Zeroth Moment: My Cheat Skill Is Stupid, So I'll Just Ignore It

The glowing, hungry form of the Arch-Lich wavered slightly, then began to drift towards Topher; he risked a glance backward and saw that both Kelfir and Varissian were surrounded by grayish-colored skeletons, rising endlessly from the solid stone of the floor. Crap. How can he do that without any magic?

As he watched, Varissian swept a hand around himself, stumbling backwards; his face was a mask of pure terror, but he stammered out runes nonetheless. Flames danced forth -- golden, swan-shaped clouds of incandescent fire -- and melted several of the creatures, but new ones sloughed out of the stone just as quickly.

That's a lot more effective than your typical an unaugmented Flame Jet, the distant part of his mind observed, but Topher had bigger problems at the moment. "The Old Archmage guy is a lich now!" he shouted over his shoulder, turning back towards his own opponent; the Arch-Lich was reaching a long, sharp-clawed hand towards his face with luxurious slowness, and crackling green lightning was beginning to form atop its bony palm. "And he's cheating by using magic within an antimagic field!"

"It is likely a Skill!" Kelfir shouted back; he brought his hands up high, then swept them down and shouted a word of power. Golden, scything blades crashed down in a huge X, devastating half the room and destroying most of the skeletons, but more continued to pour forth. "If you cannot defend us, we must flee!"

Hell with that, Topher snarled to himself. Bending down, he picked up a rock off the floor and hefted it, glaring at the undead creature before him. "One chance, skippy. Back off, or get rocked."

The Arch-Lich paused; then there was another desiccated, malicious chuckle, and it reached out for him again.

"I warned you." Topher shrugged, then tossed the rock into the air.

As soon as it left his palm, he began calculating; he pulled the rock to him, but via a circuitous route that wound behind and around him. As it spiraled around the room, picking up speed, he adjusted and tweaked his Attraction to it fluidly, accelerating it more and more rapidly with each passing fraction of a second.

Logically, Topher knew that the amount of damage an ordinary rock could do to such a creature was limited; no matter how fast he accelerated it, the air resistance would multiply linearly as his force increased, and Arch-Liches were probably immune to non-magical weapons anyway. But he knew that, despite the antimagic, his Skills would still work; and so, as the rock screamed through the air so rapidly that the gusts of its passage tore the air from Topher's lungs, he slipped back into Metaphrasty. Only for a moment -- just long enough for a single tweak -- but it would be more than enough. Deftly, he transposed the velocity of the rock with the value of his Rank B Mathematics skill.

The result was impressive.

The rock's power abruptly ceased to be a function of physics and abruptly became an expression of raw, primal force; it ceased its twisting trajectory and slammed directly into the undead creature like a ten-ton hammer. Instantly, the Arch-Lich exploded, scattering bones and bluish lightning in every direction as it was cast back against the rear wall in a shockwave of pure destruction; the wall did not collapse, but it shuddered worryingly and the rest of the dungeon quaked in sympathy. Topher sucked in a breath, hoping he wasn't about to kill them all -- shit, would I even die? Or just spend eternity in pain as the rock continuously juiced me? Christ, I did not think this plan through.

But his luck held; the rear wall quivered, then settled, as dust rained down everywhere. Topher scowled, then turned around to check on the others again; all the skeletons appeared to be dead now, although he wasn't sure if it was because the Dysfunctional Duo had destroyed them all or if they'd perished with the Arch-Lich. "I think you guys can come in now," he commented, brushing the dust off his suit. "Rock beats undead elves."

Kelfir was the first to step through, cautiously; but whatever force had annihilated his Wyrd previously seemed to have dissipated, and he entered the room without incident. Varissian followed him, looking disheveled; one of his eyes was swelling shut, and his hair was wild as though he'd been dragged across the floor at some point. "How," he commented warily, "did you manage to defeat an Arch-Lich without magic?"

Topher shrugged. "You said Skills worked. Metaphrasty is a Skill."

