Two weeks passed in a routine that would have driven a lesser being to madness. Morning drills with Julius's soldiers, watching them practice techniques that were laughably primitive. Afternoons studying the growing collection of documents about supernatural occurrences. Evenings observing the city from my tower, cataloguing the patterns of human suffering.
The Behelit sat on my desk, inert but watchful. Sometimes I caught myself staring at it, wondering if it was staring back. The features never moved, but that sense of awareness never faded either.
Julius had been sending me on occasional tasks. A bandit camp to clear here, a border dispute to resolve there. Simple work that barely qualified as exercise. But it kept me embedded in his power structure, maintained the fiction that I was his hired blade rather than an independent force that tolerated his authority.
It was during one of these mundane excursions that everything changed.
The task was straightforward: investigate reports of increased Tudor activity near the border, assess whether it was a genuine military buildup or simply nervous patrols. Julius wanted intelligence before committing his own forces. I'd agreed because the location was near an area where supernatural incidents had been reported. Two objectives for the price of one.
I traveled alone, covering ground at a pace that would have killed horses. The landscape shifted from civilized farmland to contested wilderness, where the war had stripped the earth bare and left only scars. Burned villages, abandoned fortifications, fields salted to deny the enemy resources.
This world's commitment to mutual destruction was almost impressive.
I reached the border region by midday, my enhanced senses immediately detecting the presence of organized military forces. Tudor soldiers, perhaps two hundred of them, conducting maneuvers in a valley below. But that wasn't what caught my attention.
There was another group. Smaller, perhaps forty men, moving with significantly better discipline. Mercenaries, by the look of their mixed equipment, but professional ones. They were positioned on a ridge overlooking the Tudor forces, clearly observing.
And leading them was someone interesting.
Even from this distance, I could see him clearly. Young, perhaps nineteen or twenty, with white hair that caught the sunlight. He moved with absolute confidence, gesturing to his men, pointing out positions. His bearing spoke of natural authority, the kind that made others follow without question.
But it was his eyes that caught my attention. Even at this distance, I could see the intelligence burning in them. The calculation. This was someone who saw several moves ahead, who planned while others merely reacted.
Intriguing.
I approached the mercenary position with no attempt at stealth. The sentries spotted me immediately, weapons coming up, challenges being called. The white haired leader turned his attention toward me, his hand moving to the sword at his hip.
"That's close enough," he called out, his voice carrying clearly across the distance. "Identify yourself. These are claimed lands, and we don't take kindly to observers."
I stopped at the edge of their perimeter, studying the formation. Good positioning, clear sightlines, escape routes planned. Whoever led these men knew their business.
"I'm not interested in your lands," I replied. "I'm observing the Tudor forces below. The same as you, apparently."
The white haired man's eyes narrowed, assessing me. I could see his mind working, cataloguing details. My exotic appearance, my lack of visible weapons, my complete absence of concern despite being surrounded by armed men.
"You're the one they've been talking about," he said after a moment. "The purple haired foreigner working for Count Julius. Kars, isn't it?"
"Accurate. And you are?"
"Griffith." He said the name with quiet pride. "Commander of the Band of the Hawk. And if you're working for Julius, then we're technically on the same side. Though I'm curious what brings one of his assets this far from Windham."
"The same thing that brings you, I imagine. Intelligence gathering. Julius wants to know if Tudor is planning something significant."
Griffith smiled slightly. "And what have you concluded?"
I looked down at the Tudor forces. "They're nervous. Patrol patterns are defensive, focused on watching rather than preparing to advance. Someone spooked them, made them worry about an attack. I'd guess that someone was you."
The smile widened. "Perceptive. We hit three of their supply convoys last week. They're expecting retaliation, don't realize we've already moved on to other targets." He gestured toward his men. "That's the advantage of mobility. Strike, fade, strike elsewhere before they can respond."
"Effective tactics," I acknowledged. "For primitives."
The comment drew sharp looks from several of the mercenaries. One of them, a massive man with a sword that looked more like a slab of sharpened metal, actually laughed.
