“Of course you’re suspicious,” Vot said, “Who wouldn’t be? But I assure you, I know that it’s possible to kill a God.”

  “How?” Millik asked, “How do you know?” There was no known history of a God being killed. For as long as Bitrect’s existed, there’s only ever been five Gods. Not that his suspicion came solely from a logistical standpoint.

  “I am the God of Death,” Vot said, “I can feel it.”

  “I see,” Millik said, “And I am to be your puppet for this task?” Even with such a dangerous notion between them, Millik found he wasn’t trembling, as he was sure most people would be in his place.

  “Not entirely,” Vot said, “I have no use for a living body, and you clearly have no interest in me. But I want Pok dead, and I’m certain you will help me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Show me that sword on your hip.” Millik unbuckled his sword and presented it to the God. Still in its sheath, Vot looked at it intently, though with a hint that she wasn’t overly invested. “It is no doubt well made,” she commented, “Does it have a name?”

  “No,” Millik said.

  “Well, for this to work, we need a vessel, and such a powerful weapon must be given a name–”

  “What exactly is your plan?”

  Vot lifted the sword into her hands, where a large black light now filled the room. It lasted only a moment, but the power emanating from the area was almost enough to knock someone backwards. The sword floated down in an aura of death-filled energy to Millik’s hands. He could almost hear it thrumming with magic.

  Vot leaned in close. “The way to kill a God is by using the power of all four others. When those powers are combined, such an artifact will be unstoppable. Even with my power alone, when you wield this sword, you will be holding death itself in your hands. Thus, I dub it “The Deathhold.” What do you think?”

  “Why create a weapon so powerful, and then entrust it to me?” Millik asked.

  “I have no reason to use you in particular,” Vot said, “You are simply the first person I have come across with enough of a grudge against their God to betray them so. And a betrayal it will be. Such a disturbance will bring drastic change to all of Bitrect.”

  “I see.”

  “Your next task will be to get Lon, Sor, and Bow to infuse their powers as well into The Deathhold.”

  “How do you suggest I go about doing so?” Millik asked, “They would never give it willingly.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not,” Vot said, “They will notice the extra aura, so see Mora for her concealment spell.” Again, Vot gestured to the shrinekeeper behind Millik who had apparently been listening to their entire conversation. She waved at him with a smile. Vot continued, “If it requires it, trick them. Once the magic has left them, it cannot be returned. When you have retrieved all three, please return here. Then we can begin the plan in its entirety.”

  Millik stood, Deathhold in his hands. “Vot, I have nothing to give you in return–”

  “That’s okay,” Vot smiled, “In the end, you will be mine, just as everything else.”

  “Right.”

  …

  Mora’s concealment really did wonders as Millik walked through the Lonist streets. Even he, wearing The Deathhold on his hip, could not feel the presence of the God of Death within it. He had teleported into the city, but he didn’t want to risk Horval Lavarus seeing him, so he teleported in a ways from his estate, meaning he had to walk through the crowds a little to get to Lon’s temple. The crowds were just as cramped and flower-filled as they were the last time he was here. He paid them no mind, and they him as he snaked through the people, his blue robes out of place, but not obvious.

  It felt wrong climbing the steps of a temple that wasn’t Pok’s. Though it wasn’t nearly as much of a test, it was still symbolically wrong, even if he hated Pok now– Did he? Vot did give him a lot of time to think, but he hadn’t exactly understood all of his feelings on the matter… not that he really wanted to. He could almost physically feel the lump of emotions within him relating to Pok: anger mixed with admiration, dissent with servitude, hope and fear, both of the friendship they had, among so many indescribable others. In the end, he decided that he would simply do as Vot asked. He was too used to being a pawn to understand what it means to make his own decisions, at least not right now. He was merely collecting a weapon, he wasn’t using it just yet.

  “Hello,” the green shrinekeeper asked without a question.

  Millik bowed, his long braid touching the floor. “I wish to speak with Lon.” It would be rude of him to teleport into Lon’s chamber, not that he really could; he needed to be able to see where he wanted to teleport to, or to have been there before. He had rarely spent time in Lonist territory, and he had never talked to Lon before, so his only way in was through the front door.

