Nero's recital

Considering the gravity of our quest, one might expect us to march in grim silence from the charnel pit to Emperor Claudius. However, the Imperial Palace was simply too vast, and our trek too lengthy, for sustained solemnity.

As we transitioned from secretive paths to more frequented ones, the crisp autumn air and the lavishly decorated halls didn't lend themselves well to grimness.

Agrippina proved to be a considerate host, even amidst the dangers present. She filled the silence with welcoming conversation, skilfully concealing any signs of fear. Although I understood her efforts were partly aimed at securing my favour, they were nonetheless appreciated.

She spoke to me privately, a matter of appearances being the cause. My attire, a toga marked by white and black stripes reminiscent of a zebra's coat, might have seemed odd, yet it lent me an air of distinction. The unusual colouring, rather than diminishing my presence, hinted at my supernatural origins.

Which wasn't entirely off the mark, considering my clothing wasn't precisely a toga but a ghost suit I had acquired during my brief foray into ghosthood. This ghost-suit had the ability to replicate any style of clothing, maintaining, however, its unique colour scheme.

The origin of the white and black stripes remained a puzzle, one I had failed to unravel. My investigations revealed it was made of ectoplasm, the substance of spectral entities, distinct from any cellular structure. The suit could manifest small, mundane objects, and I had enhanced it with folded space, allowing me to store things it could not produce, like the Mystic Code torch.

Archer wore a similar suit, though his had taken the form of a more modest tunic, easier for manoeuvring. He was also equipped with a bow and sword. Agrippina took him as my bodyguard, thus rendering him a person of no interest.

Andrew's tunic was of a simpler make and slightly transparent. Mostly, I paid it no mind. In the Otherworld, there was attire suitable for any occasion, though all designed for role-play. Sexual, that is.

She had appointed him as a servant, or perhaps a bed slave. Thus, she was as likely to talk to Andrew as she was to speak to furniture.

Agrippina, with reflective sophistication, spoke of her time in exile during Caligula's reign, referring to it as her "involuntary island vacation."

"Catching sponges turned me into an excellent swimmer. Rest assured, if anyone seeks to assassinate me, drowning will not be their successful method," she remarked, her sharp smile adding a layer of dry humour to the conclusion of her anecdote. Unfortunately for her, her son was of a firm opinion that if something does not work the first time, one should try again using a different method. Or at least he would be in a few years.

"To learn from such harsh trials is a virtue few attain," I complimented her. I recognized this show of vulnerability as a subtle stratagem. By sharing her past and showing a hint of vulnerability, she aimed to sow seeds of intimacy.

But such was the nature of the game we played, and I took no offence. As she sought levers to influence me, I looked for strings to bind her. It was an age-old dance, and one I did not mind performing with such a skilled and comely partner.

"Claudius, my esteemed uncle, extended his generosity far beyond the political intrigues that had once exiled me to that desolate island. In time, his vision for Rome and the Julian lineage persuaded him to not only welcome me back into the heart of the Empire but to join our fates through marriage. This union, formed from a confluence of ambition, duty, and, perhaps, unexpected affection, offered me a partnership in steering the destiny of Rome," Agrippina said next.

There, Agrippina conveniently omitted a few less flattering details, such as the rather timely demise of her previous husband, which aligned suspiciously well with Claudius's execution of his own wife for treason. While Claudius might have tolerated infidelity, usurpation was a line not to be crossed.

However, these were the accounts of historians, not of those directly involved in the matter. Coincidences could happen, and man could die at convenient times naturally without any intervention.

Casting oneself in the best light was simply part of the dance. Understanding her direction, I helpfully provided the next step, "You must be grateful for all that he has done."

"Our bond is woven from stronger threads than mere gratitude. Love and duty entwine us, binding us as one. Yet, I cannot afford the luxury of ignoring the harsher truths," she replied, pausing to lend gravity to her forthcoming words. "The Empire cannot suffer a false Emperor. Should Claudius have been supplanted, then the imposter must be excised without delay. Rome must remain under Roman stewardship, not under the rule of monsters. Should this be the fate that has befallen my husband, I will mourn him deeply, yet take solace in the belief that it aligns with his wishes. However, I must broach a further request, potentially overbold. May I do so without fear of censure?"

"Speak. Whether I accede to your request will depend upon its nature. But you have my word, no offence will be taken," I assured her.