"Indeed." Kelfir frowned. "Its expressions, however, are arcane in nature; clearly you could not have created a Wyrd. I suspect, as usual, that you are not telling me everything; however, that is hardly our primary concern at the moment." He looked around. "I do wish you had been more restrained; it would be unfortunate if the information we are here to retrieve were destroyed in the battle to secure it."

"Yeah, like rain on your wedding day." Topher shook his head, then bent down to examine some of the debris; a few of the bones were still quivering, with occasional bluish sparks cascading across them. He watched them for a few moments, alert for another attack, but they eventually stilled; belatedly, he also noticed he couldn't perceive the Arch-Lich's status any longer. Guess I really did take him out in one attack. Best way to do it, I guess. He turned to Varissian and gave him a thumbs-up. "Great work back there, by the way. I couldn't have done that at Level 11."

Varissian blinked, then looked downwards and mumbled something; when he looked back up to meet Topher's eyes, his gaze was full of fear. "I am Level twenty-five now, Christopher." Shuffling to a wall, he put his back against it and slid to the floor, then wrapped his arms around his knees and buried his face in them." My father did not attain this level until well into his third century; this is simply too much for me."

"Oh, right." Topher put his chin in his hand and pondered. "I guess you probably did Level up from the rats and the mummies, too."

"I believe," cut in Kelfir, "that locating information that may defend us against the True Demon Lord is of greater importance than my son's one-eighth-life crisis." He flapped a hand at Varissian dismissively. "On your feet, Orinor. You have convinced me that you are capable; now you must suffer the consequences." But, despite everything, Topher glimpsed a sly smile on his lips, and a twinkle of pride in his eyes. This fucker. Elves, I swear to God.

Varissian heaved a very great sigh, then struggled to his feet; listlessly, he began to pick at the debris and rubble. "I am at a loss to understand what good I can do. I know nothing of Archmagus Venvaris' period of history, much less the specific sort of artifacts we seek."

Dimly, a thought trickled through Topher's mind. "Whatever it is, it's technically valuable to us," he said slowly, flexing his fingers. "If this was a wrecked kitchen, and I told you somebody had dropped a gold coin in here, how would you find it?"

Varissian frowned; then, extremely reluctantly, he began to scoop and sift the rubble in a more organized fashion. "Your implication," he commented flatly, "that my Scullion Class can be used for such purposes is insulting in the extreme." Suddenly, his hand closed on something, and he lifted it up; it was a small, dented metal box, with an ornate lock on its lid and brass hinges. "Oh, by the All-Forest."

"Might want to check your Status," Topher chortled as he pulled the box into his hand with Attract Object. Summoning his Stylus, he spun it about ten times, then pointed it at the lock. "Iss Ib Om Ijto," he pronounced, and the box opened with a loud click; meanwhile, Varissian said something very rough-sounding which caused Kelfir to raise an eyebrow. Ooh, the good Elvish profanity. Topher smirked. "Anything you want to tell us?"

Varissian's expression could have soured milk. "I now possess the Skill Sift. It is good to know that after risking my life repeatedly, I have acquired the implication that I am a sticky-fingered trashmonger, in addition to being a domestic lackey." Topher laughed, opening the box; inside was a small black square of cloth, folded many times. His Detect Status Skill instantly triggered, popping up another window above the box's contents:

Item: Portable Hole

Topher frowned. "'Portable Hole'? What is this, the prehistoric elf version of a Fleshlight?"

"I do not understand your reference, as usual," Kelfir muttered, gently plucking the cloth from the box, "but your tone of voice implies that I am fortunate in that regard." Laying it down carefully on a flat section of the floor, he swept the area clean around it, then began to unfold it; as he did so, Topher abruptly recognized it as the weird type of Magic Bag that Rudo kept his cabinet of weapons in. Oh damn, this might be where Venvaris kept his important shit.

The Archmage rummaged around for a few moments, then withdrew a hefty tome; it was haphazardly constructed, with loose notes and scribbles crammed around and over every page. He leafed through it for a moment, muttering to himself, then froze. "Christopher, what would you say the odds are that Archmagus Venvaris would have destroyed Orinor and myself, were you not present?"