"Did he just call us primitives?" the giant asked. "I like this guy. He's either brave or stupid."
"Both, probably," another mercenary said. This one was smaller, wiry, with the calculating eyes of someone who'd survived through cunning. "Look at him. Dressed like some kind of exotic dancer, no armor, no visible weapons. Either he's insane or he's dangerous."
"The second one," I said helpfully.
Griffith raised a hand, silencing his men. His eyes never left mine, that calculating intelligence working through possibilities. "Julius speaks highly of your abilities. Says you eliminated Ragnar's entire band single handedly. Is that true?"
"Yes."
"And that you killed an Apostle in his courtyard two weeks ago."
That made me pause. "Julius told you about that?"
"Julius and I have an arrangement. Information exchange, mutual benefit. He warned me there might be supernatural threats in the region, suggested I avoid provoking anything I couldn't kill." Griffith's smile turned sharp. "But he also said if I encountered you, I should treat you with respect. That you're something beyond normal understanding."
"Also accurate."
"Which brings me to a question." Griffith took a step closer, his hand still on his sword hilt but not threatening. "What are you, exactly? Not human, clearly. Some kind of advanced being? A demon wearing human skin? A god playing at mortality?"
I considered how much to reveal. This Griffith was clearly intelligent, potentially useful. But information was power, and I saw no reason to give it freely.
"I'm perfect," I said simply. "That's all you need to know."
"Perfect." Griffith tasted the word, his expression thoughtful. "That's either the truth or the most elaborate delusion I've ever encountered. Care to demonstrate?"
"Demonstrate how?"
"Spar with Guts." Griffith gestured to the giant with the massive sword. "If you're as dangerous as Julius claims, you should have no trouble handling our strongest fighter. And if you're just an arrogant fool, well, at least we'll have entertainment."
The giant, Guts apparently, grinned. It was not a friendly expression. "I'm game if he is. Been a while since I've had a real challenge."
I looked at this Guts, assessing him properly. He was young, perhaps sixteen or seventeen, but already scarred from extensive combat. The sword he carried would have been unwieldy for anyone else, but he held it with casual ease. His stance spoke of self taught technique, brutal efficiency over formal training.
Dangerous, by human standards. To me, an insect with delusions of strength.
But the opportunity to observe these mercenaries more closely, to understand what made them effective, that had value. And besides, I was curious whether this Guts would prove more interesting than the typical opponents I'd faced.
"Very well," I said. "Though you should know I won't be responsible for permanent injuries."
Guts laughed. "Big talk. Let's see if you can back it up."
The other mercenaries formed a circle, creating an impromptu arena. Griffith moved to the edge, his expression interested but controlled. I noticed he positioned himself where he could see both the fight and the Tudor forces below. Always observing, always planning.
Smart.
Guts moved to the center of the circle, his massive sword held ready. "Rules?"
"There are no rules," I replied, stepping to face him. "Attack whenever you're ready."
He didn't hesitate. The sword came around in a horizontal slash, backed by impressive strength. The technique was crude but effective, designed to overwhelm through sheer force.
I caught the blade with one hand.
The impact sent a shockwave through the ground, dust rising from where my feet had planted. Guts's eyes widened as his unstoppable swing simply stopped, held firm by fingers that didn't even strain.
"Impossible," he muttered.
"Merely improbable," I corrected, then twisted my wrist.
The sword tore from his grip, spinning through the air. I caught it with my other hand, testing the weight. Crude construction, poor balance, but functional enough.
"You're using this wrong," I observed, examining the blade. "The weight distribution is off. You compensate with raw strength, but it's inefficient. With proper technique, you could increase striking power by perhaps thirty percent."
Guts stared at me, then at his empty hands. "You just, you caught my sword. Mid swing."
"Yes. Would you like it back?"
He didn't answer, instead lunging forward with his bare hands. Commendable aggression. His fist came at my face with considerable speed, following up with a knee aimed at my ribs.
