Patricia Wilson
Stories
10
Chapters
3,347
Words
163.4 K
Comments
0
Reading
13 h, 37 m
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“So. Let’s get you started. What do you have as your first spell? Utility spell?” Teacher Merkovah asked. “Body Cultivation. The Meditations of Valentinian.” Truth replied, still confused by how fast things were moving. “Huh. I am both impressed and sorry for you.” The beardy exorcist looked surprised. “Impressed, because that is classically the “right” way to do things. At least on better-developed planets, I hear. Sorry for you because, really, the Meditations? Did you dig that out…-
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“I’m not buying anything and won’t sell anything for you!” Truth barked reflexively in Jeongo. He didn’t know why, but the short, beardy man with intense eyes gave off the scammer vibe he most vividly associated with his mother. The scammer looked at him and started slowly shaking his head. “Speaking in tongues. It’s already so progressed. I can only do my best. Yes, I can only do my best. Young man, do not despair, for God is great, and he hears the call of his children. Young man, do not…
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Truth woke to the sounds of hammering outside the hotel. He had faintly hoped for more screaming from the System, but you can’t have everything. Worth investigating why his body could torture the System, but… it would just have to go on the big heap of “Things Truth Does Not Understand.” Sooner or later, the mountain would be worn down to nothing. That would be a good day. Truth frowned. He was so tired; he didn’t cultivate yesterday. Of course, he could cultivate any time, and believing that…
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Acid started raining down over the front of the garage, hissing and spitting as it burned holes in the dirt. He could hear villagers yelling and metal clanking, somewhere between a chime and a drum. It started grumbling and rolling. The acid came down harder, eroding the edge of the building. Truth didn’t dare imagine the roof. He started racking his mind for countermeasures. His only ranged weapon was too short-ranged to be useful. The garage had a back door, but that made things worse, not better. He…
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Truth sat on a bench in the Agora. He had long since finished eating, but the two old bastards beside him were bickering like champions, and he couldn't bear to go. “We agree that it is best to live simply and modestly.” “We do.” “And that one should pursue virtue and not fear death.” “Yes, that too.” “So why is it that your whole philosophy is just stupid trash?” “Get fucked. At the most fundamental, basic level, pleasure comes from avoiding pain. That and enjoying what is…
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The tactical situation was very bad. Truth was standing out in what was essentially an open intersection. The nearest cover was two buildings fifty meters away, and everything else was… junk. Collapsing shacks, a steel bench covered with a corrugated metal roof, some road signs, a heap of bald tires, and more thorn bushes and trees than was good for his mental health. Nineteen bandits armed with acid bolters were fanned out around him, and the local goatherds were mostly on their knees or bellies in the…
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Truth woke with the dawn, feeling something skittering over his leg. He tried to shake it off, still half asleep. He felt something poke his ankle, then again. Not painful, really, but weird. He looked down. A small brown scorpion was trying to sting him. The stinger hit his skin and just bounced off. Tap, tap, tap. He gently picked it up off the ground and held it in his hand. No need for magic. Just picking up a scorpion and letting it freak out harmlessly on his hand. Ugly little thing. He couldn’t…
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Truth had learned his lesson the night before- he drove directly to the highway and stayed on the highway. He still couldn't read the signs but figured “Generally North-East” was manageable. And the numbers were the same, so B8 should be pretty recognizable, right? He had himself convinced for all of four seconds. “Thrush, do you know which way leads to the B8 Road?” “I do not, Master.” “Do you know what the sign for the B8 road looks like?” “I do, Master.” “When you see a sign…
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Entrance into the university was unexpectedly smooth. “I told him you were a wealthy overseas student here while your parents were working abroad,” Thrush said with as much cheer as it was capable of. “I am dressed in stolen gangster clothes, and my iron horse is missing pieces. Like most of the seat.” Truth looked dubious. “The clothes actually help sell the image of rebellious youth. The bike, I informed him, was purchased a week ago and deliberately destroyed by you to improve your…
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Truth coolly cataloged the guard in front of him. Wearing fatigues, no armor, cap with brim. No visible rank insignia. The fetish looks professionally made, and given the size and depth of the carvings on it, clearly intended to handle a high power throughput without disintegrating. Given that this is the Free State… military and imported. The spellhound… might not actually be a spellhound. The more he looked at it, the more he got the sense of a dog that was selectively enchanted and altered with…
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