Eternal Game of the 108 Chapter 11: The Year of Judgment (Patreon)

We rush back to the port amidst a chaos of fast-talking coms, blaring alarms, and panicking ships. Sethri leaves with anxious officials while the rest of the crew piles in a dockside bar, stuck to the nearby screens where the apocalypse is unfolding. We don’t remove our suits.

There is an unspoken agreement between us. If the station is lost… we go. And for twenty-seven long minutes as we watch camera footage of the tide of flesh overwhelming entire districts, it looks like it might be. And yet, even wounded, even with Might and Law decapitated by the bomb alongside their cadre, and despite the millions of dangerous creatures assaulting it, Enderlith resists. Patrician families mobilize with their personal guard, creating bastions inside the beleaguered districts, their Elders killing creatures by the thousands. Several orders of the Sallurian warrior monks form the bulk of a battle line. The flesh golems work overtime to isolate and condemn passageways, closing paths that had remained opened for millennia. Martial sects and mercenaries shore up the defenses. Together, they stabilize the line. The tide hits a high mark and, in an ocean of blood, it withdraws. For now. 

The entire battle lasted only five hours but it was a hecatomb, with civilians making up most of the fatalities. Sethri gathers us a little later in our mess hall. His tone is dark.

“Look, folks. War is upon us. Founder knows, the Year of Judgment is always a mess, but…”

He shakes his head.

“Anyway, all the salvage missions have been canceled. I’ve been thinking about what we can do. I think I’ll volunteer the ship for rescue and transport missions, what with the Patricians paying us. SilSil?”

“My… I’m sorry. My queen is on the other side of the station, past… those things. Things. I need to return to my family.”

“I will join the guards,” Stone sighs. “Again.”

There is some hesitation with Vargo, her large eyes hesitating.

“It’s ok girl,” Sethri says.

“I will go with Stone.”

The large man doesn’t react but I feel shock, gratitude, and then fear. It’s clear to me Stone knows how to fight while his friend probably doesn’t. 

“What about you, Steev?”

It’s my turn to hesitate.

“Maybe there is a need for people like me. I need to do some research first,” I eventually reply. “Find who would have a need for unawakened.”

“Then do so. You guys can stay or return here whenever you like. My door will be open to you. Just… keep it clean, won’t you?”

We smile a bit, exhausted.

“Right. To bed first, then tomorrow we leave. Good luck everyone.”

***

To my immense and pleasant surprise, we are not fucked. Not quite yet. Enderlith may be a shit place to raise a child apparently, but it’s still home to a large number of powerful awakened. The flesh beings get pushed back out of a few key locations the following day, after which the potato beings I met before organize to quarantine entire compartments with heavy blast doors. The tide is channeled towards kill districts manned by a variety of factions I learn about by following the defense feed on my computer when we have a free moment. The Sallurians make up most of the frontline since the templars and soldiers of Enderlith were mauled by the explosion, their avatars lost and ranks decimated. Martial sects, mercenaries and depths explorers shore up the defenses where needed. Support and research come from great Patrician families and a group called the Flesh Crafter guild, which apparently is a thing here. All of this I learn from the news because I am no one, just one more cog in a dying machine fighting against inevitability. For a while, it looks like we might make it but then a district falls during the night, one that is deep within our lines. Then another. The front line buckles and we lose another two districts and a lot of people.

When the authorities call for soul awakened, I volunteer.

***

The gate opens three meters wide and no more. A group of warriors appears first to cover a line of civilians advancing into the quarantine center, a smaller district once used as a logistical stop for deliveries in the spires. I pull at the collar of my gray uniform, trying to look inconspicuous among the other soldiers and failing. All of them are awakened of the third order. 

Also the uniform looks like a robe from some Chinese historical drama. I take comfort in the fact I won’t be mistaken for a bobby. I’d be absolutely gutted otherwise.

“Slow down. Triple file,” a low, gravelly voice warns.

Tor is the leader of our small checkpoint. His Sallurian tattoos form blue lines across his naked chest and arms. The refugees obey with commanding speed which I’d do as well given the industrial flamethrower standing at the tip of the killzone. The company that made my Defender gun, Verrine Manufactorium, apparently opened its armories to the newly formed Defense Council so at least we have weapons. Not that it matters for me since I won’t be doing the fighting. I’m here for something else. Without prompt, I extend my perception towards the slowly advancing civilians. Their souls are wary, frightened, yet also hopeful. Each one beats with the thoughts of its owner. And then there is another hidden behind a simple cart, wearing the guise of a flesh golem. People tend to ignore them because they’re ubiquitous in the mazes of Enderlith’s titanic frame. I don’t. A golem’s soul is normally cold and structured, closer to machine than to man. This one is a vortex of emotions, many of them contradictory. More importantly, the soul has roots. It is connected to something beyond sight like the shoot of some ancient tree. 

I have never told the others, but there is something tempting about that soul. Something strangely beautiful, like a colorful moth or the vivid red of freshly spilled blood. Without moving, I reach for the minds of Tor and the guards around him including Stone. They must allow it because I am not strong enough to force a link. Once we are bound, I send them the mental image of their target. They do not look at it. Instead, they start moving along the lines as if inspecting the refugees’ belongings. The poor sods form a weird and eclectic bunch, most of them some variant of human dripping with sweat and concern. They carry bags filled with their belongings, or sometimes tired children who no longer have the strength to stand. There are also pets which I check as well. I finish my inspection just as Tor and his retinue get close to the false golem. 

