All of Archmund’s magic surged into his Ruby, into one final mighty Infrared Lance. It blasted down his mother’s face and torso, burning her pallid skin. As she screamed, he drew his Gemstone sword and impaled his mother’s heart.

  And then Mercy was besides him, stabbing her everywhere. Gouging out chunks of flesh, piece by piece, even as his mother stared sadly at him and caressed his face one last time.

  “It’s not too late, Archmund. Accept my power, and I won’t leave you ever again…”

  He could feel the vortex of the Monster’s magic, tugging on his own. A choir of his ancestors sang to him, that he could be one with them, one with the Granavale legacy, one with his blood and his purpose. The grandparents he didn’t remember, their grandparents, a line stretching to the very first Granavales.

  Very deliberately he forced his power into his sword. A sword’s purpose was to cut and kill, not to accept an offer.

  This would be a shortcut to power. Mercy and the ghost agreed on that. But the ghost told him it would grant him the world, while Mercy warned him that it would trap him as he was now.

  “I could give you the far shores of Salamar. The woodlands of Eth Darel. The peaks of Gundarr. All of it could be yours.”

  His mother wrapped her hands around his head and kissed him on the brow. She react to Mercy gouging at her flesh. If she were to twist, she could snap his neck, but she seemed content to look at him with love in her eyes.

  He hated to admit it, but running the world as a tyrant seemed like a pain. Far better to have the power to put good people in places where they could make changes. And even then, Mercy’s warnings didn’t seem false.

  Was this really the right decision?

  Crystals caused Attunement and lock-in, difficulties with using other crystals, if they were mastered. Wouldn’t it be logical if becoming living crystal did the same with all of one’s goals and ambitions?

  “I love you, Archmund,” his mother said.

  No final attempts at persuasion. But now she showed pain. She winced as Mercy’s Gemstone daggers dug harder, and deeper, and closer to her core. And her magic grew wilder, more desperate, clinging harder and harder to his own.

  He could stop this, and save her, if he were to accept that magic.

  But if there was even the slightest possibility that taking this power would crystallize him as he was now — as a little boy who missed his mother, and who would rule over the kingdoms of the dead, and be one day slain by a brave adventurer — he could not take that risk.

  That was all. That was the reason.

  So he stood in place as Mercy gouged, and gouged, and gouged.

  Until his mother was no more.

  There was a story in a religious book from Archmund’s past life. There was a man named Jesus, who some called the Son of God. Jesus went into the desert. There, the Devil, who was the incarnation of supreme evil, offered him all the kingdoms of the world — a dark temptation to turn him from his purpose of salvation for the masses. And Jesus, because he was righteous and pure, turned the devil down.

  Goddess, he really was an egomaniac, wasn’t he? Comparing himself to Jesus Christ.

  He was so, so sad.

  “What was she, really?”

  “She was your mother,” Mercy said without hesitation.

  Archmund sat down, as if his knees were knocked out from under him.

  “So I just killed…”

  “No. You didn’t,” Mercy said, and her voice was gentle. “She was already dead. Everything pure and good about her was…”

  “How do you know?” Archmund said. “If it looked like her, and had her memories, how can you say it wasn’t her?”

  Mercy had no good answer for him.

  “I don’t know, Granavale. I’ve never much looked into the cycling of souls. But if we hadn’t done killed her, she would have remained here, as a spirit trapped within the Ghost of All Granavale. At least this way, she can move… on.”

  “You don’t think this is the last of her.”

  “That’s not what I think,” Mercy said a bit too abruptly. “But I mean, no one knows if the soul goes to one place once the body dies, or if it splits into many different pieces.”

  “How could you ever know?”

  Task #5: Figure out the nature of life and death.

  Task #6: Find where Mother’s soul really went.

  There was a banging on the barrier Mercy had erected between the manor hall and the Dungeon outside. Someone had awakened.

  Mercy collapsed the barrier with but a touch — now that Archmund thought about it, it was incredibly likely that barrier was literally her fingernail’s keratin — to see the terrified faces of Zankto, Wrest, Yald, and Vurl.

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  “Milord. Thank the goddess you’re alive!” Yald shouted.

