Dr. Vex stand there and smiles in a way that seems too genuine. "The third option, Kamen. Is to just live your life the way you see fit. There are a variety of quests you can take down in the guild on the quest board. Some are easy, and then some aren't exactly… fair. I will say, that here you can find equipment. I know that you have your armor and claws, but they will not always help you here." They explain as I pace back and forth with a smile on my face as I keep rubbing my face.
"What else is there in this world?" I ask as I stop touching myself and look directly at Dr. Vex. "There is magic here, but not in the way everyone that comes here thinks. Strangely enough, there were some that came in from worlds similar to yours. I guess you can say that they are like the magic you see in manga. Whatever that is, it's a strange thing to think about. Drawings on paper that have a story and art."
Manga. The word triggers something in my memory—not from Hell, but from before. From my life as a professor when I'd occasionally glimpse students reading those black-and-white illustrated stories during lectures. The fact that other beings from realms similar to mine have ended up here is both comforting and concerning.
"How many others?" I ask, finally stopping my compulsive face-touching. The sensation of actual human skin is still too novel to ignore completely, but I force my hands to my sides. "From realms like mine, I mean."
Dr. Vex's geometric patterns shift beneath their skin in what I'm learning to recognize as their version of thoughtful consideration. "Perhaps a dozen over the past few years. Most integrate well once they adjust to the... differences... in how power functions here."
"Differences such as?"
"Your hellfire, for instance," Dr. Thess interjects, their starlight eyes studying readings on yet another tablet that materialized from nowhere. "In your origin realm, it was purely destructive force tied to emotional states. Here, with proper focus, it could be channeled into more versatile applications."
I consider this, feeling the banked fire in my chest pulse with contained potential. "Versatile how?"
Dr. Krith's crystalline form rearranges itself into what might be excitement. "Dimensional anchoring, reality stabilization, energy constructs. The same force that once threatened to tear holes in reality could instead be used to repair them."
The irony isn't lost on me—using the power Hell gave me to fix the kind of damage I might have caused. There's a poetic justice to it that almost makes me smile.
"And the quest board you mentioned?" I ask, turning back to Dr. Vex. "What kind of work are we talking about?"
"Everything from helping elderly beings move furniture to investigating dimensional anomalies that threaten city districts," they reply with a shrug that makes their geometric patterns ripple. "The Guild operates on a merit-based system. Complete simple tasks, build reputation, gain access to more complex assignments."
"With better rewards, presumably."
"Naturally. Though the real reward is often the satisfaction of using your abilities constructively rather than destructively."
I snort, the sound more human than it's been in millennia thanks to my restored vocal cords. "Spoken like someone who's never spent five thousand years as a cosmic weapon."
"Actually," Dr. Thess says quietly, "Dr. Vex spent three centuries as an involuntary dimensional anchor for a realm that used their geometric nature to stabilize reality through forced mathematical calculations. They understand the appeal of choosing your own purpose."
The casual revelation stops my pacing cold. I look at Dr. Vex with new understanding, seeing past their cheerful demeanor to something harder beneath. "I'm sorry. I didn't know."
"No reason you should," they reply with genuine warmth. "But it's why I work with the Guild now. Helping others find constructive uses for abilities that were once used to cause harm or endure suffering."
A moment of silence settles over the evaluation chamber, heavy with shared understanding of what it means to be transformed by forces beyond our control. Then Dr. Krith breaks it with their crystalline voice.
"The collar's integration appears stable. All readings within acceptable parameters. I believe Mr. Driscol is ready for preliminary assignment."
"Already?" I ask, surprised by how quickly they're moving. "Don't I need training or orientation or—"
"The best training is practical application," Dr. Thess interrupts gently. "Besides, your evaluation results suggest you work better with concrete problems than abstract theory."
They're not wrong. Five thousand years of Hell taught me to respond to immediate threats rather than long-term planning. The idea of jumping straight into actual work appeals to me more than sitting through lectures about proper dimensional etiquette.
"Alright," I decide, the human face I'm wearing breaking into what might be the first genuine smile I've managed since Caleif died. "Show me this quest board."
