The Last Experience Point

Chapter 131: Mistakes

Was this before? Or was this now?

Vim wasn’t certain. It was all a haze. He felt shame. It was painful. Carefully, he arranged his desk in his office in Giant’s Fall. Was this the way it had been? Or was this still how it was? These thoughts became muddled and confused, but ultimately, he set them aside as his assistant informed him that his guest of honor had arrived. He used to look forward to these visits, but no longer. The boy he’d grown up with had changed, and it was only getting worse.

“Please, see him in,” Vim said.

The door to his office opened, and in walked King Peter IV. He smiled as he spotted Vim, and truly, were one to look only on a superficial level, he truly was the spitting image of magnificence. His thick locks of blond-colored hair radiated like dragon’s fire, and his determined yet perpetually youthful features managed to give him an air of both strength and innocence. Even his teeth were free of so much as a blemish, and there was nothing but optimistic hope in his azure eyes.

With him was his teenage son, who looked up upon his father with pride and reverence. “I know of your eagerness, my son, but you’ve still got some growing to do before I begin your instruction in governance.” Gently, he nudged his son. “Wait outside, Peter.”

“Father, I’m fifteen now. I ought to be here with you that I may begin to learn.”

He shook his head. “Not this time.” With a gentle laugh, he gave another nudge, and his child, Peter V, left the office, closing the door behind him.

And then, as Vim had known would be the case, the king began to fall apart. Even as he’d been speaking to his son, Vim could see the strain begin to form in his face. Through some miracle of love, he seemed capable of holding himself together when in the presence of his boy. Vim did not know how he did this. He did not understand how the man’s sickness allowed him to behave in such a normal way. It was as though some part of his unblemished self still lingered, and it was only in the presence of his child that he was able to subdue the illness.

The moment his son vacated the office, the façade fell away, and with a look of utter dread, he turned his head towards Vim and said, “They’re going to kill my boy.” Upon those words, he began to walk over towards Vim’s desk, sitting across from him. He placed his forehead in his hands, and he released an agonized moan. “Last night, the Gods came to me again, Vim. They bid me to destroy the Gnomes.”

Vim tensed. This was new. “I see,” he whispered.

Peter shook his head. “Not you of course, my dear friend. The Gods forbid such a thing! Yet they have warned me of a coming calamity. They”—abruptly, he snapped his head to the left in the direction of the office windows, which provided a view of the city of Giant’s fall—“who said that?” he shouted. “Vim, quiet them!”

Vim said nothing. What could he say? What was there to say? Thankfully, whatever demons he believed he was hearing, they seemed to quiet, because he returned his gaze to Vim, and he continued to address him. “The Gnomes must perish.”

“Perish?” Vim asked.

He nodded. “All of them but you.”

Vim tried not to take the man’s ramblings too seriously. He had always assumed that if Peter ever went too far, the members of his own guild would likely put him in check, as they must surely have grown alarmed by this point. That was why, not a week prior, Vim had taken an act that would inevitably grow to haunt him for many years to come. In secret, the guilds of North Bastia had assembled to discuss deposing the king. All needed to be united to form a council with the authority capable of removing him peacefully from power. Yet Vim had abstained, because under Peter IV’s leadership, the people of Giant’s Fall—the region in his guild’s charge—had profited greatly from this era of economic stability. Believing his duty to them first and foremost, he had thusly guided the Royal Roses towards the abstention, and his 2nd and 3rd stood by him.

Now, however, as he tried to think of a way to ease the man’s current passions, Peter regarded him with a sympathetic frown; he curled his lower lip, took upon a pained expression, and he said, “I’m afraid I’ve had to euthanize Kaz.”

The words struck Vim like a tidal wave. He inhaled. “My sister?”

“I’m sorry. A few hours ago, I had it carried out.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, keeping his voice calm. He tried to convince himself that this could very well be one of the man’s delusions. He often alluded to executing various individuals in and around North Bastia, only for Vim to see them later, unharmed and well. But no, not these days. These days, he had begun carrying out his threats. This time would be no different. His sister was, in all likelihood, no longer of this world.

“The Gnomes have to die. The Dwarves, too. We don’t have a choice. Your sister was a threat to us all.”

Should Vim have attacked the king? Should he have expressed the outrage he felt within? Yes. Yes, without question. But that was not what he had done. He had reacted calmly. He had concealed the shock and hurt, and he had done as his father had always taught him: he had played the game.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said, fighting back the agony that gave rise to a tremor in his fingertips. Peter spotted this tremble, and his eyes widened—though he said nothing. And from this one gesture alone, Vim knew that he would be next.