  “Lon isn’t here at the moment,” the keeper said. They weren’t a guard, per se, but it was their job to assess the people who wished to enter. “May I ask what you wish to speak about? It is odd to see Pok’s people here.”

  “Yes, I know,” Millik said. He hesitated before this next line: “I am here for myself, not for Pok. I am afraid I cannot say more.”

  “Very well,” the keeper said, “You will find Lon tending to the fields with Kophi. They are a ways northeast of here, would you like me to show you the way?”

  Fighting an experienced reaper would be terrifying to anyone, even Tyril. Especially when Ameri closes her eyes to fight, and it doesn’t slow her down at all. Though it was just a sparring match, Tyril’s heart still pounded at every strike from every floating-axe-clone, whatever they were. Though there were three of them, they usually hit in unison or succession, meaning her attacks had a form of rhythmic precision, giving Tyril a general impression of how to dodge or parry. He could hardly block directly, though, since she was swinging her axe so strongly he could hardly tell she wasn’t trying to kill him.

  The sun was dry, beating the sweat out of both of them, although Ameri wasn’t huffing nearly as much as Tyril was. He would almost call her movements dance-like, although his comparison was with how Fahva fought, which was much more graceful. Ameri weaved around the battlefield waving her axe and its clones like a bird and its feathers looking to peck out his organs.

  And her eyes were still closed. It was horridly menacing. She was almost entirely expressionless, only the slightest twinge of her mouth hinted to her next attack. Tyril kept getting pushed back, deflecting and dodging only doing him so much to stave off the inevitable. Luckily, the axe-clones couldn’t shift state of matter like his water sword could, meaning he still had a chance to block appropriately. And, if he ever got a chance to strike back, he could surely get through her defenses. Not that she was giving him such a chance. A few more blows knocked him back, and she stood with her axes held in front of her, looking like a hunter gazing at its next prey.

  “If you can’t do anything to me,” She never opened her eyes. “You’ve got no chance in a battle of war.”

  “And you know all about war.” He meant nothing by it, simply buying the time she was giving him.

  “Indeed,” Ameri said.

  “You and Sor are probably looking forward to this, aren’t you?”

  “Of course not,” Ameri said, “War is horrible to everyone. Yes, I enjoy making people bleed, but it’s my duty as the God of War’s reaper to know that war is best when avoided.”

  “How surprising.” Again, Tyril didn’t mean much by this conversation other than buying some time for him to breathe, and for him to…

  “War and peace are two sides of the same coin. Just as Sor is the God of War, she is also the God of its absence.”

  “Interesting,” he said. She hadn’t seen the storm he was building above her. “I’ve noticed you have yet to use Sor’s magic against me. Do you really think so little of me?”

  Ameri laughed. She still didn’t open her eyes for this, either. It was the first bit of real emotion she’d shown since the fight started, and it was honestly more terrifying than her faceless concentration earlier.

  “And you’ve only used Pok’s,” she said, “Don’t think that means you can get one in on me, though.”

  Tyril’s storm had built big enough to drop a cataclysmic bolt. He didn’t hesitate to let it hit the ground, striking through his opponent. Though she hadn’t used Sor’s magic, it was far from feeling like she had been pulling her swings. So neither would Tyril–

  Ameri threw her axe straight into the air. Its clones followed it up a little, but broke into a shattering of energy-dust before the lightning struck.

  The thunder that followed shook the entire arena, and no doubt could be heard from across all of Sor’s territory, if not beyond it. Tyril’s eyes were locked on Ameri’s axe as it fell, blackened, after taking the lightning bolt. Tyril never saw it hit the ground, as his attention was very quickly pulled to Ameri, smiling with eyes wide and her fist pulled back for a strong-armed strike to his face.

  Tyril’s nose was bleeding. And he was laying on the ground, the soft temple’s sand on his back. His water-sword had long since dematerialized. Above him, the sky was clear, the sun still beating and his storm vanished. He groaned as he strained his head to see down his body, looking at Ameri retrieving her axe.

  “Your magic’s pretty strong,” she said.

  “...Thanks.” He rested his head back in the dirt.

  “You lack tactics and experience,” Ameri said bluntly. “I’ll give you some time to prepare for round two.”

