Chapter 162: Furious Learning

Chapter 162: Furious Learning

In the end, it came down to survival.

I dithered and bit over the Otherworld schema options for far longer than I wanted to; this was my fourth choice, all new, and I wouldn't let myself just rush into a bad choice because of how shiny it was. Shoth's dead-man sprint had taught me that wouldn't work. Not anymore.

All of them were lovely and vicious and fanged and dangerous and, ultimately, similar to what I had. The corpsefarmer could be made from a shadowthief rat, so long as I obtained an alchemist to show the rodent what ingredients were critical to collect; the galactic hoverling provided mana and building materials, which I could devote more of myself to. Myconids were a shambling wreck of sapience and personhood, a force constantly building and growing, a combination of my thornwhip algae and kobolds—without a home for it. In a similar vein, the terrorbird was lovely and wonderful and hurt me to my bones not to pick—but I didn't have a floor for it, not yet. They hunted in jungles; maybe Nicau would find one, when I sent him out. But not now.

The only option that I couldn't make myself and didn't require a specific home was the restorative aloe.

Veresai had caught Kriya under a geas just to have a healer. And now I could provide one to all my creatures intelligent enough to use it—and, perhaps, start one of my other goals; teaching them to work together. Considering how mana-intensive I imagined this schema would be, I would only be able to create limited amounts of it; and if everyone wanted to use it, they would have to coordinate.

In another world, I could see it going like it had with the ironback toads and burrowing rats up in the Drowned Forest, creating a society of backstabbers and betrayal and extortion, but this time I would muscle in and make sure everyone coordinated. I had nearly been enslaved today, and if that happened, all my creatures would be either killed, broken, or cut down for mere gold. I would tell them this. I would show them how vital it was to play together.

With that in mind, I allowed the schema of restorative aloe to flow through me.

Its mana was dark and cool, filling my mind with the impression of emerald green spikes from pale soil, water beading on the edges, spines from the tip—and potential. So much potential. To heal all my creatures not just when an invasion had finished, but throughout every day. A way to survive. A way to be better.

A way to crush every stupid fucking invader who thought they could waltz into my dungeon and take my core.

And speaking of—with all my distractions decided, mana thrumming through my core and straining at the edges of my pool, I let my points of awareness flick up and up; to a creature and a corpse, the last of the choices I had to make.

Up in the Jungle Labyrinth, stuck between the grasping arms of thornwhip algae, what remained of a boy laid sprawled over the stone, hands outstretched and rumpled clothing cut loose by mandibles. Over him, with two broken legs and hemoglobin seeping through the cracks in its chitin, was a webweaver.

The webweaver I had chosen to be a priest for Nenaigch; the one I had pumped full of mana, stuffed to the brim of its very channels, in an attempt to make it better than it was. And now, it was glowing with evolution, light thundering over its black eyes.

Gnat was studded with bitemarks; little things, because webweavers were built for stationary combat, sitting on their communal webs until prey came to them. Their venom was strong, yes, considering how Gnat was twisted through death, but they weren't built for attacking.

If anything, that was more power to the webweaver, for overcoming its nature to kill him.

I let my points of awareness spread over the tunnel, examining the scene; I'd been a touch distracted with Alda and Azkhal's groups to focus on this death, but thankfully, the webweaver's thoughts and memories flowed over its mind with a passion. It had felt what it called as the wrongness, a spider-woven person that wasn't supposed to be, and pursued it; hunted it down, at great risk to its own life, and killed him. Gnat had been... initially helpful? Or something, it was hard to parse through the webweaver's thoughts, but Gnat had wanted to establish a trade of something.

In return, my lovely webweaver had lunged at him, ignored its bodily injuries, and bitten him until dead.

It had done what I needed; and, of course, with extreme devotion to me. While I was interested in what Gnat was here for, I couldn't afford to just let him do it, when there was a chance of my enslavement on the page. Perhaps his soul would reveal things.

And if it didn't, so be it. I would lose that knowledge in return for life.

Equally in return, for his corpse.

I wanted a priest—and I wanted one with more to do than feast on flies and nibble on stuck prey. A human's intelligence and a spider's loyalty. And much like my beloved vampiric dryad of time before, while I could just look at the evolution options available, I wanted to try my hand at something more deliberate. Something sharper.

And so I pushed soothing mana into the webweaver, straightening out its broken legs and replenishing its hemoglobin, and then I reached out to the goddess whose power soared through these halls.

Almost immediately, I felt Nenaigch respond, her iron-thread awareness spidering down to mine. She paused for a second—maybe sensing Rhoborh, who still hadn't pulled his miserable mind out of my dungeon considering Aedan was stuck gibbering down in the Hungering Reefs—before settling overhead, peering down at what I had to offer.

Which, to be fair, wasn't much, but I could spin a lovely story when it came down to it. I let my mana spread out over the tunnel, flickering over the edges of the corpse, his hands outstretched and froth through his lips. And the webweaver, crouched on top, its mind awash with satisfaction.

A change, I said, soft and subservient and all other moronic things I had to be when interacting with deities. Would you accept them both as a follower?