“You are…still loyal to me?” Peter asked.

Vim nodded without hesitation. “We’ve been friends since childhood, Peter.”

Deep down, Vim knew that it would not have mattered how he replied—it would not have mattered what words he spoke. The moment the king had spotted his trembling fingers, it was too late for Vim to dissuade his paranoia. Even still, it would be two months before he was forced to defend himself against the arresting force that would come for him in the middle of the night. Yet he had been prepared, and by resisting—and killing—the king’s men, the war would kick off, and the Royal Roses would go down in history as the guild that had ended Peter IV’s reign. Vim would receive a credit he did not deserve.

Perhaps that was why he was here? This, he wondered as he opened his bruised eyes and lamented the depressing darkness of his cell. He was in a dungeon in the depths below Shadowfall Coast, one that was uniquely suited to contain those who had leveled; the bars, shackles, and even the flooring had all been crafted from high-level materials that Vim could not damage or break through. He could not even rip apart the shackles that bound his hands and feet.

Each day, numerous members of the guild had come by to beat him. He doubted it was part of any official order. It was revenge for what his guild had done in Shadowfall Coast, and Sir Allistor Morrison seemed unwilling to disallow it if he even knew—or cared. Perhaps he might even be encouraging it. Vim could not be sure either way.

He struggled with his bindings despite the futility of it, though he did so in a way that was half-hearted. He’d already given up. He knew that he was a dead man. None would come for him. The Guild of Gentlemen had won, and they knew it.

His attention was diverted by the sound of a high-pitched creak like that of an old, rusted metal door being opened. Too weak to fully lift his head, he stared down at a pair of boots that made soft thuds as they strolled across the filthy, soiled, cockroach-infested floor.

“If you would sign the declaration, this would not be happening to you,” said the voice of Sir Allistair Morrison. Vim could not see his face, and even if he could, he would only spit in it. The man’s words, combined with his lack of surprise at seeing Vim in this condition, strongly implied that he did, in fact, know of the beatings, and he was likely the one orchestrating them, probably to break Vim's will so that he would endorse the declaration.

"How much more must you endure before you agree to sign?"

“I’m almost there,” Vim replied. “I’m so close to signing it. Just two or three more beatings and we have a deal. Just make sure you get someone in here to flog my ass. I feel like it’s really being neglected in all this.”

“Sharp-tongued as always, Sir Alazar.” The man made an exaggerated sigh. “I’m only asking you to do what’s right. Accept responsibility for the bomb that you forced me to drop on Ogre’s Axe. Apologize to the people—yours and mine—and publicly declare the Guild of Gentlemen the rightful rulers of humanity. Do this for your soul. Then, I will grant you a swift, merciful death.”

Vim laughed. “Yeah, okay. Unbind me and give me a pen.”

Even without seeing Sir Alistair’s face, he could tell that the man was frowning. “You’re not being serious.”

“No, I’m totally serious,” Vim said. “You did a really good deed, killing a million people like that. You’re a hero, Sir Morrison. I’m sure everyone in Giant’s Fall is grateful for your service, and I bet they can’t wait to shake your hand.”

“I did what I had to do to save humanity.”

“Oh, I agree,” Vim said dryly. “You’re on an important mission, aren’t you? I bet the people of Varda’s Lair and Whispery Woods can’t wait to be hit with that weapon. Lots of humans there who need saving, too. You should also attack the rural areas as well. Just to make sure you don’t leave anyone unsaved.”

For a moment, there was silence. And then there were footsteps. Vim watched the man’s boots as they came closer to his face. And now, Sir Allistair crouched down and met his eyes, and in them, Vim could see genuine passion—and anger.

“You act like a million lives in Giant’s Fall are worth more than countless millions in South Bastia.”

“South Bastia?” Vim asked. “Is that what this is all about? Is that why you’re doing all of this?”

Alistair pursed his lips. It was rare for the man to show such emotion. “I was born in the Dark-Water Depths, Sir Alazar. You know this.”

Vim chuckled. “And you think…what, exactly? That by capturing all of North Bastia you can somehow make South Bastia any better? It’s a lost cause, Sir Morrison.”

“Not to me!” he shouted.

With his display of anger, Vim thought he was finally getting a sense of what drove this man. It came as a shock to him. And not because it was conceptually something that he found difficult to grasp, but because of how unforeseen it was. The last time South Bastia had played any role in the politics or minds of anyone from North Bastia…it had to have been a good hundred or so years.