  Lon’s ethereal green body would have towered over the open flower gardens if he wasn’t crouched down tending to them. He was still astoundingly massive, especially in comparison to the man beside him, watching as the God taught him what to do for whatever type of plant they were looking at.

  The shrinekeeper led Millik through the rows of flower bushes. Each one was littered with color, and each color was different. For the God of Harvests, Millik had yet to see many actual harvest crops.

  “Lon,” the keeper said to him. The man beside the God, also wearing green of course, turned to see the newcomers. He smiled at the keeper before eyeing Millik up and down, not judgemental, just observing. He looked young, like he had only just recently reached adulthood. Lon’s large feet sunk into the dirt as he stood up.

  “Hello!” Lon said to the keeper, rather cheerfully. He noticed Millik beside him. “Oh! A Pokian! How can I help you?”

  “I need your help for something rather personal,” Millik said. He still wasn’t entirely sure how to convince Lon to imbue his power into The Deathhold, but the God was in front of him now, so he wouldn’t back down. “May we please discuss it in private?”

  Lon bent down a little so his head was closer to them. He was smiling rather warmly. “Sure thing! But I am currently busy with Kophi here, so please wait for me within the temple. Seteden,” he gestured to the shrinekeeper, “will be sure to make your wait comfortable.”

  “With all due respect, Lon,” Millik said, “this business is rather important.”

  “Oh no,” Lon said, “Such impatience will not be tolerated, friend. You can wait your turn, or speak your piece now if it is quick.”

  Millik had never encountered the green-robed God before, but this was a rather infuriating first impression. But he also knew he had no right to complain. If there’s anything Millik was good at, it was knowing his place. He was here asking for a rather valuable gift, so any favor would have to be earned through good will if nothing else.

  “Very well,” Millik said.

  …

  “Now, my friend,” Lon said when he arrived on his throne, materializing in place, “It is unusual that one not my own comes for my aid. What may I do for you?”

  Millik took a knee and bowed his head as the shrinekeeper closed the door, leaving Millik alone with a God once more. He again unbuckled his sword from his waist and presented it.

  “Lon,” Millik started. He still wasn’t entirely sure how to go about convincing this God. He didn’t know anything about him, and he especially didn’t have anything to offer. “Please, bestow your power on my weapon.”

  “How odd you are,” Lon pondered. “I’ve never been a fan of weapons; violence doesn’t suit me or my people. And why might you come to me for such a request? Why not ask for power from Pok?”

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  “I’m sorry, Lon,” Millik said, “but I cannot explain that.” He was already risking his life by being here, not that Lon would ever be aggressive, but if word got out that he might be betraying Pok, he would never be able to go home, not that much of one existed back at the ridge. Millik did have one idea for convincing Lon, but it would be a gamble.

  “Am I not a God?” Lon asked. He wasn’t upset, just unsure. “Do I not deserve to know what you wish my power for?”

  “Of course,” Millik said, “I would never disgrace you so, I assure you. Unfortunately, my task is one best kept secret. Know that I have not lied to you, and I only want to do what is best.”

  “Millik,” Lon said.

  What? He recognized Millik when he had never introduced himself and he had no reaper-badge giving himself away. How foolish he had been. He was hoping that Lon, the God of Patience, would buy into his words of secrecy, but it appears his reputation precedes himself. His gamble was already failing.

  Lon continued, “You used to be a reaper. Everything you do relates to murder. I want to trust your words, that you have no intent to lie, and that you wish to do no harm, but I cannot give my power to someone like you.”

  “Consider it an oath,” Millik said. “I understand the consequences of breaking one, and now I will do everything in my ability to keep my promises.”

  Lon thought for a while. The silence started to eat away at Millik after just a few seconds, yet he had to sit here for what felt like an eternity. He wasn’t trying to fool the God, and his speech had been truthful, but there was no way he could convince him. What had Vot been thinking? It may be the only way to kill a God, but there was no way that they would actually agree to it.

  “Promise me this,” Lon said, “I appreciate the value of secrets, especially in your line of work, and I assure you I will not tell anyone of your request. In exchange, you must promise to never use my power to end a life. Whatever you wish this magic for, I will give it to you, so long as it does not harm anyone, no matter whom they follow, if any at all. Can you assure me of such?”