I don’t see Tor move, only the flesh golem slam against the back wall before exploding in a wave of fleshy limbs reaching for shocked refugees. Tor is there, deflecting them with his naked flesh which I maintain is a shit idea. A woman in a red robe extends her arms. Twin fire snakes fall upon the flesh creature, roasting it. It twitches once or twice before the soul is snuffed out. 

I breathe a sigh of relief.

“Third one today,” Stone grumbles. 

The shapeshifters are how the abominations spread through new districts, though the ruse was promptly found out. I heard rumors that we are fighting a particularly successful avatar of transformation. As I return to my post, I feel it.

It’s one of the guards, taking a step towards me. I turn, send a message and aim my Defender at the same moment. I see twisted flesh slamming a civilian aside, breaking her body like a paper puppet. Thick, meaty tentacles grab the ground as I press the first trigger almost by reflex, then it’s airborne. I fire. Something slams into me and I fall to the side which my brain insists is the wrong direction. The uniform protects me from the pain but not the indignity of having a chap’s beard tickling my ear. 

“Got you,” Stone breathes.

“Thanks. Please let me go now.”

“Right.”

I brush myself off, not too worried because I hear the hiss of burnt flesh. It was a nice save. I think I’m completely unhurt but then I feel weird. Very weird. I gasp. Something is moving from my gates, the ones in my navel, chest and head. Vertigo forces me to one knee.

“Shit. Stone, I think —”

He just stares, baffled.

“Stone I think it got me. I… I…”

I’ll die. I’ll die, right, and then the loop will close so it’s ok. People will forget their deaths and suffering. I think I might retch. What I hate the most is how weirdly good it feels, all little aches I didn’t know I had disappearing. My articulations pop and I hate that I love it. A shiver of delight runs down my spine. But I don’t want it! Tor is here too. Both he and Stone look completely unbothered. It’s… true that it’s taking time.

It doesn’t feel like I’m turning into a flesh abomination.

Vargo joins them as well in her ill-fitting uniform. 

“Congrats on the awakening, rookie,” she drawls.

I stand up under the amused gazes of everyone around. Even the civilians feel more relaxed. It’s true, I feel… better. Amazing, actually. I imagine it would be what the peak of the peak feels like for someone with amazing genes. Is this what awakening feels like? No wonder people work out like crazy here. 

“Normally your mom would get you something nice, but I’m sure we can arrange a piece of cake for you. As a treat,” Vargo continues.

“Your hard work paid off. You are no longer a curiosity,” Stone says.

“Only an embarrassment," Vargo continues but I can tell she’s just ribbing me. “Hey, Tor. What do Sallurians get for people who awaken?”

Tor gives Vargo a glance that isn’t exactly friendly. The tall girl withers, but I don’t get any annoyance seeping from the warrior’s disciplined mind. I get the feeling he doesn’t really care about us. To my surprise, he turns to me. His gravelly voice remains coldly neutral.

“How old are you?”

“... Twenty-seven cycles.”

“Banishment.”

He leaves.

“I think everyone can stop congratulating me now,” I kindly inform them.

“It’s good,” Stone says as we resume processing. “There are reports of flesh monsters going after soul awakened. The first awakening makes you better at everything including reaction time. It can only help your survival.”

“That can’t hurt.”

An old woman at the back of the queue gives me a piece of candy so there is that. The gentle teasing isn’t what makes me sad, however, despite literally escaping the bonds of the human condition thanks to weird space magic, thus getting a step closer to Enderlithian normalcy. What ruins the moment is that my efforts will eventually go to waste. When the loop next starts, I will be back in an unawakened body with nothing to show for my efforts. Everything will be undone, not just the deaths and suffering but the achievements too. Every time I made a difference, every bond of friendship I forged. All of it will be gone and forgotten. It will all amount to nothing. I won’t say I’m utterly gutted but it certainly takes the wind from my sails. I can’t exactly complain though, not with everything the station is going through.

***

The next months are an exhausting back and forth in this struggle to the death, as more of the station gets devoured in the other directions. We evolve, learning to fight the creatures better while Verrine Manufactorium produces crate after crate of flamethrowers until the very air tastes like ash. In response, the flesh abominations create elite infiltrators and behemoths of titanic sizes in an effort to break the deadlock, but it appears the forward momentum is lost. The Sallurians and martial sects purge sector after sector in a slow, progressive grind that leaves thousands dead while we evacuate as many civilians as we can towards Obis, below, even though it is a war-torn land. I manage to learn how to keep two gates wide open during meditation, considerably shortening the time it takes for me to fill myself with energy. More and more avatars are coming to the fore to take the torch left by Law and Might. I find myself hoping that the station might be saved after all. It just leaves me with one question.

Where is the avatar of space?

I feel like I might be missing something. There are so few public avatars active right now that it feels like the game didn’t even start. Nevertheless, Enderlith is still in danger and so I do my best to help without forgetting that, in the end, all of this will be undone.