Dr. Vex practically bounces with enthusiasm, their geometric patterns shifting to brighter colors. "Excellent! The main Guild hall is just through here."
They lead me through corridors I hadn't seen during my arrival, these ones clearly designed for general member access rather than specialized evaluation procedures. The architecture is still impossible—walls that curve in directions geometry doesn't account for, doorways that open onto spaces larger than they should contain—but it feels welcoming rather than clinical.
The main hall, when we finally reach it, is impressive in scope and chaotic in execution. Beings of every conceivable type move through the space, some clustered around information boards, others engaged in animated discussions about assignments or techniques. The noise level is substantial but not overwhelming, the acoustic properties of the room somehow managing the cacophony of voices speaking in languages that probably shouldn't coexist.
And there, dominating one entire wall, is the quest board.
It's larger than I expected—a massive display covered in what appear to be floating notices that shift and reorganize themselves based on criteria I can't immediately understand. Some glow with soft light, others pulse with urgency, and a few seem to exist partially outside normal visual spectrum.
"The board sorts assignments by difficulty, urgency, and compatibility with available members," Dr. Vex explains, approaching the display with obvious familiarity. "Green notices are routine tasks suitable for new members. Yellow indicates moderate challenge or risk. Red means high danger or specialized skills required."
I scan the notices, noting that the majority are green or yellow, with only a handful of red assignments visible. "And the ones that seem to exist in colors I can't properly see?"
"Ah." Dr. Vex's patterns shift to what I'm learning indicates embarrassment. "Those are classified assignments. Restricted to members with appropriate clearance levels and psychological stability ratings."
"How long does it typically take to earn that kind of clearance?"
"Depends on the individual," Dr. Thess replies, joining us at the board. "Some members prefer to remain at lower clearance levels indefinitely. Others work their way up within months. It's largely a matter of demonstrated competence and emotional stability."
Emotional stability. Right. Given that I just melted a reinforced chair during my evaluation, I suspect I'll be working green assignments for the foreseeable future.
"Let me see what's available," I say, moving closer to the board to examine the green notices in detail.
The first few are exactly what Dr. Vex suggested—mundane tasks that happen to require supernatural strength or dimensional awareness. Moving furniture for beings whose possessions exist in multiple phases simultaneously. Clearing debris from areas affected by minor reality distortions. Assisting with dimensional barrier maintenance in low-risk zones.
Then I spot one that catches my attention: *Investigate reports of goblins and orcs outside city limits, reports show that more than 50 have appeared and are attacking travelers and caravans taking those who live as slaves.*
The notice draws my attention like a magnet. Goblins and orcs—creatures I'd only encountered in theoretical discussions back when I was a professor. But the mention of slavery makes the hellfire in my chest pulse with familiar anger, even through the collar's suppression.
"This one," I say, pointing to the notice. "Tell me more about it."
Dr. Vex follows my gaze and their geometric patterns shift to a more subdued palette. "Ah. One of the more unpleasant realities of this realm, I'm afraid. Certain species organize into raiding parties, preying on travelers and trade caravans. They've become increasingly bold lately."
"And the Guild handles this how?" I ask, though I suspect I already know the answer.
"Intervention teams investigate reported sightings, assess the threat level, and take appropriate action," Dr. Thess replies carefully. "Sometimes that means negotiation or relocation. Other times..."
"Other times it means controlled violence," I finish. "The kind that requires someone with experience in applied destruction."
Dr. Vex nods reluctantly. "The assignment specifically requests members with combat capabilities. Most of our newer initiates prefer the safer municipal tasks."
I study the notice more carefully, noting details I missed initially. The raids have been escalating over the past month. Three confirmed kidnappings, with victims taken to unknown locations. Local authorities are overwhelmed and have formally requested Guild assistance.
It's exactly the kind of work that would let me use the skills Hell gave me for something constructive. The kind of assignment where my particular brand of controlled violence might actually help people instead of just adding to the cosmic body count.
"I'll take it," I decide, reaching toward the notice.