"My plea is for the veil of secrecy. Many would exploit the semblance of misfortune to claim divine disfavour upon us, or worse, brand a rival as a monster to secure their downfall. In these sombre times, indiscretion is a luxury the Empire cannot afford."

My background as a Magus had instilled in me the imperative of informational security, the art of concealing that which ought to remain hidden. Moreover, history bore no record, nor legend any mention, of Rome's fall to shapeshifting serpents.

"Some truths are best kept from the public gaze," I concurred.

"And should the need arise for a new Emperor to safeguard the interests of Rome, my son Nero stands as the rightful heir. He may be young and untested, but he is of age by Roman Law, and thus eligible. To forestall chaos as we cleanse the Empire of these fiends, swift ascension is paramount."

We had arrived at the crux of our discourse—ensuring that, in the event of the Emperor's demise, her son would ascend.

"Should the worst befall us, your son would have my blessing, along with a modest gift that might prove useful," I offered. Yet, what remained unsaid held equal weight. I made no commitment to support the succession directly.

And so, I subtly introduced the notion of a gift, eager to be unburdened of that ring at last.

Not a moment too soon, I reflected.

The ring stood as my crowning achievement, embodying a groundbreaking approach to the Magic Crest concept.

Traditionally, a Magic Crest is integrated directly into the Magus's flesh. My innovation was to embed this Crest within a gemstone, which then interfaced with its wielder via the ring. This design circumvented the vexing issue of biological incompatibility inherent to the traditional method. While it didn't mean just anyone could harness the inscribed spells—other forms of compatibility were still necessary—it allowed for broader usability.

Moreover, gemstones, being more durable than flesh and further reinforced by ring-lore, significantly reduced the risk of accidental destruction.

However, this feature also rendered the ring more susceptible to theft, a side effect I hadn't fully anticipated.

Yet, the primary concern lay elsewhere. By their very nature, these Rings of Power acted as spiritual parasites. They mirrored the tongue louse, a parasite that not only consumes fish tongues but also replaces them. In a similar vein, these rings passively siphoned Magical Circuits into themselves.

This mechanism wasn't entirely dissimilar from the traditional Magic Crest, which allowed a user to transfer some of their Magical Circuits into the crest, particularly those imbued with spell formulas, facilitating the Crest's growth across generations.

However, with my iteration, this process became largely involuntary. Wearing the Ring Crest made no discernible difference, but transferring it would be akin to uprooting a deeply embedded plant, tearing parts of the soul away with its extensive root system.

Though her visage betrayed no hint of disappointment, I could sense it, mingled with a renewed resolve. She adeptly steered our conversation to less perilous waters, sharing tales from mythology—or, given the context and era, theology.

The topic piqued my interest significantly. In the realm of magecraft, the beliefs of people, especially those of ancient origin, hold considerable power. The potency of these beliefs wasn't merely in their direct application but in the foundational truths they revealed about the world's unseen forces. The contemporary waning of these beliefs did pose a challenge, diminishing their immediate usability in magical practices. However, the true art was in bridging the gap between these ancient beliefs and the modern world.

The stories Agrippina shared were mostly familiar to me, yet the nuances in her recounting revealed subtle variations I hadn't encountered before. Through comparing these versions with those I already knew, I gained a deeper understanding of their intricacies. While none of this newly acquired knowledge promised immediate utility for my current projects, I firmly believed that no knowledge is ever truly useless.

In the grand tapestry of magecraft, every thread of understanding, no matter how seemingly inconsequential, can contribute to the broader picture. These nuanced differences in well-trodden tales might, in time, offer unexpected insights or inspire innovative applications of magical principles. The art of magic, much like the art of storytelling, is enriched by diversity and depth of perspective.

As we drew closer to our destination, a practical issue emerged. While Agrippina knew the general vicinity where her husband could be found, pinpointing his exact location was another matter. Thus, she stepped out of the protective shadow cast by the demon-bound torch to gather this crucial information.

I refrained from questioning her methods. The Imperial Palace was her domain; she was undoubtedly well-versed in its secrets and subtleties.

"She is flirting with you," Archer commented, using Sindarin, that language that only I and he spoke.

"All those stories about gods seducing mortals were a clue," I said back in the same tongue. "Jealous?"

Balbillus, observing our exchange, was a picture of intrigued confusion. He even attempted to silently shape our words with his lips, as though committing them to memory. Considering Sindarin's melodious quality and his perception of my origins, it wasn't far-fetched for him to fantasize about it being a language of the divine.

