Bits of dust trailed under Luke's feet on the road toward the Ruined Realm. The twisted trees still failed to produce any leaves. Necrotic fool marked spiders were strewn like trash across the faded trail. Previous hunters must've encountered them before Luke, much to Xera's chagrin.

"I liked the squish sound they make. Crunchy critters," She said.

Sooty soared up high above, preferring to take in the free sky. Whispering Tome lazily floated behind its Reaver, a silent aura muffled sound in the atmosphere. The sun rose on its way up to its zenith, but its rays offered no warmth. Being what he was, Luke preferred the cold anyway. Taking his time, Luke sorted out additional notices in the Interface.

[The Concept of Greed has partially been revealed to you during the second ascension. It colors your techniques. Greater understanding may allow it to elevate your class abilities]

Speaking of abilities…

[Withering Echo has advanced from Rank I, to Rank III from your extended battle against a high tier enemy]

When it rains, it pours, except in this case, it rained good things for once. He pulled up the Heart Tab in the Interface to review the details of the Spectral Heart. Some stayed the same, but he read over all of it anyway, as most changed from reaching tier 2.

[Reaver's Spectral Heart]

An exalted heart adapted to an elemental body. The bearer of this heart enjoys several advantages over the unachieved.

Spectral Adaptation: The exalted heart adapts the body, imbibed by the blood of the most ascended foe the Reaver has slain. Permanently increases the Reaver's limit of stat steal—current expanded limit 8%.

Imbibed blood of a tier 3 level 75 Sovereign creature. Modifier increases based on tier of imbibed blood.

Grants the Active Ability: [Frostfall Reave] (Tier 2)

Frostfall Reave III: An aura of frost blasts out the Reaver within a close range. Allies within range receive a duplicated 10% of the Reaver's stats. Amplified by Reaver's Link for Companion. Enemies in the aura receive a 10% reduction in magical and physical power. Generates additional ambient frost compared to Tier 1, ability now affects higher tier opponents at a reduced effectiveness. Will interrupt much higher tier enemies momentarily. Essence regeneration reduced by 30% during use. Lasts Twenty seconds.

Evolves automatically through tier. Unable to upgrade through skill points.

Cooldown: 1 hour

Stolen Talent III: Increases talent with mastery and usage of Essence, including learned techniques—advances per tier.

Expanded Greed II: Stat-steal now works on the special stats of hostile targets at a much lower rate. Higher rate of theft than Expanded Greed I.

Spectral Bloom: As the Exalted Heart bearer blooms, it enables a chance to steal relevant understanding and knowledge from a hostile creature for their growth, or intimate need, at an extremely low rate. May only ever activate once per target in their lifetime. Chances slightly increase per tier.

The Spectral Heart naturally resists divine influence, illusions, fear, horror, and other mind control effects, due to its spectral origin.

Taking the far left of the path to avoid slowing down other hunters more in a hurry than him, Luke compartmentalized the changes.

Spectral Adaptation remains unchanged as expected. Frostfall Reave lasts longer. Gives less of a penalty to essence generation during its activation period. Finally acknowledged its previously unwritten ability to interrupt people well above me.

The Reaver shouldered into a tree by accident, too absorbed in the synthesis of information. The unlucky plant had a chunk of its wood taken out as Luke kept moving, a dull pain the only mark of collision. Flicking off the wood shards, he chugged along, both physically and mentally.

Stolen Talent and Expanded Greed upgraded their baseline ability without any twist. Spectral Bloom…

Imagining the sheer implications of what that ability might be able to do made his incorporeal heart race in anticipation. It required luck on his side, but most importantly, it offered an entirely different avenue and path to the Reaver. One Iona couldn't have foreseen when she made the suggestion at the meadow.

Oh, he'd grown alright. Into a greedy blizzard not even he knew the true capabilities of anymore. If the Reaver understood how often it could activate or what exactly it could gift? Then the entire path changed. Would it be possible to fight whoever dwelled in that tower at the Pyrite estate, and steal the knowledge of where his dad went?

Iona once said you couldn't rip knowledge directly from someone's mind. Well, as it turned out, within specific parameters, Luke developed a feasible, albeit chance-based method. Other obstacles stood tall, like figuring out if it could steal knowledge that specific, or if he could manipulate what was stolen. As for chance, the Reaver wasn't above torturing a target at the edge of life with stat-steal until Spectral Bloom triggered.