"Wait." Dr. Thess catches my wrist gently, their starlight eyes serious. "This isn't a solo assignment, Kamen. Combat missions require teams for safety and effectiveness."
"Then find me a team," I reply, though the idea of working with others makes me nervous. Five thousand years of isolation don't exactly prepare someone for collaborative efforts.
"Actually," a voice says from behind us, "I might be interested in that assignment too."
I turn to see a woman approaching—human in appearance but with subtle signs that suggest otherwise. Her movements are too fluid, her eyes hold depths that speak of significant age, and there's something about her dimensional signature that my enhanced senses recognize as familiar.
"Kira Thane," she introduces herself, extending a hand that feels surprisingly warm. "Dimensional anchor specialist, with a particular interest in protecting travelers from supernatural threats."
I shake her hand, noting the way she doesn't flinch from my grip despite the fact that I still don't entirely trust my strength control. "Kamen Driscol. Recently integrated cosmic catastrophe with anger management issues."
She laughs, the sound genuine and surprisingly pleasant. "Honest. I like that. Most new members try to downplay their destructive potential."
"Hard to downplay melting furniture during your evaluation," I reply dryly.
"You melted furniture?" Her eyes light up with what appears to be genuine interest rather than concern. "Impressive. What's your primary capability? Fire manipulation? Reality distortion?"
"Hellfire," I answer, watching her reaction carefully. "With associated strength enhancement and dimensional instability."
Most people—even supernatural people—tend to back away when I mention Hell. Kira just nods thoughtfully, as if I'd told her I specialized in accounting.
"Useful for this kind of work," she observes. "Goblins and orcs respect overwhelming force more than diplomatic negotiation."
Dr. Vex's patterns shift to brighter colors, apparently pleased by this development. "Excellent! A two-person team should be sufficient for preliminary investigation. If the situation requires additional resources, you can always call for backup."
"When do we leave?" I ask, eager to do something productive with the restless energy that's been building since my transformation.
"Tomorrow morning," Kira replies, already moving toward the quest board to officially claim the assignment. "That gives us time to gather supplies and plan our approach."
As she interacts with the board—touching the notice in a specific pattern that causes it to glow briefly before disappearing—I realize this is actually happening. My first real assignment as a Guild member. My first chance to use Hell's gifts for something other than destruction or survival.
"One more thing," Dr. Thess says quietly, pulling me aside while Kira handles the administrative details. "The collar's locks. They're designed to respond to genuine need as much as emotional overflow. If the situation requires more of your capabilities, don't hesitate to use them."
"And if I can't control what comes out when the locks release?"
Their starlight eyes reflect something that might be confidence. "Then you'll learn control through necessity. Sometimes that's the only way."
Before I can respond to this less-than-comforting advice, Kira returns with what appears to be official documentation.
"Assignment confirmed," she announces. "We meet at the eastern gate tomorrow at dawn. Bring whatever gear you think you'll need—the Guild provides basic supplies, but personal equipment is usually more effective."
I nod, though I'm not sure what gear someone like me actually needs beyond the claws and enhanced durability Hell provided. "Any suggestions?"
"Backup containment device," she suggests immediately. "In case your collar gets damaged during combat. And maybe something for non-lethal subdual—not every problem requires maximum force."
Practical advice from someone who's clearly done this before. I find myself looking forward to working with her, which is unexpected. After millennia of isolation, the idea of having a partner feels both foreign and appealing.
"Tomorrow at dawn," I confirm, the human face I'm wearing breaking into another genuine smile. "Try not to let me accidentally destroy anything important."
"That's what partners are for," Kira replies with a grin that suggests she's looking forward to the challenge.
As I watch Kira disappear into the crowd of Guild members, I realize I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing. The human face I'm wearing might fool casual observers, but underneath this borrowed normalcy, I'm still a creature forged in Hell's deepest pits. The idea of working with someone—of being responsible for another person's safety—sends a familiar spike of anxiety through my chest.
The hellfire responds to my unease, pushing gently against the collar's containment. But instead of the usual burning sensation, I feel something almost like warmth. Human warmth, the kind I remember from before my imprisonment.