Andrew wore a frown, a slight crease forming between his brows. He once mentioned during our time in Vietnam that he had perused Tolkien's 'The Lord of the Rings'. Given the events that unfolded since, it's plausible he delved deeper into Tolkien's lore. However, the smattering of Sindarin present in Tolkien's works wouldn't suffice for him to grasp the full extent of our conversation.

"She's married," Archer pointed out next.

"Or perhaps a widow by now," I responded, my tone laced with amusement. "If you disapprove, say so directly. Forbid it, and I shall not pursue her."

"I beginning to think me forbidding you things turn you on," he said with a raised eyebrow.

"Only beginning. I thought I was more obvious. Forbidding means that you care about what I am doing."

"How perverse."

"But you like that."

Before we could go any further, the subject of discussion returned with news. Claudius was in a triclinium, a room designed primarily for dining and social gatherings, not far from where we currently were.

"The enemy is near," Archer announced, sniffing the air like a dog. Well, I must admit he looked quite fetching in collar and nothing else, but this hardly the time.

"We are right next to where the emperor is expected to be," the astrologer said, his voice edged with anxiety. "Are you certain?"

"Yes. I can mistake that stench. And more than one," Archer replied, unslinging the bow from his back, and taking it in hand. He also drew an arrow from the quiver. Although it looked simple, it was a combination of magecraft and technology. Not my work, but his.

The triclinium into which we stepped was a grand chamber, a testament to the opulence and power of Rome under Emperor Claudius's reign. And yet, I had to remember that it was austere compared to both preceding and following Emperors.

High above, the coffered ceiling was a canopy of gilded artistry, each panel telling a story of divine watchfulness over the Roman Empire. The walls were alive with frescoes, vibrant with colour and historical narrative. On one, the Port of Ostia was reborn under Claudius's command, its bustling docks and the guiding light of its newly erected lighthouse a vivid tableau of prosperity and ingenuity. Labourers, their muscles etched in paint and sweat, worked diligently under the watchful eyes of Neptune, whose trident seemed to bless the emperor's efforts.

Adjacent, another fresco captured the solemnity of Claudius restoring the Temple of Castor and Pollux. The detailed brushwork brought to life the pious ceremony, the figures of Claudius, surrounded by priests and Vestal Virgins, rendered with a reverence that spoke of the emperor's devotion to Rome's divine guardians. Above them, Castor and Pollux, immortalized in the heavens, gazed down, their approval immortalized in celestial hues.

Beneath their feet, the mosaic was a sprawling narrative of conquest and ambition. It depicted the conquest of Britain, Claudius at its heart, not as a warrior but as the mastermind of expansion, his figure commanding and central. Around him, Roman legions advanced in meticulous formation, the detailed mosaics capturing the gleam of armour and the determined set of their faces. The British tribes, in contrast, were a whirl of motion and defiance, their retreat into the wilds of their land a testament to Rome's unstoppable march. The River Thames wound through the scene, a ribbon of strategy and triumph.

Propaganda at its finest. Even if the audience was more limited then modern take on it, in this time it was the opinion of only a few that really mattered. Really, that's not dissimilar from modern times, only less concealed.

In a way, I could argue that the wall and floor art served a similar purpose as propaganda posters in the Enrichment Centre. Only ours were both cheaper and more effective. But that was progress for you.

The room was suffused with the scents of frankincense and myrrh, the air heavy with the promise of a feast. But no food had been served yet.

But we weren't there for the ambience.

Reptilians couldn't shape-shift into furniture or wall paintings. At least, I had never found any evidence of them taking any form but human.

I could almost safely dismiss the servants. Reptilians liked their creature comforts too much.

The guards were another matter. I had encountered one posing as an American Colonel, and the Praetorians carefully watching from posts on the edges of the room were a bit too richly dressed. But I was no expert in Roman military attire.

The guests, draped in togas that denoted their upper positions in Roman society, were the most likely candidates.

I identified Claudius more by his position and the way everyone reacted to him than by sight. And naturally, the golden laurel wreath on his head. An older man, not particularly handsome. Was he replaced, or was he slated to be replaced? Or perhaps he was too high-profile to be replaced.

Even after this time, my information on reptilians was scarce. Their methods, their motives, remained opaque to me. Even their biology remained a mystery; their corpses just degraded too quickly after death for proper analysis.

I did manage to get a sample of their technology, their Vril-staff. It provided some insight into how they manipulated Vril, but I could hardly deconstruct their society from engineering principles alone.