I blocked the fist with my forearm and caught the knee with my palm. Then I pushed, gently by my standards.
Guts flew backward, tumbling across the ground before rolling to his feet. He was grinning now, a wild expression that spoke of someone who'd found what they were looking for.
"Now that's more like it," he said. "Been too long since I fought something that could actually hurt me."
"I haven't tried to hurt you yet. This is observation."
He charged again, and this time I met him properly. We exchanged blows, my strikes carefully calibrated to test his durability without causing permanent damage. He was resilient, I'd give him that. Hits that should have shattered bones simply staggered him. His pain tolerance was exceptional, almost inhuman.
But he was still fundamentally human. Limited by biology, by the constraints of natural law. After perhaps thirty seconds of genuine combat, I'd catalogued every strength and weakness, every gap in his technique.
I decided to end it.
My hand shot out, faster than he could perceive, and struck three precise points on his torso. Nerve clusters, carefully chosen. Guts's entire body went rigid, his muscles locking up from the neurological assault. He collapsed, conscious but unable to move.
"Temporary paralysis," I explained to the shocked mercenaries. "It'll wear off in approximately three minutes. No permanent damage."
Griffith stepped forward, his expression unreadable. "You took down Guts in seconds. Without using weapons. Without even appearing to strain."
"I told you I was perfect. You asked for demonstration."
"So I did." Griffith studied me with renewed intensity, and I could see calculations happening behind those eyes. "You're wasted as Julius's hired blade. Someone with your abilities could accomplish far more."
"Such as?"
"Win this war," Griffith said simply. "End the stalemate, break Tudor's military capability, bring peace to Midland." He gestured expansively. "Julius is a good man, a competent commander. But he lacks vision. He thinks in terms of holding territory, maintaining defenses. I think in terms of victory."
"And you want me to help you achieve that victory."
"I want you to consider joining the Band of the Hawk. Fighting for a cause greater than simple employment." Griffith's voice carried conviction now, the tone of someone who genuinely believed what they were saying. "Together, we could reshape this kingdom. End the suffering, bring stability. Isn't that worth more than simply existing?"
I found myself genuinely curious about this young man. His ambition was staggering, his confidence absolute. He looked at me, at something that had casually demonstrated supernatural power, and saw a potential tool for his dreams.
Arrogant. But then, I could appreciate arrogance when it was backed by genuine capability.
"I already have an arrangement with Julius," I said. "And my goals aren't political. I'm not interested in your war or your kingdom."
"Then what are you interested in?"
"Understanding this world's deeper mysteries. The supernatural forces that operate beneath the surface. Power structures that exist beyond your military hierarchies."
Griffith's expression shifted, becoming more guarded. "You're talking about the God Hand."
That got my full attention. "You know of them."
"Stories. Legends. Things whispered in dark places by people the Church calls heretics." He paused. "Julius mentioned you were asking about them. That you'd encountered an Apostle."
"I killed an Apostle," I corrected. "And I intend to meet the God Hand themselves. Understand what they are, what they want. Test whether they're worthy of the fear they inspire."
"That's suicide," one of the other mercenaries said. A woman, lean and scarred, with eyes that had seen too much. "You don't seek out the God Hand. That's how you end up dead or worse."
"Perhaps for you," I replied. "But I'm not bound by your limitations."
Griffith was quiet for a long moment, studying me. Then he smiled, that same sharp expression. "You're either the most dangerous being in this kingdom or you're going to die spectacularly. Either way, I want to see what happens. My offer stands. Join the Band of the Hawk, and I'll help you hunt whatever gods you're looking for. I have resources, information networks, access to places even Julius can't reach."
"And what would you want in return?"
"Your strength. Your abilities. Help me win this war, achieve my dream, and then I'll dedicate every resource I have to helping you achieve yours."
It was a compelling offer, I had to admit. Griffith clearly had ambition and capability beyond typical mercenary leadership. His network might provide access to information I couldn't easily obtain alone. And unlike Julius, who was constrained by noble obligations and defensive thinking, Griffith operated with the freedom of someone who had nothing to lose.