"Second thoughts?" Dr. Thess asks, their starlight eyes studying me with that uncomfortable perception they seem to specialize in.
"Third and fourth thoughts," I admit, running a hand through hair that feels strange beneath my fingers—soft and real instead of the metallic strands I've grown accustomed to. "I haven't worked with anyone in five thousand years. What if I get her killed?"
"What if she gets you killed?" Dr. Vex counters, their geometric patterns shifting to what might be amusement. "Partnership goes both ways, Kamen. She's not some fragile civilian you need to protect—she's a dimensional anchor specialist with years of field experience."
They're right, of course. But logic has never been particularly effective against Hell-forged paranoia.
"Besides," Dr. Thess adds, "you'll have communication devices linked directly to Guild headquarters. If the situation escalates beyond your capabilities, backup is only minutes away."
I nod, though the gesture feels hollow. Minutes can be a very long time when goblins are trying to enslave innocent travelers and your partner is counting on you not to accidentally incinerate everything within a mile radius.
"I should probably figure out what gear I actually need," I say, looking around the main hall with new eyes. Now that I'm officially a Guild member, I notice things I missed before—equipment vendors set up in alcoves, members examining weapons and devices I can't identify, the general bustle of beings preparing for assignments.
"Equipment quartermaster is through there," Dr. Vex points to a doorway that definitely wasn't there a moment ago. "Tell them you're new and working a combat assignment. They'll set you up with basics."
The quartermaster turns out to be a being that looks like someone crossed a librarian with a dragon, complete with scales that shimmer with contained knowledge and eyes that catalog everything they see. They examine my Guild documentation with the thoroughness of someone who's seen every possible variation of paperwork fraud.
"Combat assignment," they muse, their voice carrying harmonics that make my teeth ache. "First time out. Partnered with Kira Thane." They make notes on a tablet that appears to be made of crystallized light. "What's your primary combat style?"
"Overwhelming force applied with questionable precision," I reply honestly.
Their scaled eyebrows rise slightly. "Refreshingly honest. Most new members claim surgical precision regardless of their actual capabilities." They gesture toward a wall lined with equipment I don't recognize. "Let's start with the basics."
The "basics" turn out to include a communication device that bonds to my nervous system, armor that adjusts to my dimensional signature, and a weapon they describe as "non-lethal but highly persuasive." The armor feels strange over my human-appearing skin—lighter than it should be, with properties that suggest it exists partially outside normal space-time.
"The armor will adapt if your collar's locks release," the quartermaster explains, apparently reading my concerns directly from my expression. "Expanding to accommodate physical changes while maintaining protection levels."
"And if I accidentally melt it?"
"Then you'll discover why Guild equipment costs so much to replace," they reply dryly, handing me a device that looks like a cross between a sword hilt and a dimensional calculator. "This is a reality anchor. If local space-time becomes unstable during combat, activate it. Should prevent you from accidentally falling into adjacent dimensions."
I accept the device, noting the way it feels heavier than its size suggests. "How often do people accidentally fall into adjacent dimensions during Guild assignments?"
"More often than you'd think, less often than our insurance premiums would suggest." They make final notes on their crystalline tablet. "Try not to lose anything. Equipment recovery from alternate realities is expensive and time-consuming."
By the time I finish with the quartermaster, the main hall has grown quieter, many members having departed for their own assignments or returned to whatever they do when not actively saving reality from supernatural threats. I find myself standing alone in the vast space, surrounded by the tools of a trade I'm not sure I understand.
The collar around my neck pulses once, a gentle reminder that beneath this human facade, I'm still a being capable of tearing holes in reality when sufficiently motivated. Tomorrow, I'll find out if Kira Thane is prepared to work with that level of potential catastrophe.
For now, though, I need to figure out where I'm supposed to sleep tonight and how to prepare for my first real chance at being something other than an unwilling weapon.
The quartermaster's parting words echo in my head as I make my way back through the Guild's impossible corridors. *Try not to lose anything.* Right. As if my track record for keeping things intact is anything to write home about.