There was a veiled figure right next to the Emperor. I only noted it because it was unusual, different from everything else.

Finally, there was the performer, a boy about sixteen, playing on a golden lyre. He wasn't bad, but I did expect a bit more for imperial entertainment. A bit too richly dressed.

"Foolish boy," Agrippina commented, observing the performer.

Her tone was familiar enough that I could guess who the young artist was. After all, he was famous, though not for the quality of his art.

"Is that your son?"

"Yes. Nero. As I mentioned, a foolish boy. Claudius is not one for amateur performers, especially Roman ones. He believes that it is beneath Roman dignity. Moreover, he held that Romans, unlike Greeks, make poor artists unless they fully dedicate themselves to it. And look at my boy, so proud. He should suspect a trap. I taught him better."

"Well, he couldn't have expected shapeshifting monsters."

"Not that. When the Emperor bestows honours with one hand, one would be wise to look for the dagger in the other."

"I didn't think Claudius would resort to such tactics."

"Not often. Still, there was a time when he ordered all amateur actors to gather and perform a play without any assistance. The gestures were wooden, the speeches poor, and the entrances and exits mistimed. Then Claudius had professionals perform the same play the next day. It was a lesson sharper than the executioner's blade. After that, the popularity of acting among the notable youth suddenly waned. So, instead of pride, my foolish son should feel fear."

"We should wait until he leaves before confronting them."

"Yes. If Claudius merely wished to embarrass him, it's a lesson that might do my boy some good. But I fear that's not the case."

"Why?"

"Because this gathering is very unusual. Look, the senators and knights present are neither close to the Emperor nor particularly notable. If they all disappeared tomorrow, few would notice. The guards, on the other hand, are of too high rank. These are men who command others, not ones who do the work themselves. And the slaves?"

"Slaves?"

"Too inferior for the Emperor's presence."

"Have you seen enough?" the emperor inquired, his gaze shifting towards the veiled figure.

"Yes," came the reply as the figure let the veil fall, revealing a boy identical to Nero. "I can play this role."

That answered many questions, including one particularly burning one: Had the Emperor been replaced?

"What are you?"

I handed the Mystic Code torch to Agrippina, knowing it would stay lit until its energy was exhausted or it was deliberately turned off, no matter who held it. And I would need my hands free for what was about to unfold.

I glanced at Archer and saw that he was already drawing his bow in preparation. A brief look towards Andrew confirmed he had taken out an Aperture rifle.

"What? Don't you mean who? I am Nero, of course," the impostor said, his tone more akin to a playful cat toying with a mouse than the reptile he truly was.

"I am Nero! You've taken this farce too far," Nero shouted.

"No. You are just meat."

"And now we feast," the false Emperor proclaimed.

I had heard enough. No further useful insights would be gleaned from mere observation; it was time for action.

As the transformation began, scales unfurling across the faces of guests and guards alike, their teeth sharpening into the jagged maws of predators, I activated the Reinforcement spell woven into the fabric of my toga. Among Magi, Mystic Codes were often referred to as Formal Wear, a moniker that hinted at their dual nature: items of attire or adornments that, in moments of need, became armaments as formidable as heavy armor, the wearer as formidable as if armed to the teeth.

With speed surpassing human limits, I moved, my muscles imbued with a supernatural, cursed strength. Yet, distance was against me; the imposter was alarmingly closer to Nero than I was.

A clean resolution was out of the question, but letting Nero come to harm was equally unthinkable. His destined time had not yet arrived; the course of history had to remain unaltered. And beyond the cold calculations of destiny, I could not stand the thought of a teenager being devoured by a monster—a flicker of compassion, perhaps my Achilles' heel.

As the imposter's claw lunged, aimed to strike, I countered, thrusting my hand forward to intercept. The claw's sharp tips pierced my flesh, sending a lance of searing pain through my being. Yet, no true Magus would cower at the kiss of pain.

A god," I heard Nero gasp.

In that split second, I understood his astonishment. My previous encounters, particularly the examination of a Vril-staff seized in the Black Forest, had furnished me with a basic understanding of how to store and utilize Vril. I had applied this knowledge to the Blood Slime, my symbiotic familiar that resided within my veins and arteries.

Automatically reacting to the injury, it released healing Vril, which had an unintended yet striking effect. My blood radiated with the golden glow of Vril, making it appear as the golden ichor of the gods.

