In any case, Avarana hadn’t appeared since then, letting the pair continue their journey across the land. Their goal was to spread discontent through the ranks of at least one of the fortress cities. The others were off doing the same. Edgar and Eva’s target was the stronghold of the Ash Phoenixes. It wouldn’t be that hard to engender hate amongst the fighters, as that already existed in enough quantities to light a pyre from the earth to the heavens. No, the problem was getting them to act on it. In a world where a near godlike being could swoop down from the clouds and annihilate an entire army, an individual soldier was essentially powerless.
Still, as a whole, they could do some damage. In the Hells, where a single peak Tier could defeat thousands of those of a lower Tier, there were few ways to even the odds. One such way was ritual magic. It had appeared sporadically ever since the Ash Heaps, when Granath’s cabal of pet mages had called it down upon Jonathan and his allies, killing many promising warriors. The soldiers of Bloodspill had gotten it down to a science, however, and every army was layered with protections, and group buffs.
Each soldier in an army contributed a minuscule stat bonus, something on the order of a thousandth of a stat point. In an army of millions, though, that quickly added up. Though there was a cap, it was measured in the thousands of aggregate points. When tens of millions fought against one another, a warrior could fight a dozen levels above their normal range.
It was an interesting ability, and one that Edgar thought would be useful to learn. If Jonathan’s forces could use such a power, it would help a lot with freeing the Hells, especially if they could find some sort of way to funnel power into individuals to allow them to fight on the level of a circle lord.
Unfortunately for Edgar, he had no idea at all how ritual magic worked. Neither did most people in Jonathan’s realm, for that matter. It was usually a sort of niche skill, one cultivated by those who could afford to toss away their personal power for the sake of group ascension. All that Edgar really knew about that type of magic was that it took a toll on its caster, one measured in blood or power. Sometimes even both. The more sacrificed, the most powerful a ritual would be. In some cases, if the caster sacrificed their own life, a ritual could be entire Tiers above them in power.
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
By that point, the army had passed, and Edgar slid out. Eva followed him, and they headed off into Bloodspill. They had a mission to complete, and dallying would only cause problems further down the path.
In the Sea of Ghosts
Lady Azal, Circle Lord of the eleventh circle of Hells, watched the strands of Fate as they converged around Jonathan and his allies. She was a blue skinned demon, with horns, a forked tail, and a third eye that allowed her to see the vagaries of destiny.
Next to her stood the two Circle Lords of the ninth and tenth circles. Aluran the Ouroboros, and Evrana the Jailer. Aluran was a hundred foot long serpent, wrapped around himself in ways that made reality itself cry. His body passed through parts of itself, and was in multiple places at the same time.
Meanwhile, Evrana looked far more normal, a ten foot tall humanoid covered in clanking chains, and holding an iron brand in one hand. She was entirely covered in a thick canvas cloak, and hooded beneath a red cowl.
“He’s taking a break?” Aluran said in a hissing, multilayered voice. It came from everywhere and nowhere, twisting and turning in a sonic dance. “How cocky is this man?”
“I would say that it’s somewhat backed up,” Evrana replied. “He’s killed five of our brethren already. That is supposed to be impossible.”
Azal turned towards them, her third eye glowing with ethereal white and blue light. “Nothing is impossible. It was fated that the Hellbreaker would come. The mere existence of our immortality practically mandates that.”