I pause at what I think is the main entrance, realizing I have no idea where I'm actually supposed to go. The safe house feels like a lifetime ago, and I'm not even sure I remember the route back through the undercity passages. The human face I'm wearing might make me less conspicuous, but it doesn't come with a built-in navigation system.
"Lost already?"
I turn to find Marius approaching, his too-wide eyes taking in my transformed appearance with obvious interest. Even without the metallic skin and burning eyes, he seems to recognize me immediately.
"Remarkable work," he observes, studying the collar's effects. "I can barely sense your dimensional signature now. Very sophisticated containment."
"It's temporary," I reply, though part of me hopes that's not entirely true. "The Guild fitted me with something more... socially acceptable."
"And how does it feel? Being human again, even artificially?"
I consider the question, running my fingers through hair that feels real beneath my touch. "Strange. Like wearing clothes that used to fit perfectly but don't quite match who I am anymore."
Marius nods with the understanding of someone who's experienced similar transformations. "Identity is fluid, especially for beings like us. The question is whether you want to reclaim your humanity or simply use it as a tool."
Before I can untangle that philosophical knot, he gestures toward the Guild's entrance. "Come. I suspect you need somewhere to stay tonight, and the Threshold has rooms available."
The idea of returning to familiar surroundings appeals to me more than I'd like to admit. Despite everything that's happened, Marius's inn feels like the closest thing to stability I've found in this realm.
"I thought you said the Threshold was full during Convergence," I point out as we step out into the evening air.
"It was. But Convergence ended this morning." His too-perfect smile carries hints of secrets I'm not sure I want to know. "The dimensional barriers have returned to normal thickness, and most of our temporary guests have moved on."
The streets outside the Guild building are noticeably calmer than they were during the festival chaos. Beings still move through the Crossroads Quarter, but with the purposeful efficiency of daily life rather than celebration. The change is both reassuring and oddly disappointing—I'd grown accustomed to the chaotic energy.
"So," Marius says as we navigate toward the inn, "I hear you've taken your first assignment. Goblin raiders, if the gossip networks are accurate."
I shouldn't be surprised that he already knows. Information seems to travel through this city faster than light through vacuum. "Word travels fast."
"The Guild maintains extensive communication networks," he replies diplomatically. "Partly for coordination, partly for member safety. When someone new takes a combat assignment, people pay attention."
"People meaning other Guild members, or people meaning innkeepers who collect information like some people collect stamps?"
His laugh carries those inhuman harmonics that remind me he's not what he appears to be. "Both, in this case. Though I prefer to think of myself as someone who maintains awareness of potential problems before they become actual crises."
We reach the Threshold as the last light fades from the sky, the building's warm glow spilling out onto the street through windows that definitely exist in more dimensions than normal architecture allows. The common room is quieter than during my last visit, occupied by what appear to be regular patrons rather than festival refugees.
"Your usual room is available," Marius says, leading me toward the stairs. "Though I should warn you—the Guild's communication devices tend to activate at inconvenient hours. Emergency calls, assignment updates, that sort of thing."
As if summoned by his words, the device bonded to my nervous system gives a soft chime. I feel the sensation more than hear it, a gentle vibration that somehow conveys information directly to my consciousness.
*Assignment briefing scheduled for 0600 hours. Report to eastern gate armory for equipment verification and tactical planning.*
"Inconvenient hours indeed," I mutter, though 0600 isn't unreasonable for someone who spent millennia in Hell's timeless torment.
"The life of a Guild member," Marius observes with that too-knowing smile. "Always on call, always ready to respond to the next crisis."
My room looks exactly as I left it, which shouldn't surprise me but somehow does. After everything that's happened—the evaluation, the transformation, the assignment—I expected something to have changed. But the reinforced bed still dominates the space, the protective wards still hum with contained energy, and the window still looks out onto the organized chaos of the Crossroads Quarter.
The only difference is me. And even that might be more illusion than reality, courtesy of the collar's sophisticated containment field.