…He might've become a little evil without noticing. Ruthless worlds create ruthless people. And damned if Ludus wasn't one.

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Bits of arctic winds rushed around the elemental. A banshee that grew too big for its britches was sliced apart into dead cloth scraps. Picking them up wasn't worth the effort. Taking the turn required to head toward the rotting, floating door deeper in the twisted forest, the Reaver paused once there. The door creaked with each movement. Black aura pulsed around it.

Nothing of that accustomed to normalcy stopped him. To fulfill Authoria's final request required entering that door. Various groups stood outside, leaning against the trees. That was highly unusual. Often, people acted like layabouts in the foyer room between the Vampiric and Spectral Wing, not out here at the dungeon entrance. No familiar faces either, so Luke had to do things the hard way and introduce himself to someone else to figure out what the holdup was.

Right as he started to walk up to a relatively friendly-looking group, he asked for a rundown after a short greeting. They gave him an odd look, which Luke understood quite well. In short, 'Why is someone like you here?' Saying he came to help out a long-dead banana ghost that hopefully gave a reward worth the effort didn't sound entirely believable. When faced with social trouble, one trick worked in a situation like this. Act shameless. Say something unbelievable yet more likely than the truth.

"I came to hit on hot elf girls." The words sounded so absurd and unlike Luke that he barely kept a straight face.

Considering three out of the five hunters in this group happened to be elf women. The other two elf men…well. The Reaver quickly obtained sufficient Expert mastery in the technique of thick skin, throwing them off balance. Eldacar would be proud, or probably join in.

"Come again? Did I hear you correctly?" One elf woman, blushing slightly, said.

"Nope, you didn't. I'd like to know why everyone is outside the typical foyer room meeting spot, though." Luke blinked slowly, deadpanned in seriousness. Even the other elves started to think they misheard. More interested in getting rid of this odd human than anything else, the same woman answered.

"Since the Silver Black Tower is draining the negative ether powering the dungeon, the monsters inside are going haywire. Spawning many times the typical rate, plenty of us are forced to wait out here, as even the foyer isn't safe."

Curiosity sated, Luke put an arm out. Sooty landed on it. Whispering Tome caught up, revolving between both sides of Luke's lower back. He waved in thanks silently as he entered the rotting door to the Ruined Realm.

"What's someone like Defier Luke doing here?"

"Cleaning up the dungeon, maybe?"

"Since when did he reach tier 2? And what's the suffocating feeling around him?"

"By the Founding Four, if I know, Defiers never made sense to me."

The majority of the party leaders waiting outside in recovery nodded in unison, finding something to agree on.

Rotating spheres of blood sucked in the vitality left in the broken town of Kelser. Out of the three Tides sent to the pantry lands, Yuriel led the smallest to the Duchy. The least populated herding zone. An acrid tang pervaded the air in layers, blood, iron, rotting corpses. Flies. Always flies, nesting in the entrails of the mortals.

As expected of the uncivilized eating or consumption methods. His unenlightened Tide members gorged themselves mindlessly. That portion comprised of monster recruits found in the Midlands, or the Edgelands. The fodder mustered were often enraged beasts. Yuriel refused to consider them under the same umbrella as any of the blessed. Tools, feasting on easy victory up until now.

He lightly brushed a pale finger across the face of a beautiful woman, by human standards, with red hair and blue eyes. She carried the faint fluctuations belonging to the less integrated transfers as the four races coined them. An oddity the remaining Pantries used to delay their demise. To Yuriel's chagrin, the method was effective. The mechanism extended the struggle between sides this long. Fangs slick with blood, Yuriel asked, "Tell me of this…Earth? Do they have beings like God Succoria there?"

Color left the woman's already pale face. She stammered, "N-no, Lord Yuriel. On Earth, we have no magic. Monsters—" Yuriel shot an intense glare, the red haired woman corrected herself. "I mean, superior races that stem from the gods like Succoria are legends there. Fairy tales. Earth is unworthy of such grace."

Tapping his chin, Yuriel's white eyes rimmed with gold seemed to inspect something beyond the vision of others. His wings, feathered black and teal, spread out, casually batting aside a feral scaled frog attempting to swallow the woman whole. His smile—far too wide for his face—only heightened fear in others, no matter how he styled it. One of the rare few things the Apostle failed at.