But accepting would mean subordinating myself to another's agenda, at least temporarily. And I'd already made that bargain with Julius.
"I'll consider it," I said finally. "But I make no promises. My arrangement with Julius has value I'm not ready to abandon."
"Fair enough." Griffith extended his hand, the same gesture Julius had used. I gripped it briefly. "When you change your mind, you know where to find us."
Guts had recovered enough mobility to sit up, glaring at me with an expression that mixed anger and grudging respect. "You're a monster," he said bluntly. "But at least you're an interesting one."
"I appreciate the distinction."
I left them there on the ridge, returning to my original mission. But my mind was processing the encounter, cataloguing new information. Griffith was ambitious, dangerously so. The kind of ambition that either achieved greatness or collapsed into catastrophe. And he'd shown knowledge of the God Hand, suggesting his information network was better than Julius had implied.
Worth monitoring. Potentially worth cultivating, if his resources proved useful.
Griffith watched the purple haired being disappear into the wilderness, his mind working through implications and possibilities. In his years of mercenary work, he'd encountered many warriors, many fighters who claimed exceptional skill. Most were braggarts. Some were competent. A few were genuinely dangerous.
Kars was something else entirely. Something that shouldn't exist. And Griffith recognized that encountering him now, at this moment in his rise to power, was either tremendous fortune or terrible fate.
"Boss," Casca said, moving to stand beside him. The woman who'd warned against seeking the God Hand, his most trusted lieutenant. "Are you seriously considering allying with that thing? You saw what it did to Guts. It's not human."
"No," Griffith agreed. "It's not. But neither am I, in my own way. We're both pursuing something beyond what others think possible." He smiled slightly. "And I've learned that the impossible only stays impossible until someone proves otherwise."
"You're playing with fire."
"I'm playing with the sun," Griffith corrected. "Fire is manageable. Fire can be controlled. What Kars represents, that's something entirely different. But if I can convince it to fight for my dream, even temporarily, we'll be unstoppable."
Guts had managed to stand, testing his limbs. "I want a rematch," he said flatly. "Soon as I figure out how to actually hit the bastard."
"You won't," Griffith said, not unkindly. "He's operating on a level we can't match through conventional means. But that's fine. We don't need to match him. We just need to make ourselves useful enough that he chooses to help us rather than ignore us."
He turned back to observing the Tudor forces below, his mind already planning the next move. The next step toward his dream. And now, with the knowledge that something like Kars existed in the world, that dream seemed somehow both more attainable and more dangerous than ever.
"Let's move," he ordered. "We have supply lines to cut and a reputation to build. And perhaps, if we make enough noise, we'll catch the attention of more than just Tudor soldiers."
The Band of the Hawk departed, leaving the ridge empty save for disturbed earth and the memory of an encounter that would ripple through causality in ways none of them could predict.
I returned to Windham as night fell, my mind still processing the encounter with Griffith and his mercenaries. Julius was waiting in my quarters, which was unusual. He rarely visited me here, preferring to summon me to his study for discussions.
"We need to talk," he said without preamble. "The Church is moving."
That got my attention. "Moving how?"
"They've heard rumors. A purple haired demon who slaughtered mercenaries, killed an Apostle, works for me." Julius's expression was grim. "They're sending an inquisitor to investigate. Someone with authority to declare excommunication if they determine I'm harboring demons."
"And you're concerned."
"I'm concerned that if they declare you a demon, I'll have to choose between my arrangement with you and my political standing. The Church has immense power, Kars. They can turn every noble in Midland against me, declare crusade against my territory. I can't fight that, not without destroying everything I've built."
I considered this development. An inquisitor meant someone with training, resources, probably some capability beyond typical humans. Interesting, but also potentially tedious if it meant constant interference.
"When does this inquisitor arrive?"