Nenaigch leaned in. She had a hunger to her, more than her making; I wondered, not for the first time, how long she had been the Goddess of Weaving. It felt like there was something more to her; an explanation about her origins that didn't line up with her worship now. With Nuvja, far up in the Fungal Gardens, I rather understood her, as a goddess whose power had been stripped away from her; but Nenaigch was different. Something else.

And whatever it was, she had asked for followers, and I was offering her something more.

Yes, she said back, an iron-thread spool twisting over our connection. I accept.

Phenomenal! Now I just needed her to do more than accept.

With my mana, all seventy-five points and the excess I was shoving into my creatures as fast as possible to avoid losing out on too much, I draped it over the corpse and the creature; the webweaver shuddered as the full force of my awareness draped over it, sinking into the follicles of its mind. Gnat's corpse and soul, still trapped under pale skin, waiting in death as I carved myself around him.

I stiffened.

Hells, I'd forgotten about that.

Dungeons could only go so deep on their own; as my core moved further below, so did my ambient mana, so did my power. My first floor would be a barren wasteland, all creatures starved, for all it was still under my influence; but Nuvja kept it supplied, kept the ambient mana full. Rhoborh did the same, as did all my other patrons.

That was why they were worth it, even more than their boons. Why I had to keep fucking demeaning myself to offer floors to these wretched deities overhead.

Rhoborh leaned in, pushing over Aedan, reaching out to me with a gentle pulse of mana. I am sorry, he said, with this dreadful apology that felt genuine enough I wanted to kill him. He was betrayed—but I have no desire to see you chained. As much as I stopped your dryad, I would have stopped him; he would not take your core.

He was betrayed? Was Rhoborh taking all his thoughts and energy to focus on poor, sad Aedan, who had somehow trusted a pointy-toothed asshole in Shoth, and was so surprised he had been a traitor? That was who deserved attention? Who deserved mercy?

I am sorry, Rhoborh said again.

My mana roiled like a thunderstorm. I didn't want sympathy. I wanted someone to attack. And considering Shoth was already dead, Rhoborh was my next best option.

It was worse that he seemed to understand that, and even moreso that he accepted it. That he was allowing me to scream and shout and rage at him, because he knew that I needed it. I needed to be angry so I wouldn't be scared.

This asshole. I hated that. I hated being understood.

He will leave, Rhoborh said, quieter now. Allow him to leave your halls, and he will never return; and know that any of my priests cannot claim you. Their power is my power; them I hold. Even if they betray me, if they forsake my name, then I will use my mana to end them before they take you.

Well. That was so kind of him. So fucking merciful to just– say I wasn't in danger. Say I wasn't at risk of being enslaved.

Let him leave, Rhoborh said, again and again, like I wasn't getting it, and then disappeared from my halls. Faded away, the redwood scent of his power drifting up to that nameless world, back to the lingering awareness he only had in the Drowned Forest and over Aedan—gone. Not threatening me, not stopping me. Back to normal.

I slowly, slowly, allowed my mana to dissolve. To drift away, unthreatening, taking the strength of my fury with it until I could think again.

Okay. Okay.

I wasn't happy. I doubted I ever would be, while the gods kept poking their wretched noses into my halls and pretended like they gave a shit about me—but that had been informative. Furious as I was and would continue to be, I had learned.

Rhoborh was, in accordance to the pact we'd signed before that unknowable god, completely in his rights; he protected his priest, didn't interfere otherwise, and made me agree to release his priest like a mouse from a trap. Did it matter that Aedan wasn't in the fucking Drowned Forest when he played his cards? Apparently not. All my dungeon was the same when it came to protected priests.

But he had also taught me things he likely hadn't wanted to.

The most important was that I could break our pacts. That if I wanted to, that if my relationship with a god ever deteriorated to an unsustainable point, then I could just—wave them away. Pry their control from my halls and rid them out. And, more notably, that they didn't want this to happen; they wanted their connection.

And that made me think of Nuvja, of our changed agreement; and of Nenaigch, with our Haven and priest. So it wasn't an established fact, an unchangeable thing to be obeyed. I could do more. I could demand more, in return for greater abilities.

...particularly from those who needed floors more badly.

Nuvja was much dethroned from her previous strength. Abarossa had needed me to reconnect with her merrow. Mayalle had no priests compared to her more powerful brother. Rhoborh was unknown to nearly all. Nenaigch was followed by none. Only Khasvar was popular in any way, and if I tried to threaten him, I imagined he would just pull out and leave me rudderless.

But the others—the others needed me. They needed me more than I needed them.

There was nothing I could do at the moment, no deal I could threaten with them already safely in my halls; but for the future, I would not be accepting the basic, miserable deal that came with chains under the surface. I wanted more. I would refuse to have anything but more.

And if that meant I had to go to weaker deities, like the goddess of fireflies who had been trying for floors now, so be it. I mostly needed them to hold my floors stable; I would take a weaker boon if they no longer could command me.

Interesting. Very interesting.

I took those thoughts and buried them; shoved them under the marrow of my mind so that no one else could read them, dissolved them down to little more than plans for my changing floors. Time to shove Aedan out of my dungeon—perhaps Nicau could escort him out on his way to the jungle—and then dig my fangs into the stone of my halls to remake them, to recreate them, to be better.

But I would remember this.