Chapter 43
Dungeons were highways to the hells. Towers were highways to the heavens.
Reaching the bottom of a dungeon was almost entirely about combat, and the final boss continued that theme.
That was the honesty of demons on display.
They saw no reason to hide what qualities were necessary to defeat the dungeon.
Celestials, meanwhile, changed the rules on the very last level of their challenge.
Was the top of every tower like this? I assumed–with no real basis whatsoever–that towers came in unique forms just as dungeons did.
I suppose they could all be identical, but if they went to these lengths to be assholes in this tower, I highly doubted celestials would do something so pedestrian as to replicate a singular design.
No, I couldn’t hide out in any one part forever. The tower seemed able to tell when I had no intention of completing a section. It would bump me to the next wife in the sequence and eventually spit me back out.
I tried talking to Brenin in each instance where he appeared, and after several attempts, all I did was weird him out, which I have to say was philosophically troubling in its own right.
Brenin was me. I thought I was the best version of me, of him, but Brenin still couldn’t stand me.
Ah, wait. No, not philosophically troubling at all. I hated myself. Easy explanation.
I attempted conversations about us being similar people, about how we were the same people, about how the woman he was meeting in whichever chapter of the dungeon sequence we were in would be his wife, or half a dozen variations of simply trying to befriend the tower-made doppelganger.
Nothing.
I made similar attempts with each of my wives, and at one point, the only goal I had was to get one of my wives to choose me over Brenin. The women I loved chose that little motherfucker every time.
Running straight into the nearest dungeon didn’t work. I had remembered my sage wisdom of always finding my solutions in the dungeons. I really thought I had it figured out with this one, but nope.
My next idea was to get one of the tower-made people to recognize that we weren’t in the real world and that they were constructs of a greater power.
The only thing I learned from these experiments was that the tower replicated a shocking number of people.
At first, I thought they were recreations of my memories, but even people I didn’t really know all that well–like Lubada, the cute barkeep in Borja–were complex and had deep memories I didn’t know about prior to reaching the 100th floor.
I spent a few attempts just talking to her, trying to get to a question about herself she wouldn’t be able to answer, to find the limit of the tower’s abilities to mimic.
That never happened. Did the tower invent incredibly complex memories, or did it somehow draw them from the real people I had met?
Either answer was frightening.
As an aside, I want to note I didn’t fuck any of these non-people.
Not for lack of trying. I definitely would have fucked a dungeon clone of any of my wives just to see what that was like, but no approach worked for them or any of the other women in the puzzle.
My morality had been corrupted enough that I considered the argument that they weren’t real people and could, therefore, do whatever I wanted.
When I thought about it, I didn’t like the notion of any woman, even fake ones, expressing how much they did not enjoy cock.
Any pain I inflicted on my treasures served a broader goal of pleasure where absolutely everyone involved was happy and satisfied by the end, but the non-people would despise every second of it.
After all that talking, I tried Invia’s suggestion of killing every single person I could.
No, I didn’t have any moral qualms about beheading every non-person I could find. I don’t understand why that would surprise you.
Anyway, that didn’t get me through the 100th floor, so I tried burning everything down. I used a few runs to kill Tad in different ways. I thought that, perhaps, the tower wanted to repeat the theme of making me murder my dad. No matter how I went about it, though, the tower didn’t let me advance.
What could possibly be the lesson here? I had no clue, and no one else in our party did either.
“Mistress Solara wishes to speak with you, Master,” Abby informed me. I had every book we had ever purchased about celestials and the celestial planes spread around my room. A clue for how to clear the 100th floor had to be in there somewhere.
“Send her up.”
A few seconds later, Solara asked, “Am I interrupting?”
“Sort of,” I replied. “What do you need?”
“I don’t have thoughts for the 100th floor, but I do have updates on the phylactery project.”
Right, the phylactery project. These days, my desire for a way to die was far stronger than my desire to live forever. I had forgotten Solara and the scholars had been researching the subject.
“Proceed,” I said.
Solara swallowed, a bit nervous. “I’m sorry for the other day. We got carried away when we shouldn’t have.”
“Thank you.”