"Three days. Maybe four. I need to know what you plan to do. If you stay, if you're here when they arrive, things are going to escalate quickly. But if you leave, if you make yourself scarce for a few weeks, I can spin the story. Say you were a foreign mercenary who moved on, nothing supernatural about you."
"You want me to hide."
"I want you to be strategic. There's a difference."
I moved to the window, looking out over the city. Below, people went about their evening routines, unaware that their lord was negotiating with something that could reduce their world to ash.
"I encountered Griffith today," I said, changing the subject. "The mercenary commander. He made me an offer. Join his band, help him win the war in exchange for assistance hunting the God Hand."
Julius's expression shifted, complicated emotions playing across his face. "And?"
"I told him I'd consider it. But my arrangement with you has value I'm not ready to abandon." I turned to face him. "However, if the Church is going to make my presence here problematic, perhaps a temporary departure serves both our interests. I can operate with Griffith's band for a time, gather information, let the Church investigation conclude. Then return once things settle."
Julius nodded slowly. "That could work. Griffith's always moving, never stays in one place long enough for authorities to pin down. And if you're with him, you're not my direct responsibility anymore." He paused. "But can you trust him? Griffith's ambitious. Dangerously so. He'll use you if you let him."
"I'm aware. But the same could be said of our arrangement. We're all using each other, Julius. The question is whether the exchange remains mutually beneficial."
"Fair point." Julius stood, moving toward the door. "I'll send word to Griffith, let him know you're accepting his offer. Temporarily. And Kars, be careful. The Church isn't just political power. They have weapons, methods for dealing with supernatural threats. Don't underestimate them."
"I never underestimate anyone," I replied. "I simply recognize that most threats are irrelevant to me."
"Pride comes before the fall."
"Only if you're capable of falling."
Julius left, shaking his head. I remained at the window, watching the city lights flicker in the darkness. Change was coming, acceleration of events that would force new calculations.
The Church. An organization I'd largely ignored because they seemed toothless, all authority and no substance. But if they had genuine capabilities, genuine methods for confronting the supernatural, that made them more interesting.
Perhaps worth investigating. Perhaps worth testing.
Tomorrow, I would find Griffith and accept his offer. Join his band, observe his methods, use his resources to further my hunt for the God Hand. It was a logical next step, moving me closer to my ultimate goal.
But tonight, I would study the Behelit one more time. Study it and wonder when it would finally activate, when fate would arrange the pieces for another summoning.
Because when that happened, I would be there. I would observe the God Hand directly, understand their power, test their limits.
And if they proved disappointing, if they were simply more insects with delusions of divinity, then I would demonstrate what true godhood actually meant.
In the realm beyond causality, Void stirred from contemplation. The anomaly had moved, had made new connections, had woven itself deeper into the world's fabric despite remaining outside fate's flow.
Troubling. But also inevitable. The harder they tried to isolate it, to contain it, the more it integrated with their carefully ordered universe.
"It's moving toward Griffith," Slan observed, her voice carrying anticipation. "The one marked for ascension. The one destined to become one of us."
"The timing is wrong," Ubik said. "Griffith's sacrifice isn't due for years. The causality isn't ready."
"And yet the anomaly gravitates toward him," Conrad rumbled. "As though drawn by fate itself."
Void considered this, his vast consciousness reaching through the threads of causality, examining the paths that led to Griffith's eventual transformation. The Eclipse, the sacrifice, the birth of Femto. It was all written, all predetermined.
But now there was a variable. Something that could disrupt that path, prevent the ascension, alter the outcome.
"We watch," Void decreed. "We observe. And if the anomaly threatens to disrupt Griffith's fate, we intervene directly. Some sacrifices are too important to risk."
The others agreed, though Slan's expression suggested she was hoping for exactly that disruption. Conflict interested her, chaos entertained her. And the Perfect Being promised both in abundance.
The wheels of fate continued turning. But now they ground against something that refused to be crushed, something that might actually jam the mechanism entirely.
And in a universe built on absolute predetermination, that possibility was either the most terrifying thing imaginable or the most liberating.
Time would tell which.