"An interesting, if desolate, realm you come from. You will make a fine present to the highest holy, Succoria. First, a taste." He sank his teeth into the woman's nape. Yuriel recoiled. Scowling, he spat out the blood like it contained trash.

Other beasts took this chance to feed on the woman, hoping the unlikely survivor was available to feast on. A tier 2 Darkscaled Whelp, empowered by the recent thread of the Ichor blessing, snapped its jaws. Coiling its tail around the woman's legs, it pulled, dragging her along, causing the redhead to scream.

Snapping his fingers, Yuriel said in detest, "Where are my Diplomats and Envoys? This shall be the last interruption to my chat. Ruffians lacking self-awareness are of little importance."

A titanic monster, easily eighteen feet in size, barely managed to enter into Kelser's former town hall. He snatched the Darkscaled Whelp, crushing the creature apart with raw strength, ignoring its confused screeches. The woman, spared once more, fell onto the blood-slick wooden ground. Entrails squished under her body, padding the drop. She retched, horrified to land on the guts of her deceased husband. Finally broken, the woman sobbed, unwilling to answer anything else. Life was worse than death to her. What was there left to live for? This Tide took them all away.

"These beasts, controlled by the hunger." The monster spoke, moving the black fur on its face, unveiling jagged yellow teeth. "They forget the purpose is to gather tribute to the five."

"Proper terms, Diplomat Zeen." With the toy broken, Yuriel casually drained it of all blood, adding to the enormous blood spheres behind him. The red haired woman joined her gnawed on husband in death as a dried husk.

"The Godkings, Apostle Yuriel, I meant no disrespect." The titan of a monster sat outside the entryway, swatting aside any beasts that gave into the Tidal rage, often to grotesque bursting effect.

"Good, be that we are beholden to different masters, it falls to me, the Banner Holder, to rouse this rabble together. Gathering a proper Tribute has been a perplexing matter. Round the offerings. Should any of them be harmed, the punishment will fall upon you, then to any who dared to covet what belongs to the Godkings."

Standing up, the titanic monster, Diplomat Zeen, lumbered off in the ruins of Kelser. He squished any minor beasts on the way. His deep voice rumbled into the town hall, "None of the true followers desire to partake in those reserved for the Tribute, Apostle Yuriel."

Cries echoed in the distance. Cut short by the sickening crunch of teeth or ripping of claws. Music to Yuriel's ears. The inferior races played a soothing high high-pitched sympathy, and while he never partook in the direct consumptions, some of them contained delightfully tasty blood. With the fun and games over, Yuriel started a basic head count for the portion of the Tide anticipated to stay behind at the Third Pantry's shield city, Sylen.

"Nine Diplomats should do," He snatched a nail against the silver throne arm, producing a wonderful screech. Another of Yuriel's favorite noises, he shuddered in bliss. An insight struck him. "Too lenient, those unholy Defiers." Yuriel gnashed his teeth, the blood orbs bubbled, turning the hall into a twister of blood, bone, and bile. Yuriel's oldest scar, one that he purposely left unhealed as a reminder, invoked the image of a swordsman he encountered there in a previous Tide.

"Musai. With these measures, your guardianship over the fattest sheep ends this round." Yuriel revised the typical strategy advised by previous Apostles. Sixty five percent going to Sylen? If not for the Godkings' commandment to terrorize the inner valley, he'd force every last wave onto the Bastion City. Still, the Apostle was allowed a certain measure of choice in the matter. He redistributed the portion set aside to besiege Sylen, using the banner link that attached to any Envoy or Diplomat under his command.

"Fourteen Diplomats, over a hundred Envoys, and an uncountable number of fodder." Summoning his favorite goblet, golden Ichor swirled within it, Yuriel savored a taste. A missive, sent by the Sacrament, inferiors faithful enough to realize the one true way, informed Yuriel of the particulars within Sylen, the next target. A day's march from here, once the Tide finished its last meal.

"An estimate of under fifty tier 3 well-developed sheep. A few hundred of those lessers at tier 2." He paused. "Nine Defiers? The report from three weeks ago indicated eight." Yuriel's blood orbs exploded in outrage, the spurts burst through the windows, and collapsed the town hall. Skimming over further detail, Yuriel's emotions softened. "A novice Defier, no consequence then." A trace of uncertainty left Yuriel's mouth before he could suffocate it, betraying the deeper subconscious emotion.

That old sword scar started to ache.

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