  “The commander’s always survived things that would be practically suicide for anyone else,” Vurl said. “Looks like this time is no different.”

  “And Granavale, too,” Zankto said, his eyes widening with relief. “Oh, thank the goddess. I was so afraid this would mean paperwork.”

  “Glad to see you all too,” Mercy said, her voice clipped and dropping back down half an octave. “Unfortunately, there’s not left for you to claim here anymore.”

  “I can see that,” Zankto said, casting his gaze across the manor hall. The floor was littered with small, pearl-like raw Gems, very few of which Archmund had successfully kicked to the walls. There were a few rapiers and a few hand fans scattered around the room, a few usable pieces of Gemstone armor, and some useless rubber outfits.

  Abruptly Archmund felt overwhelmed.

  There was a great deal of wealth here, more than he’d seen in his entire life. He was at a disadvantage. He didn’t know how much any of this stuff was worth.

  “No Tier core,” Mercy said. “We had to tear the level master apart in order to save ourselves. It wasn’t a clean kill.”

  “And the allocation?” Zankto asked.

  “Even split,” Mercy said. “Archmund and I will work it out.”

  This was all jargon he didn’t understand.

  Could he even make use of the rapiers and the hand fans, or did he just want the raw, unshaped Gems?

  “Come on,” Mercy said, offering him a hand and pulling him to his feet. “We’re not done yet. I know that look on your face — you seem exhausted!”

  “Aren’t we done?” Archmund said. “We killed the boss. We should be done.”

  “Killed the boss. I guess that fits,” Mercy said. Oops. He’d let the gamer lingo from his past life slip out.

  “But no,” Mercy said. “We’re not done. The Upper Tier’s been subjugated, but we need to figure out where the gate to the Middle Tier is so we can reinforce it — and since this place is based on your ancestral home, I need you with me.”

  Archmund nodded. It really made a lot of sense. He hadn’t quite had the opportunity to play around with all of the secret passages of Granavale Manor, but he knew enough to see if they had echoes in this twisted mirror deep beneath the earth.

  “Plus, there’s definitely more spoils,” Mercy said.

  “More,” Archmund said flatly. He didn’t believe it.

  “Yes, more,” Mercy said, rolling her eyes and smirking. “You think a ghost that remakes its manor from life and offers you hundreds of luxuries wouldn’t make some for itself?”

  “I figured it was a trick,” Archmund said. “What need do the dead have for luxuries?”

  “To make them feel like they’re still alive, obviously.”

  The Grand Hall was the most flagrant mimicry of the true Granavale Manor, so far above them on the surface of the earth, but the rest of this part of the Dungeon was just similar enough to what Archmund knew. Atop the balcony there was a door to a grand sitting room, where his father often entertained guests; this funhouse mirror version of Granavale Manor had the same.

  He pushed ahead with no care in the world.

  The room was as he expected. A loveseat and two armchairs surrounding a low-lying coffee table. One side of the table was left open, so the host could stand and make wild, gesticulating speeches about how great they were or how nice it was to have guests. There was a landscape painting on the wall. In the true Granavale Manor, it was a map of the Omnio Empire. Here in the bowels of the earth halfway to the guts of hell, it was a picture of a black cone divided into nine layers.

  There was a rectangle made of shining Gemstone, light cerulean, lying on a side table just beneath the painting. It was the only obvious crystalline object in the entire room.

  “Granavale, wait just a second—” Mercy said, but he ignored her. The danger was past; he knew it in his bones. They had slain the only threat, the master of this domain, and it had worn the face of his mother.

  He touched the Gemstone tablet and almost stumbled back from shock. It was hungry — far hungrier than he had expected. It supped eagerly of his magic, drawing what little left remained in his reserve to fill its every crystalline facet with his essence, Attuning itself instantly to him.

  “Damn it!” Mercy shouted.

  Archmund lifted up the tablet and took a good look at it. Even though his legs were suddenly jelly and his vision was hazy, he read something that instantly made his blood run cold.

  Angelina Grace Marca Prima Omnio:

  Crown Princess

  "Mercy Stirpstridecim di Omnio"