Build god Then We'll Talk

The next day, I woke up early.

Man, can I get a break for once?

Especially after last nights mini celebration.

Quick tangent—the barracks throws the wildest parties. Maybe it's the fact that we're all considered useless backgrounders, or maybe because no one expects anything of us… but we party like it's the last night, well… ever.

Last night got especially wild. Someone even summoned a lesser fire spirit to roast a whole wyvern leg. One of the archers got into a drinking contest with a literal dwarf. She lost. Badly.

Keiji? He vanished halfway through the night after chugging something blue from a bottle marked "Absolutely Not Responsible for After-Effects."

I left not long after.

So imagine my surprise when I found him outside the next morning, standing in the grass like a scarecrow, holding my shovel in one hand like it was cursed.

Apparently, I’d been way more drunk than I thought. I wondered where I left my priced possession.

“You didn’t sleep?” I asked, yawning as I rubbed my eyes. “And where did you get that?”

Keiji grinned sheepishly, holding up the leather-bound notebook in one hand and flinging my shovel at my feet with the other.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he said quickly, like the words were sprinting out of him. “Went to see the quartermaster. Weirdest thing....just asked for her and...boom!....she popped out the shadows like some kind of ninja. Funny thing, I asked around and no one knew where she was. Crazy right? Anyway, we had a chat and she gave me this notebook and pen and some “recovery tonic,” but I’m not sure why, I feel completely fine.”

I blinked at him.

I knew I shouldn’t have left him alone at the party.

“You took a weird potion, didn’t you?”

“…Define weird.”

I sighed. “Never mind. Sounds like Mira already took care of it. Whatever you took should wear off soon.”

Keiji gave a half-laugh. “Like you should talk. I found you using your shovel as a pillow last night. I tried to wake you, but you turned over grumbling like a sleeping bear.”

Um, I’m not even going to dignify that with a response.

I’m a weak drinker. So what?!

Keiji shifted his legs, now kneeling properly on the grass — back straight, his legs folded underneath him, his feet were flat against the ground and hands resting politely in his lap. The kind of posture I’ve seen at nobles’ tea ceremonies.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said, face more serious now. “About what happened in the dungeon. At first I thought I was misremembering it. But now I realize you weren’t just lucky. You knew what you were doing.”

I shrugged. “Doesn’t mean anything.”

“No, it does.” He said jabbing a finger at me. “So I asked the quartermaster for more information. Figured if this was all some elaborate RPG setup, I needed context. She said she could sync my system with all available records from the Copper Ring. Look, it's all here.”

For some reason, Keiji said that last part while pointing at the air.

“You see the menu screen?” he asked.

“…Screen?”

I stepped forward until our noses were almost touching, but there was nothing in front of me.

“I’m looking at empty air, hero.”

Keiji pointed again. “This one. It’s a whole system thing. It popped up last night after we got back. Probably because I completed my first mission.”

I stared at him. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You seriously don’t see it? It’s right in front of me. Like a HUD or stats page. It shows me names, levels and titles, like…like your name is Ash Rook right? Level fifteen.”

Level... what?

“I don’t see any of that.” 

I could feel my heart suddenly pounding in my ears.

He sighed, a bit too dramatically. “I figured as much. The quartermaster couldn’t see it either, but I wrote everything down. Check this out.”

He flipped it open and showed me a page scrawled with strange writings.

<[ERROR: PRIMARY HERO PROFILE – LOST]>

<[SEARCHING FOR BACKUP......]>

<[POTENTIAL REPLACEMENT FOUND: – SYSTEM UNRECOGNIZED]>

I stared at the words in silence.

“Okay….I don’t understand what any of this means,” I muttered. “What’s the system and why does it need a backup?”

“I don’t know,” he replied and closed the book. “But it’s like... I dunno. In games, when a main file is corrupted, the system looks for a restore point. It’s like a patchwork. Or update? I’m not really sure.”

“Wait, what’s a game?”

Keiji blinked, then laughed awkwardly. “You might want to sit down.”

101----------------------

While I was busy having an existential crisis, much heavier discussions were taking place far above us… in the Gold Ring.

Beneath the towering cathedral of Sanctum Frollo, a place that scraped the heavens with its gilded spires, there was a door with no name. Unmarked stone framed by veins of gold and laced with holy runes, it was a door only the highest clergy were permitted to open. Beyond it lay a labyrinth of catacombs known only to the inner circle of the Church as The Hall of Consequence.