Yet, this was a mere distraction, a fleeting thought, as most of my focus was riveted on the imposter before me. Claw against bare hand—it was an unequal contest, but not an unwinnable one My martial training was not for naught. Under the tutelage of Kirei, the Executor of the Holy Church, whose soul may have been as dark as the abyss and faith as hollow as a forgotten crypt, I had honed my skills. His legacy, however tainted, included unparalleled prowess in combating monsters.

And so, as the imposter rallied, swiftly recovering from my unexpected intervention, I readied myself to deploy Bajiquan, a martial discipline celebrated for its directness and the ruinous power it directs through the shortest, most straightforward paths. This art, honed to inflict internal chaos, offered a tactical edge against the reptilian's scale-armored hide.

Assuming a stance that was the quintessence of Bajiquan, I became an avatar of explosive force, each strike not merely aimed but destined to ravage from within.

In that moment of crystalline clarity, a revelation dawned—the potential harmony between Bajiquan's principles and the swordsmanship lessons of Glorfindel, blending the physical (hroa) and the spiritual (fea) into a unified force. It was an epiphany, to assail not merely the corporeal but to reach beyond, into the essence.

As the creature lunged, I moved with deliberate minimalism, stepping into its danger zone. Such proximity, seemingly ill-advised against a beast of lethal talons, was where Bajiquan thrived. I executed a swift, ascending palm strike beneath its ribcage, targeting a vulnerable point scantily guarded by its scales. The impact was meant to jolt its inner workings, a direct affront to its vitality.

This initial blow sparked a rapid series of punches, each not merely contacting but resonating within, akin to the reverberating strike upon a drum, orchestrating a symphony of destruction. Guided by an almost instinctual sense, I fine-tuned the resonance until it crescendoed, culminating in a final explosive thrust that propelled the impostor Nero towards the False Emperor.

The confrontation between the reptilian creature and me unfolded within the span of barely three breaths. Yet, in that brief moment, Archer had already executed his strategy. Several of the monsters were now impaled against the triclinium's walls, skewered not by mere arrows but by swords. My first thought was alteration magic, my attention caught by the peculiar trajectory of each strike. However, I quickly came to understand the true mechanism at play. It wasn't about casting a spell at the moment of release; rather, Archer was unraveling one.

The projectiles, in essence, were swords disguised by magic to resemble arrows. This ingenious ruse allowed them to maintain the velocity characteristic of an arrow, yet upon impact, they wielded the mass and lethality of swords.

This technique exploited a fascinating loophole in the manipulation of natural laws, merging illusion with reality to amplify combat efficacy. It represented a significant leap forward for Archer, who had primarily utilized Tracing, his specialized version of Projection Magecraft.

Projection Magecraft can be described as a spell that materializes the images held within the caster's heart into pseudo-matter, projecting the caster's internal world outward. Archer's innovation lay in using this to swap an object's reality with that of an illusion.

This approach bore a superficial resemblance to the techniques employed by the Peligor family, albeit via completely different means. It was a logical progression in exploring the concept of superposition, as demonstrated by items that traverse through adjunct worlds.

Archer had already mastered the addition of superposed object properties to real objects, effectively bestowing the former's characteristics onto the latter. This advancement merely extended that principle from the observable to the non-observable realm.

There was likely more depth to his method, but delving further into his Mysteries without invitation would be a breach of etiquette, even if he might not object.

His targets were carefully chosen to defend to slaves most in danger.

I had hoped that my intervention would draw their attention toward me, but it seemed the reptilians' gluttony had overpowered their tactical sense. Or perhaps they did not perceive me as a threat.

After all, to them, I was just a lone human—a creature they had not yet learned to fear. Not yet, anyway.

This might well be the first time they were encountering me, a consequence of experiencing time in a non-linear fashion.

Glancing back at the rest, I realized that, now out of the torch's range, Archer, Andrew, Agrippina, and Belisarius remained invisible to me.

Despite Archer's efficiency, there were too many reptilians and panicking slaves. Sooner or later, a human would fall.

I couldn't allow that. It wasn't compassion driving me, but pride. How dare they slay those I was trying to protect? And I knew Archer would feel guilty if that happened. I couldn't stand that.

Only I was allowed to hurt my husband. No one else.

Well, if they sought a visible threat, I was more than prepared to provide one.

It felt like flexing an imaginary muscle, pushing two worlds together. One wall of the triclinium dissolved, revealing a large, empty room beyond, its center dominated by a single tree made of twisted bone.

"Sound the goblin drums," I commanded, as the monsters gaped, astonished by the unreal sight before them.

