cursed, boss of the eighty-fifth wave,” the robot introduced itself again. “I surmise this is our second encounter.”

Struggling to contain the warring forces unraveling his body, Priam frowned. The whole point of the Colosseum was to fight the same foes again and again. The challenger could progress, study enemies, test tactics; the monsters could not. At least, that had been true until now. If Clock retained memories from their last battle, the next waves would be… problematic.

“Your silence suggests surprise born of confusion. Those who suffer my curses are marked, and I simply read those marks. The System erases my memory at the end of each encounter.”

“Oh. Good,” the Champion grunted. Then, remembering the introduction: “Priam Azura.”

Some opponents deserved trash talk. Others deserved courtesy.

“A pleasure. Shall we proceed? I have permission to wait until your condition is no longer critical.”

Despite the agony of feeling two curses warring inside his body, Priam forced a smile. “It’s on purpose. Do your worst.”

Clock obeyed. The automaton raised its left hand and fired a violet beam. Two months ago, the attack had awakened HNM, crippling the Juggernaut at the start of the fight. This time, it fizzled harmlessly, as the curse was already rampaging.

“…”

“I’m sure you can do better.” Priam paused. “In fact, I need you to do better.”

*

Thaal yawned. A biological reflex he could have suppressed without effort, but one that reminded him of his mortal origins… and sent a clear message to his guests.

Silence fell across the restaurant; the ten or so eaters halted their conversations. His left neighbor raised what passed for a red eyebrow—a plume of fire styled to mimic hair.

“Is the meal boring you, Your Eminence?”

“To be honest… yes,” admitted the Primordial. “I know these high-society dinners are considered proper, but after a few million years, what new is there to say?”

In Thaal’s experience, love rarely lasted more than a few years. Friendship, a few centuries. For mere acquaintances, routine grew nauseating.

“If at least someone wanted to play with me…”

The Immortals present averted their gaze. The few mid Tiers—each a leader of a major faction—didn’t even dare lift their eyes from their plates. All knew better than to play with the Gambler. 

“Politics is boring,” conceded the Phoenix Queen. “But necessary.”

“Oh, for the love of the Seven, Neitlan’h!” snapped the reptilian humanoid sitting opposite her. Hastenash Riusling looked more like a lizard than a drake. “You’re just as bored as our dear Administrator. Difference is, you’re a Tier too low to admit it out loud.”

“Politeness has nothing to do with power, Riusling.”

“Even better reason to ignore it. I didn’t get this strong to follow social rules!”

“You can say that when you’re first in the Sector, not fourth.”

“Third.”

“My flames would melt your scales, drake.”

The almost-dragon growled. “You’re barely hot enough to warm my bed, fiery bird. Actually, you should consider it; I could give you a better hatchling than your last one. Who knows, perhaps the absence of a strong paternal figure is what drove him toward the Depths!”

At the mention of the son her clan had renounced, the phoenix unfurled her wings. The temperature rose. 

“Well, that escalated quickly,” chuckled Seuz, pulling out a notepad whose cover depicted Mount Olympus. “I’m willing to take bets. Primordial Thaal, if you could announce last so you don’t skew the odds…”

A lesser being might have thought the evening was about to get interesting, but Thaal knew his host too well. As the draconic lord deployed his Domain against that of his phoenix rival, two kebab skewers impaled both combatants.

“No one fights in my restaurant but me,” Sweet Mama reminded them as she exited the kitchen, carrying on a platter the famous cake that had given her faction its name. “Unless you plan to help me with tomorrow’s menu? Poultry or lizard, I can adapt.”

Neitlan’h and Hastenash, matriarch and patriarch of their respective clans, grumbled but didn’t rise to the bait. They weren’t afraid of being cooked; they were terrified of being denied dessert. Thaal understood. Sweet Mama’s pastries were the main reason he bothered showing up to these dinners.

A double notification from the System drew his attention.

Highlight of a Champion incoming.
Highlight of a favorite user incoming.

“Oh?”

There were few Champions in Sector Hope and even fewer users on the Administrator’s favorite list. In fact, only one belonged to both categories: Priam Azura.

“Good news?” Sweet Mama asked as she sliced the cake.

“Mmh.” Thaal considered recording the sequence to rewatch later, but live was always more thrilling. There was something intoxicating about wondering whether the protagonist would fall or not. “Does anyone mind if I start a stream?”

No one was foolish enough to object. With a snap of his fingers, Thaal made a contract appear before each guest. “This concerns a property of the Seven. Anyone who wants to watch must sign an NDA. Use or disclose anything seen today, and you’ll lose System access.”

A harsh punishment, but the Seven didn’t joke about those they considered their property, nor did Thaal about the face of his brand.

Once everyone had signed, the restaurant dissolved, replaced by a white cube. Thaal ensured he transmitted only mundane signals like light, sound, and scent to the audience. It was more fun like that.

As Sweet Mama distributed slices of cake, the guests surveyed the new environment, and the two combatants within it.

“An arena from a Colosseum in our Sector,” Seuz remarked. “Tier 0, waves eighty-five through eighty-nine. The Boss, Clock the Cursed, was a unique lifeform put down by the Mercenaries during his High Tribulation. Am I right, Wang Lin?”

The leader of the local branch of the famous faction nodded. “It was well before my time. If my memory serves, he was suspected of collusion with the Depths. The Hecate’s branch.”

“Whence his mastery of curses.” Seuz turned towards the other warrior. “As for our challenger—”

“Priam Azura, the public face of 2die4!” Thaal presented with an open smile.

“Ah.” Patriarch Riusling offered a smirk. “The famous Champion who has been spamming us with notifications for the past few months. I already have a dozen children who have died attempting a quadruple Tribulation to follow his example.”

“Considering you fuck everything that moves—and even what doesn’t move—a dozen is a drop in the bucket,” the Phoenix Queen retorted before narrowing her eyes. “Nevertheless, I, too, am curious to see if his flames burn hot.”

Thaal couldn’t refrain from a grin.