  “Yes,” Millik hesitated to say it, but when he did, he used his full heart and chest.

  This new reaper whose name eluded Ameri again– his power was intense. She always considered lightning too bright to be beautiful, but too much light meant that it was strong. The storm above their second sparring match never let up, overshadowing them for the entirety of this round so far. Ameri may have a perfect view of the two of them, but thunder always struck quickly and without warning. Not that she was the one backed into a corner, of course.

  She swung her axes down on her opponent. If he wasn’t a reaper, such an attack would kill most grown adults of most races. The attack itself wasn’t magic-infused, aside from the two axe-clones along either side. No– it was just her own strength that brought them down with such devastating force. The blue reaper had to take a knee as he blocked the blow with his hard-water sword. Such magic was clearly Pok’s– she had seen the previous reaper do much the same thing, although his experience had made it much more imposing of a presence. But, even with this new reaper’s freshness, it was still the magic of a God, meaning it was strong.

  The combination of two very powerful magic attributes made him a living storm. If only he had more time to train them, he might have been more fun to fight. Not that a spar would ever be entertaining. Maybe if she ‘accidentally’ clipped him with one of her swings, she might get to see some blood other than that pathetic nosebleed that ended their first round. Not that she was landing any hits to begin with. He dodged most, deflected the rest, just as he had done last match. She didn’t need to use Sor’s magic, or even more of her own, to keep pushing him backwards.

  When stressed, his magic was clearly hard to aim. The large bolt last round was easily targeted straight for her, but that was because he had had enough time to load and fire, but now, with rapid-fire attacks coming from every angle, his best attempts landed a few paces away at best.

  This new reaper wasn’t a very experienced fighter.

  Tyril!– She recalled his name again!

  Tyril wasn’t a very experienced fighter.

  Not that she was giving him too much grace. He was fighting one of the strongest people in all of Bitrect. She had never actually challenged Fahva directly, so she wasn’t sure who was stronger, although some part of her was scared of that loud-mouthed warrior, so, in a pinch, she would probably say that Fahva took the top position. And that Lonist reaper, the boring-toned rhox, was far from a combat specialist, so he was probably well below Ameri and Fahva, although she knew next to nothing about his abilities. But Ameri had been at Sor’s side for a long time, even if her coronation played in her mind from time to time, so she was definitely still near the top of the list.

  That being said, it’s not like she wasn’t pulling her punches either. She had limited herself to only two axe-clones until he could land a single hit, which still had yet to happen. And she didn’t think he’d ever get to the point where he’d be ready to deal with Sor’s magic today. Not that she was eager to use Sor’s magic: it was far from pretty, unlike her axes.

  She landed another direct blow against Tyril’s sword. In one motion, she hooked the axe in her hands over the top of his sword and swung her clones rolling over the sword to hook it similarly on the other side. She tugged down with all three. Normally, this move would readily disarm her opponent to give her plenty of an opening to slash them open. However, she felt zero resistance as she pulled down. Opening her eyes, she saw her axes phase straight through the sword, or rather, the sword phase through them. What once was steel strongly defending him was now liquid, cut through with ease. After one simple oversight, Tyril’s sword plunged straight into Ameri’s chest.

  It would be impossible for her to describe what it’s like to get hit by lightning. All of her muscles tensed, as did her hold over her magic, causing her clones to close together against the original axe, the handles pressing against her knuckles, which were also digging into the leather-wrapped wood grip of her axe. Her teeth pressed together and her heels lifted off the ground. Innate magical resistance didn’t mean much when the electricity continued to flow into her until Tyril pulled back his sword. She gasped for air and fell to her knees coughing. Her heart was beating faster than it possibly ever had before. It was annoying. Her heart had only ever raced when somebody was bleeding, and it was normally her favorite part of the sensation. But this was ingenuine, dissatisfying. She pawed at her chest, only to find it intact. Tyril had plunged his sword into her, but it didn’t actually break her skin. It was just the magic that sunk into her body. How disappointing. If she couldn’t make Tyril bleed, she wouldn’t have minded seeing herself drip red on the battlefield.

  She groaned. “Impressive.” She stood up, still staggering.