“Everyone of us is with you until the end,” she added. “Some of the newer followers might have weak wills, but none of your wives do, and we understand that we’re at war. We are not leaving your side unless you make us.”
“I appreciate you saying so.”
“We will never forget how much you’ve given us. I promise.”
“I believe you,” I said.
“Good. Now, the phylactery research has hit a strange wrinkle. We talked before about ‘partial’ phylacteries that function somewhat like your deal with Aurketzu. The person who opens the phylactery takes on your soul until they find you a vessel.”
I nodded. I remembered that conversation.
“The scholars are suggesting that the phylactery ideal we’re after, a device that regrows your entire body should you die, could be a myth.
We have stories about evil wizards and greedy kings using such phylacteries at various points in history, but we have no actual confirmation that the phylactery as we picture it actually existed. ”
That got my attention. “Really?”
“Yes. That doesn’t mean it’s impossible, but I thought you’d want to know we haven’t found any proof that it is possible.”
“An overblown truth told often enough does have the makings of a myth,” I reasoned. “What does your gut tell you? Does it exist, or are we chasing a piece of fiction?”
Solara bit her lip as she pondered. “Anything is possible, but I think we would be aware of at least one being who has used one if that’s the case.
They could be keeping their identities a secret like we plan to do when we get older, but I have to believe at least one ultra-powerful wizard would brag about it. ”
“Wizards do like to brag.”
“That they do.”
“If you had the option to use a phylactery, would you still want to?” I asked. “Knowing what you know about our situation and our enemies, I mean.”
“Yes,” she answered without hesitation. “I would do anything to stay by your side.”
“Alright. I’m fine with a phylactery that forces my soul to hitchhike, but I don’t want to be conscious while I wait for that to happen.”
“I agree completely.”
“Good. Move forward with that in mind.”
“I hope to find a less arduous solution, but the phylacteries we know about require you to be the one who transfers your soul.”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“We can’t just cast a spell and be done.
We have to make the container, and then you have to impart your soul into it.
The methods we know the most about are composing a symphony or writing a book.
If someone plays the music or reads the book all the way to the end, they can choose to accept your soul as a passenger. ”
“We both know I’m not writing a symphony,” I said. “How much writing do I have to do?”
Solara took a deep breath before answering. “Several thousand pages, and it has to represent who you really are. It doesn’t have to be a total life story, but we do have to fill every page.”
I winced. “I suppose I should have expected preserving my soul for eternity would take some work. Keep a few scholars on the ultimate phylactery research just in case, but we can put our focus on the partials.”
“Yes, Master.” Solara hesitated. “Ashley has been wanting to speak with you, but she’s worried about being an annoyance when you need to focus.”
“Do you know what about?”
“Her wedding.”
Of my closest treasures, Ashley was the only one who hadn’t picked what she wanted to do as our marriage ritual and was, therefore, the only one who was still mortal.
She wasn’t on a deadline, and the offer to grant her the Touch of Abyssal Undeath didn’t have an expiration date, but Abaddon had shaken my confidence to the point that I assumed she had changed her mind.
As if reading my thoughts, Solara knelt between my legs and rested her head on my thigh. She closed her eyes to savor the comfort.
“I think about our victories a lot,” Solara said, still not opening her eyes.
“They all hurt in some way, didn’t they?
Even back in Lopav, before you and I met, you told me Purity’s father nearly cooked you to death with Holy magic when an ice demon tried to kill you.
I remember nursing you back to health after a similar experience in Flowst with an archfiend.
You’ve been beheaded twice, and you lived with a sorceress actively infecting your mind.
That had to be nonstop suffering for you. ”
I didn’t have a response.
Without moving, Solara said, “You taught me that pain can be pleasure. I know everything hurts so much right now, but I know in my heart that there is pleasure on the other side. This is the moment where the Holy magic is raining down on you. It’s a miserable kind of suffering that makes death seem like a gift.
You keep fighting because you know your enemy can’t endure what you can.
They fall, and you come out the other side. ”
She opened her eyes and looked up at me. They sparkled beneath the magic light of Sanctuary South.
“We win if you hold on to who you are. Byron of Zaglis doesn’t die here. As long as he’s in this fight, everything will turn out okay.”