The air down there was heavier, almost reverent as though the stones themselves bore witness to every sin whispered in its depths. The central chamber was circular, the walls a mosaic of obsidian and scripture glowing faintly with divine light. Relics of fallen heroes—armor, weapons, shattered banners—were locked behind glass along the walls like offerings to unseen gods.

A table stood in the centre like no other, carved from the fossilized spine of a Leviathan beast. Its twin horns jutted up at either end, a grim reminder that even monsters could be bent to the Church’s will.

Lucien sat at the head of the table, as immaculate as always, his pure white robes unblemished and glowing faintly under the chamber’s wards.

“The 51st Hero has survived his first dungeon,” Lucien announced, arranging his scrolls with meticulous care. “Unexpectedly.”

A low growl came from his left. Master Jacques sat slouched in his chair, thick arms crossed over his scarred chest. His vest reeked of ash and cheap ale.

“Not possible,” he said, shaking his head. “The boy could barely swing a sword. No way he walked out of that dungeon on his own.”

Lucien tilted his head slightly, his calm gaze never wavering.

“Do you believe someone… assisted him?”

Jacques grunted.

“I questioned the survivors. One’s gone mute from shock; the other lost both hands. Neither seemed to know a thing. Whatever happened, it wasn’t their doing.”

Lucien steepled his fingers, smiling.

“Curious. But promising nonetheless. Perhaps he’s not as incomplete as we feared.”

Across the table, the Archmage Kryxx of the Silver Ring shifted in his seat. Tall and lean, his elven features looked carved from glass, his skin shimmering faintly with arcane tattoos. He leaned heavily on his obsidian staff, the runes along its length humming with restrained power.

“You call it promising,” Kryxx said coldly, “but I call it recklessness. The summoning gate fractured three glyphs during his arrival. The Veil was nearly torn apart. I warned you against summoning again so soon.”

Lucien inclined his head ever so slightly. “Your warnings were…noted.”

“Then heed them!” Kryxx ‘s voice crackled against the chamber’s wards.

Before the tension could break further, a smooth voice cut through.

Captain Velma sat with one leg crossed over the other, posture relaxed but coiled like a spring. She had on a black-and-gold uniform, sharp enough to cut the purple braid draped over her shoulder.

“More importantly,” she said, twirling the end of her braid with a gloved finger, “what of the corpse used for the summoning?”

Lucien didn’t flinch.

“Contained. I’ve sent word to the scrap picker. The matter will be… disposed of quietly. Church records will list her as a noble. Appearances must be maintained, after all.”

Kryxx scoffed, his staff tapping against the stone floor.

“A waste of resources. The ritual should have been postponed…or better yet, abandoned until the 51st had perished.”

Lucien’s expression cooled.

“We no longer have the luxury of time. The Veil weakens each day, Archmage, and you know it. Even Jacques doubted the boy’s survival. It seems we all miscalculated.”

Velma leaned forward with a sly smile.

“Then the hero will be tested again. Sooner, if Draken has his way. Perhaps a Mid-Tier dungeon this time… yes?”

Her gaze shifted toward the shadowed figure at the far end of the table.

Draken was shuffling a deck of black-lacquered cards idly through his gloved fingers. The lower of his face was wrapped in a dark indigo scarf, its ends trailing like ropes behind him. One pale orange eye glimmered in the dark, sharp and unblinking, while the other was half-closed beneath a lattice of burned skin.

His hair, messy and white, bore faint streaks of purple at the tips, which shifted unnervingly whenever the chamber’s light flickered. Encasing his arms were twin gauntlets of seamless black metal, the forearms lined with crystalline diamonds that pulsed rhythmically, like a second heartbeat.

He flicked a card toward the centre of the table. It halted mid-air, spinning, before blooming into an illusion: a single spectral hand glowing violet, giving a slow, deliberate thumbs-up.

Velma’s lips curved in amusement.

“A man of few words, as always. But your meaning is clear enough.”

Lucien’s smirk was little more than a twitch, but Kryxx rose sharply to his feet,

“This farce is over,” Kryxx snarled. “I have other matters that demand my attention.”

Lucien’s eyes followed him like a predator’s, unblinking.

“Why the sudden urge to leave, Archmage?” he asked, voice soft. “Stay. We are still waiting for our guest of honor.”