  “It’s not over yet,” Tyril said. He had continued building up the storm high above them. As she re-gripped her axe, a large bolt of lightning came down on her, too quick to dodge. She had given him enough of an opening once, and now she was the one backed into a corner.

  Another shock ran through her entire body, just like the last. Her fingers burned as they pressed into her palms. Her jaw clenched so hard she could feel her teeth grinding inwards against each other. And just like that, it was all over in a moment.

  She smiled– Why? Her heart was racing, but wasn’t it artificial, still supercharged by the electricity? A vision came to her mind. A memory: her dad handing her her axe for the very first time. He smiled, too. “Don’t go crazy, now,” he said. Her heart was pounding like this back then, too. No, it must not be Tyril’s magic making her heart bounce– well, in a way it was.

  It was exciting to fight someone so strong.

  Just moments ago she was bored, training a student she never wanted, with no outlet to exercise her desire for bloodshed. But she messed up, and now she was bruised. She hadn’t made a mistake like that in so long, she didn’t think it was possible. But now, she realized she can still get stronger herself. If she wants to be Sor’s reaper, she can’t make those kinds of mistakes. Not on the battlefield, and not in the middle of war.

  …

  At the end of their third round, Ameri stood with three victories against Tyril. The sun had already set, and the moon was creeping up the sky. Ameri’s shadow was cast long over the arena as she commented on Tyril’s performance today.

  “Your magic is strong,” she said, “But that’s all you have.”

  Tyril, laying in the dirt, groaned his acknowledgement.

  “You need to learn to fight without it,” Ameri said, “That’s the only way you can be useful in the coming battle.”

  With the power of two Gods in The Deathhold, Millik was officially the strongest person on all of Bitrect right now. And with Mora’s concealment, nobody could tell.

  Of the three Gods he had to convince, Lon was the wildcard, meaning Millik ranked him the most difficult, which is why he tackled him first. Bow on the other hand, even though he hated everything about Millik, Millik had a plan to get his magic into The Deathhold, and it would probably be the easiest of the three. To say he was confident was an understatement.

  Although, that confidence definitely waned as he walked through the Bower streets. He passed a guild hall with a newsboard visible to everybody who passed by. Most of it was covered in wanted posters, each with a well-detailed drawing and description of the transgressor. Though criminals, most of them would have been below Fahva’s level, although, knowing her, she would probably enjoy messing with a few street thugs every once in a while. What this bulletin board did not have, however, was a wanted poster of Millik. It didn’t need it. Everybody he walked past stared at him with enough disdain that a part of him was actually worried they would attack him. Of all the beings on Bitrect, Bow hated him more than anyone else, and his people surely felt the same. Heavily-armored loxodons looked down their trunks at him all while brandishing their sharp tusks and tentatively reaching for their weapons. Lizardfolk flexed their claws and swung their tails. Humans turned away, disgusted.

  Yep. No surprises there.

  In truth, it was getting through Bow’s temple that would be most difficult. No doubt the primary shrinekeeper, Johlu, would bar his entry entirely.

  Though he was the God of the Sun, Bow’s temple was ground-level, no taller than the nearby buildings. According to them, this was because the sun was already high in the sky, so placing the temple on the ground would bring the sun closer to the people. Millik would never understand them. A servant was sweeping the front gate as Millik walked up. At first they moved aside to let him through, but when they recognized his blue robes, and then his face, they dropped their broom, which fell and sunk into the small, soft grains of sand. But they didn’t stop him. Instead, as he passed onto temple grounds, the servant ran off, no doubt in search of someone.

  The open-air section of the temple stirred with commotion as news of his arrival carried between servants and keepers alike. When he got to the first set of doors, he knocked, no less appropriate than he ever would in Pok’s temple.

  The sharing of light across the threshold was sacred to most people, but the Bowers took extra consideration in taking it slowly, as the God of the Sun radiated almost more light than the sun itself. The door opened quietly and with a firm pace. As the lights mixed, there was a moment where Millik’s eyes filled when they caught the sharpest light possible. To any Bower citizen, this would be considered a holy moment.

  “Millik,” Johlu said. Of course the shrinekeeper’s voice said his name with enough malice to kill a man. “What do you think you’re doing here?”

  “I request to speak with Bow,” he said bluntly.