“People complain often about Whispery Woods,” Allistair said. “They bemoan the conditions of the city. The crumbling infrastructure. The poverty rates. The education system. Yet not one of them has any idea what true suffering is. Every single human in Whispery Woods, from the wealthiest to the poorest, has never known a day of hunger. Their schools may not be halls of excellence, but they are adequate. Their hospitals are at the very least competent. Their roads, ultimately, are serviceable. Do you know what life is like for those in South Bastia? The forgotten people?”

Vim did know. Yet it was so seldom thought about it was barely something he ever reflected upon. It was part of how things had been for the better part of a century, and it was just kind of…the status quo.

Often, when someone said they were “going to South Bastia,” what they actually meant was that they were going to Shores of Wrath, a very wealthy, very happy northern region on the coast run by the People of Virtue. Though it was located in South Bastia, Shores of Wrath was, in essence, a direct extension of North Bastia. It was connected exclusively to North Bastian politics. The people of that region did not even consider themselves as belonging to South Bastia. In every way that mattered: culturally, economically, and politically, Shores of Wrath was wholly North Bastian. And this mattered, because the rest of South Bastia—each and every region—was as disconnected from humanity as it got.

South Bastia was a hellscape. It was a place worse than death. The guilds that controlled each region were little better than warlords and thugs. Murder and rape were ubiquitous, and the people were ungovernable. For all the fault that North Bastians could find in the political guilds, if nothing else, they maintained a mostly civilized world of mostly civilized people. Yet the average North Bastian would not survive an hour in many of the South Bastian regions. It was anarchic, lawless, and each day was filled with suffering and death.

As a matter of official record, the UCH—United Council of Humanity—was the official governing body of the semi-autonomous regions of all of North and South Bastia. Yet that was purely technical. In reality, the South Bastian guild leaders had absolutely no seat at the table, nor would they even be welcome to step foot in North Bastia. If any of them even tried, they would be arrested or killed immediately to protect innocent lives, for these were some of the most bloodthirsty, ruthless savages from the pits of hell.

The average leveled South Bastian was about fifteen times more sadistic than even someone like Varsh. For each and every character flaw to be found among the members of any North Bastian guild, it could never be said that North Bastian rulers spent their days smuggling drugs, trafficking human sex slaves, kidnapping, and beheading villagers who did not pay what they deemed sufficient tribute. They behaved in a way that was indistinguishable from organized gangs, and they were not welcome here.

“You do understand, don’t you?” Alistair asked him.

“What I understand is that you’ve committed atrocities on a never-before seen scale for a purpose that you cannot achieve. Do you think you can save South Bastia if your guild took over humanity?” Vim laughed derisively. “Nothing can save South Bastia. Not even the Gods. But even if it could be saved, you would never be the one to do it.”

Rather than reply directly to his words, Alistair asked him a question. “What percentage of humanity lives in South Bastia? Not including the Shores of Wrath, of course, as we both know that cannot be reasonably called South Bastian. Please, tell me.”

With a sigh, Vim decided to humor him. “Sixty percent, give or take.”

“Correct. That means that North Bastia and Shores of Wrath combine to make up just forty percent of the human population. Yet while we eat and drink and complain, right now, in this very moment, children are starving to death in South Bastia. Human beings. Those the Guild of Gentlemen once swore to protect at all cost. Peter V, like his father, left them ignored. You have left them ignored. But I was born there. I was among the last of those to integrate into North-Bastian society, and that was due only to my father buying my mother from a slaver and freeing her.”

If Vim could shrug, he would have. “None of this matters, Sir Morrison. If you truly gave a shit about the people of South Bastia, you wouldn’t be fighting a war to conquer humanity. If anything, you’d be fighting a war to make that new kid the king.”

“New kid?”

Vim nodded. “Sir Alex Oren. Now, he, on the other hand…I think he might actually care enough. And if there existed any way of bringing order back to that hellhole, he would be the one to do it—and I bet he’d find a way that did not include slaughtering a million innocent people. But you? No. You’re just scum. And I say that as someone who’s also scum just not to the same extent as you. At least I’ve some decency in me. You’re a pathetic shell of a man fighting a pointless battle. You can’t save South Bastia or anywhere else. So no, I will not sign your statement. Kill me, beat me, I don’t care. Either way, you can go fuck yourself.” He chuckled. “I say that respectfully, of course.”

Sir Morrison stood back up and turned around. “You’re a vile little man, and I look forward to seeing your head removed from your shoulders.” With that, he opened then slammed the metal door shut, and now, Vim was left to once more close his eyes and dream of his past mistakes.