I settle onto the bed, testing whether the furniture can still support my weight despite my apparently human appearance. The frame holds without protest, which suggests the collar's effects are purely cosmetic rather than fundamental alterations to my nature.
The hellfire in my chest pulses with its usual steady burn, contained but not diminished. Whatever the Guild has done to make me appear human, the core of what Hell made me remains unchanged. Tomorrow, I'll find out if that's an asset or a liability when it comes to protecting innocent travelers from goblin raiders.
For tonight, though, I allow myself the luxury of feeling human again, even if it's only borrowed normalcy wrapped around a monster's bones.
The communication device chimes again, softer this time, carrying what feels like a personal message rather than official Guild business.
*Looking forward to working with you tomorrow. Don't overthink it—goblins aren't known for complex tactical planning. - Kira*
Despite everything, I find myself smiling at the casual confidence in her message. Maybe partnership won't be as terrifying as I feared. Maybe having someone watch my back will feel less like vulnerability and more like support.
I fire off a quick reply, the communication device translating my thoughts directly into text.
*I'll try not to incinerate anything important. First round's on me if we both survive.*
Sleep comes surprisingly easily, my borrowed human body responding to exhaustion in ways my hellfire-forged form rarely did. I dream of Caleif, but for once, the images aren't of her final moments. Instead, I see her smiling, those bluish-red eyes alight with the same fascination she showed when I first demonstrated dimensional theory at the Academy.
The communication device wakes me before dawn with a gentle but insistent pulse against my consciousness. I shower quickly, marveling at how different water feels against human skin compared to metallic plates. The collar hums softly as I dress in the Guild-provided armor, which adjusts itself to my form with unsettling precision.
The eastern gate turns out to be a massive structure of stone and what appears to be crystallized dimensional energy, marking the boundary between the Citadel proper and the wilderness beyond. As I approach in the pre-dawn light, I spot Kira already waiting, her own armor reflecting the torchlight in patterns that suggest it's more than simple protection.
"Morning," she greets me, her eyes sweeping over my human appearance with professional assessment. "Sleep well?"
"Better than I have in about five thousand years," I admit, adjusting the unfamiliar weight of the equipment the quartermaster insisted I bring. "Though I'm still getting used to this whole 'looking human' thing."
"It suits you," she says with a small smile. "Though I wouldn't mind seeing what you really look like sometime. Professional curiosity."
"Trust me, it's not pretty."
"Pretty isn't particularly useful for the work we do." She gestures toward a table where maps and documents are spread out beneath a protective field. "Let's review what we know before heading out."
The briefing is refreshingly straightforward. Goblin raiders have established what appears to be a permanent camp approximately ten miles east of the Citadel's boundaries. Trade caravans traveling the eastern road have reported increasing attacks over the past month, with three confirmed kidnappings and numerous thefts.
"Local authorities sent a patrol last week," Kira explains, pointing to a marked location on the map. "They didn't return. The Guild received formal request for intervention yesterday."
"So we're looking at a rescue mission as well as reconnaissance," I observe, studying the terrain features. The eastern road winds through dense forest before opening into rolling hills—perfect territory for ambushes.
"Potentially. If any of the patrol survived." Her voice carries the pragmatic tone of someone who's seen too many recovery missions turn into body retrieval. "Our primary objective is assessment—determine threat level, numbers, defenses. Secondary objective is recovery of any survivors."
"And if we encounter resistance?"
Her eyes meet mine, and I see something shift in their depths—a predatory focus that confirms my suspicion that she's not entirely human. "Then we demonstrate why the Guild handles supernatural threats rather than local militias."
A Guild official approaches with final equipment checks and communication verification. The device bonded to my nervous system responds to their tests with soft pulses that somehow convey information directly to my consciousness—emergency protocols, extraction procedures, the kind of details that suggest this assignment might be more dangerous than the "green" classification indicated.
"One last thing," the official says, handing each of us small metallic discs inscribed with symbols that make my eyes hurt to look at directly. "Emergency extraction beacons. If things go completely sideways, activate these. They'll pull you back to the Guild's dimensional anchor chamber."