"Probably a hundred percent," Topher admitted. "You're both pretty strong, but there's not a lot you can do against an antimagic field; both of you have Unique Skills that just alter your magecraft."

Kelfir nodded grimly. "I concur; I suspect that we have once again sidestepped a gambit meant to remove me from the board." He closed the book and clutched it absently to his chest; Topher noticed that his hands were shaking, very slightly. "I am not certain how many more I can bear."

"Buddy, that's the point," Topher groaned. "I don't know if you've noticed, but something like half the plots the True Demon Lord has thrown at us have been targeted at you specifically, all the way back to Hana." He blinked. Shit. "I was probably put right in your path as far back as Orvale, come to think of it -- if I hadn't gotten lucky with Metaphrasty right when it counted, you'd have enslaved me, and the fallout from that would have prevented everything that happened afterwards."

"Excuse me?" croaked Varissian in strangled outrage, but Topher waved him away.

"Think it through," he urged Kelfir. "If you don't geas yourself, you probably would have burned out from sleep deprivation before the big battle, or gotten your brain turned inside-out by Irineth's Soulstone, or any other number of dumb ways to die. And that's not counting all the other times the True Demon Lord has tried to bait you, trick you into getting yourself killed, or trap you in a box with something that'll kill you. He's taken more shots at you than all the other Archmages -- shit, more than everybody else combined, as far as I can tell."

Kelfir looked puzzled. "But why? Archmage Aumraham is clearly more powerful in every way; likewise, Archmage Siukh is demonstrably more intelligent and skilled at spycraft. If anything, I am the least dangerous to him."

"I'm not so sure about that," Topher mused, vividly remembering Kelfir's pathetic, doomed last stand against Kalphegor. HEROES ALWAYS TASTE DELICIOUS. "I think you're the most dangerous to him; he can probably beat up Quint and outsmart Sahlerra, but there's something you can do he can't match." He hooked his thumb at Varissian smugly. "And I'm pretty sure I know what it is."

Kelfir frowned. "You are suggesting that my son is what the True Demon Lord fears?"

"Not him specifically. But what the two of you are capable of together, maybe." Topher glanced at the younger elf, then turned back to Kelfir. "In my world, there's a legend of a great king who begins life as a Scullion -- he draws a holy sword from a stone, and becomes so powerful that we still tell legends about him two thousand years later. And I can tell you, right now, that Varissian's spells are stronger than my spells, without any of the bullshit I have to do to make them good -- and he can't cast any spells that aren't combat magic. Is any of this starting to suggest something to you?"

Varissian gaped at Topher in confusion. "You... suggest that I am... some sort of battlemage?"

"Nah," Topher disagreed, shaking his head. "I'm saying you're a Scullion, Varissian. And Scullions are very good at taking out the trash." He smirked, then turned back to Kelfir. "Jokes aside, I don't know exactly what it is that you have that makes the True Demon Lord want you out of the picture so badly -- maybe it's because you're an elf, or because you have the power of Heart, or whatever. But I do know that you're the best hope we've got."

"It is possible," Kelfir replied slowly, "that it is because I can read Old Elven." He indicated the tome in his hand. "This is Archmage Venvaris' journal, where he kept his research notes and his findings within the Crypt. There is much to read -- I have not yet even glimpsed a fraction of its contents -- but already I believe that this is what we were meant to be prevented from finding."

"Oh?" Topher cocked his head. "What, does it have a Kill True Demon Lord spell in it?"

"It does, in fact, contain a few spells," Kelfir admitted, "but the notes near the beginning have already shaken me sufficiently. The Archmagus mentions, briefly and in passing, that Gorduin was entombed here after his defeat at the hands of the Infinite King." Kelfir met Topher's eyes, his expression ghastly. "By means of a lethal Edict."

"Oh, shit." Topher felt all the blood drain out of his face as the pieces clicked together. "The True Demon Lord is the Infinite King."