  “In what world would I allow that?” Johlu glared at him. Millik’s eyes only just now finished adjusting, and he realized Johlu’s spear was pointed straight at Millik’s neck.

  “Well,” Millik said, “At least I asked.”

  There was one exception to the rules behind Millik’s teleportation magic. Normally he would need to either see the space directly or have a clear memory of it. However, with the inner sanctum’s doors just a few paces in front of him, it wasn’t difficult to imagine what would be on the other side. A quick pop and he was on the other side.

  Bow, like all Gods, was ethereally humanoid and wore giant robes of their color. Unlike the other Gods, Bow glowed, illuminating the entire inner sanctum, leaving no corner of the room in shadow. Also unlike the other Gods, he had a large bandage wrapped around one of his shoulders. He sat up quickly as Millik appeared in front of him, all before lunging to wrap his hand around Millik and lifting him up.

  “You!” He bellowed, “What do you think you’re doing here?”

  “Johlu said the same thing,” Millik said in jest, his arms pressed between his sides and the God’s large fingers. “You two really are perfect for each other.”

  “All I have to do is squeeze.”

  “You are a God,” Millik said, “So why don’t you?”

  “Don’t test me, deserter!” Bow’s eyebrow arched as he looked down in rage, “I am still injured because of you.”

  “I know all too well.”

  “And I have every right to kill you for that,” Bow said, “That day, you betrayed me and your word! After making such a promise to the God of Valor, the cowardly behaviour you showed against Danger disgraced me greatly.” Bow took a moment to think. “But, you are here for a request, are you not? It is my duty to answer to the people, so I will not take that from you. However, if, at any moment, you speak out of line, I will not hesitate to end your life. What do you want?”

  Millik took as deep of a breath as he could in such a confined space. “I want to kill Pok.” This was the strategy he was so confident in: telling the truth.

  Millik thought it would be impossible for Bow to react stronger than he had when Millik arrived, yet here was the God, almost hitting his head on the ceiling as he rocketed upwards.

  “Impossible,” Bow said.

  “You’re intrigued, are you not?”

  Bow sat back down. In thought, he said, “Alongside your own cowardice, it is partially because of his poor teachings that you broke your promise that day.”

  “So will you help me?”

  “Not so eagerly,” Bow assured, “We have always been allies. That is, until Danger came and you, in Pok’s place, ran. Your replacement has already made an effort to make friends with Fahva.”

  “He has?” Millik thought aloud. He didn’t think Tyril was really fit for politics yet, and not that much time had passed since Millik left, but successfully building an allegiance with Fahva was a surprising twist.

  “Yes,” Bow said, “She reported to me about your involvement in the peace meeting, and how nothing came from it. It was just recently when she came again to report that Pok’s new reaper, Tyril, had fought in an arena hosted by some of my people, the same arena that she was fighting in, and they appear to have bonded that day. She spoke highly of him.”

  “I see,” Millik said, “Thank you for telling me.”

  “Do you still wish for my assistance in your task?”

  “It is not a desire, I assure you.” Millik told Bow openly about the necessary requirements to kill a God that Vot had told him.

  “Of course,” Bow shook his head, “Leave it to Vot to come up with such a stupid plan. Why would she ever put her trust in you?”

  “From my perspective, trust doesn’t exist to her. It’s impossible to betray death, so she has no reason to fear it.”

  “I suppose that’s accurate.” Bow leaned back in his throne, watching up through the skylight. Though it was still bright inside this room, the sun must be close to setting by now. “I hate that I’m actually considering going along with you, Millik.”

  “I apologize,” Millik said, “But I have nothing to offer to sweeten this deal.”

  “I would hate to ruin Fahva’s efforts with Tyril,” Bow thought out loud, “But getting rid of Pok entirely would probably be beneficial. However, I must ask how you exactly plan to go about slaying him?”

  “I’m not entirely sure, Bow,” Millik said.

  “Make it important,” Bow said. “This is your way to right the wrongs of your past, am I correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then do it in the most valorous way possible. That is all I ask for. Throw away your cowardice and embrace righteousness. Promise me so, and I will infuse my power into your sword, just as you have asked.”

  “I will,” Millik said. He didn’t hesitate to make this promise, since he was already planning on doing so.

  To Be Continued…