"Has that been necessary often?" I ask, pocketing the disc with more care than I'd normally show something so small.
"Only in cases of catastrophic dimensional collapse or imminent personal destruction," they reply with disturbing casualness. "But better to have and not need, as they say."
As we pass through the eastern gate, the sun breaks over the horizon, casting long shadows across the road ahead. The wilderness beyond the Citadel's boundaries feels different—wilder, less constrained by the rules of normal reality. I can sense dimensional energy flowing more freely here, which probably explains why beings like goblins find it comfortable territory.
"So," I say as we establish a steady pace down the eastern road, "how long have you been doing this kind of work?"
Kira adjusts her pack without breaking stride. "With the Guild? About seventy years. Before that, I worked independently."
"Seventy years?" I try to keep the surprise from my voice. She looks human enough that I expected a more human timeframe.
Her smile carries hints of amusement at my reaction. "I'm older than I look, Kamen. Most beings who work dimensional rifts are."
"Fair enough. I spent five millennia in Hell, so I'm not exactly one to talk about age discrepancies."
"Five thousand years?" Now it's her turn to sound surprised. "That's... impressive survival for a realm designed to break souls."
"I'm stubborn," I reply, though that barely scratches the surface of how I endured. "And I had motivation to return."
She doesn't press for details, which I appreciate. Instead, she shifts the conversation to practical matters—what to expect from goblin raiders, how they typically organize their camps, the kinds of defenses we might encounter.
"They're not stupid," she emphasizes as we move deeper into the forest. "That's the mistake most people make when dealing with goblins. They assume 'primitive' means 'unintelligent.' Goblins have survived in hostile environments for millennia by being adaptable and ruthlessly pragmatic."
"So no charging in with hellfire blazing," I translate.
"Not unless we want to get very dead very quickly." She pauses, studying the road ahead with narrowed eyes. "They'll have scouts watching the main approaches. We should leave the road soon, circle around to approach from an unexpected direction."
We veer off into the forest, moving through undergrowth that seems to deliberately tangle around our feet. The plant life here feels almost sentient, responding to our presence with subtle movements that my enhanced senses can barely detect.
"The forest is aware of us," I murmur, keeping my voice low despite being well out of earshot of any potential scouts.
"The Whispering Woods extends farther than most maps show," Kira confirms. "Not as dangerous out here as closer to the Citadel, but still not entirely natural."
As if to emphasize her point, a nearby tree shifts its branches to block our path, the movement too deliberate to be caused by wind.
"Is it trying to warn us or stop us?" I ask, eyeing the barrier with professional interest.
"Probably both." She approaches the tree slowly, placing one hand against its bark with surprising gentleness. "The forest doesn't like goblins much either. They tend to burn rather than negotiate."
Something passes between her and the tree—not words exactly, but a communication I can sense even without direct contact. After a moment, the branches retract, opening a path that wasn't there before.
"It's showing us a safer route," she explains, gesturing for me to follow. "One the goblins don't patrol regularly."
"You speak tree?" I can't keep the skepticism from my voice.
"I speak forest," she corrects with that same small smile. "Dimensional anchor specialists learn to communicate with all sorts of conscious entities. Makes our job easier."
The path the forest provides winds through thicker vegetation than I'd have chosen, but true to Kira's word, we encounter no signs of goblin activity. After several hours of hiking, the trees begin to thin, giving way to the rolling hills we saw on the map.
Kira signals for us to drop low as we reach the forest's edge. Ahead, in a natural depression between hills, lies what can only be the goblin encampment.
"That's... bigger than the reports suggested," she whispers, handing me a viewing device that enhances distant images.
I adjust the focus, taking in details that make my hellfire pulse with warning. The camp isn't just a temporary raiding base—it's a fortified settlement with permanent structures, defensive positions, and what appears to be a central compound surrounded by additional security.
"Those aren't just goblins," I observe, noting figures that stand nearly twice as tall as the green-skinned raiders. "Ogres? Trolls?"
"Worse," Kira's voice carries tension I haven't heard before. "Those are Pit Fiends."
The hellfire in my chest flares at the words, pushing against the collar's containment with sudden urgency. Pit Fiends—minor demons that serve as enforcers and torturers in Hell's hierarchy. I know them well, having experienced their particular brand of creativity firsthand during my imprisonment.
"What are Pit Fiends doing with goblin raiders?" I keep my voice steady despite the rage building in my chest.
"Nothing good," Kira replies grimly. "This changes everything. Goblins we could handle—demons require specialized containment protocols we don't have with us."
I count at least five Fiends patrolling the camp's perimeter, their distinctive forms unmistakable even at this distance. Each stands about nine feet tall, with leathery wings folded against muscular backs and horns that curve from their temples like cruel coronets.
"We need to report this back to the Guild," Kira decides, already reaching for her communication device. "This isn't a green assignment anymore. We need a specialized team with proper banishment equipment."
She's right, of course. The smart play is to retreat, report, and let the Guild send operatives with the right tools for dealing with demonic incursions. But as I watch the camp through the viewing device, I spot something that makes retreat impossible.
In a cage near the central compound, barely visible through gaps in the surrounding structures, are figures that can only be the missing patrol. And from their movements—weak but deliberate—at least some of them are still alive.
"They won't last until a specialized team arrives," I say quietly, lowering the viewer. "Not with Pit Fiends involved."
Kira follows my gaze, her expression hardening as she spots the prisoners. "We can't take on five Pit Fiends and an entire goblin camp, Kamen. That's suicide."
"I spent five thousand years with beings like that," I reply, the hellfire in my chest burning hotter with each word. "I know how they work. How they think. Their weaknesses."
"Even so—"
"You said the collar's locks respond to necessity," I interrupt, my hand moving unconsciously to touch the device around my neck. "This seems pretty necessary to me."
Her eyes widen as she realizes what I'm suggesting. "You want to release your true form. Here, now, with no backup."
"Not all of it. Just enough to even the odds."
"And if you lose control? If the hellfire responds to your emotions rather than your intentions?"
It's a fair question—one I've been asking myself since the Guild fitted me with this sophisticated leash. But watching those prisoners, knowing what the Fiends are capable of, makes the risk seem worth taking.
"Then you'll have to stop me," I say simply. "That's what partners are for, right?"
Kira studies me for a long moment, her eyes reflecting calculations I can only guess at. Finally, she nods, her decision apparently made.
"We'll need a distraction," she says, shifting into tactical planning with impressive speed. "Something to draw attention away from the prisoners while we extract them."
"Who needs a distraction when you're me." The words escape through my clenched teeth as I dart along the shadowed perimeter of the encampment. My heartbeat remains steady, controlled, despite the adrenaline coursing through my veins. Something catches my eye—a dark mass hurtling from the camp skyward before arcing down toward my position. "What the fuck is that?" I hiss, squinting against the dim light. The bronze collar chafes against my neck as I strain to see, its enchanted metal warm against my skin.
The figure plummets earthward with impossible speed, hitting the ground with a impact that sends tremors through the soil beneath my feet. Dust billows outward as it unfurls to its full height—nine feet of corded muscle wrapped in leathery crimson skin. Yellow eyes gleam like molten sulfur beneath ridged brow bones. "Well, well, well. You're built like a brick shithouse," I manage with a nervous laugh that dies in my throat as its massive fist—each knuckle adorned with bony spikes—connects with my jaw. The blow launches me backward through the air, my body carving a trench through dirt and stone for thirty feet before coming to rest.
Pain explodes across every nerve ending, sharp and insistent in a way I haven't felt since taking the gauntlet. "Fuck, that hurt. Wait, how did that hurt?" Blood trickles warm and metallic into my mouth as I struggle to my knees. Before I can fully rise, the creature is there again, moving with impossible speed for something so massive. Its clawed foot, wide as my chest, drives into my sternum with a sickening crack. Air evacuates my lungs in a violent rush as darkness creeps at the edges of my vision.
The image of Caleif floods my mind as my eyes go wide as the first lock breaks.