Not all of them were distracted. One, too intent on its prey, reached with claws for a fallen, naked boy slave, its tunic already torn, ready for the feast. The sword struck, severing the reaching arm. Archer, ever vigilant, had intervened just in time.

The drums pounded in cacophonous, unnerving rhythms, and from the shadows beneath the twisted bone tree and the roar of its branches, goblins crawled forth.

They clamored, iron collars clinking, brandishing wicked weapons. The maces made of bone and adorned with spikes and skulls were their armaments of choice.

True to goblin custom, they spoke a debased version of the language of Man native to this region.

I was familiar with vulgar Latin, but no Latin was as vulgar as that spoken by goblins.

"For the Dark Lord!"

"No fool. That's forbidden!"

"Why?"

"Boss' squeeze does not like it."

"If he that good?"

"As they say, once you taste Elven cock, you never want to go back."

"I don't like cocks. Too chevy. Give me a nice juicy tight."

"Bright lord?"

"No. That's the other one. "

"Dim Lord!"

"For the Dim Lord!"

"For the Dim Lord!"

"For the Dim Lord!"

With the activation of the Bone Tree, a HUD seamlessly integrated into my field of vision. It was a sophisticated overlay that provided real-time tactical information. The edge of my vision now hosted a mini-map, where goblins were denoted by green dots, allies by blue, neutrals like the servants by gold, and enemies by red. The HUD also displayed a tally of the goblins, my current mana expenditure, and the rules of engagement—currently set to Preset One, designed to minimize collateral damage. But most crucially, it showed the integrity of the demon bindings, which stood at a solid hundred percent.

These weren't ordinary goblins; they were the demon-bound tree's dreams made manifest, nightmares conjured into reality from memories ingrained in bone.

The HUD was an illusion, a sophisticated form of communication the demon projected into my mind, in accordance with the terms of my binding. It was a modern adaptation of the ancient command for demons to assume a form that would be pleasing or useful to their summoner.

"Why are you cowering before mere snacks?" the false Emperor roared, hurling the lifeless body of the imposter Nero aside.

He wouldn't recover. My martial arts had inflicted more than just internal damage. When the false Nero drew my blood, he unknowingly sealed his fate. The Blood Slime, far from being a mere healing symbiote, resides within each drop of my blood. From his bloodied claws, now infiltrating his body, it began its ruthless consumption. Yet, the Blood Slime served dual purposes—not only as a weapon but also as an analytical tool.

In essence, this was a battlefield vivisection.

I remained stationary, vigilantly watching as the goblins clashed with the reptilians. From my vantage point, I could safeguard young Nero while staying prepared for the reptilians' escalation in hostility.

The Vril-staffs had not yet made an appearance. Possessing such advanced weaponry would turn the battle into a veritable goblin barbecue for the reptilians.

Yet, they opted to engage the goblins using only their innate weapons. I witnessed a goblin disembowelled by claws, its black blood and entrails spilling out. I observed reptilians crushing smaller goblins underfoot, rendering them into paste. I saw them bite into goblin flesh, gulping down the dark ichor.

Goblins, smaller and less robust, their makeshift armour no match for the reptilian scales, were vastly outpowered. Yet, their numbers seemed inexhaustible. For every goblin that fell, another emerged from the shadows of the Bone Tree.

Faced with an overwhelming enemy, some goblins attempted to flee. Goblins are inherently cowardly, a trait that, in the Black Forest, had aligned with my strategies, allowing me to tolerate it. Here, however, it proved detrimental.

The iron collars of the goblins who fled tightened, choking them—a slow, cruel death. If they would not serve as soldiers, they would serve as examples.

To fight meant almost certain death, but to flee guaranteed it.

Throughout the chaos, the unsettling beat of the goblin drums persisted.

And then, a sound of a lyre joined in, harmonizing with the drumbeat.

I spared a glance at young Nero and saw him beginning to play a similar melody on the lyre clutched in his hands. His trembling had ceased, but his young face was now twisted into a hateful sneer.

"You shouldn't listen to it," I advised him, referring to the drumbeat, "And definitely shouldn't play that melody."

"It makes me brave," he replied, still playing.

"It makes you hate," I countered, watching the battle unfold. None of the reptilians approached me or the slaves, who had gathered in a terrified huddle against the triclinium's other wall. The exit was illuminated by the light of the demon-bound torch. It was unseen but still unnerving. And the poor wretches had no will left to contest it.

The distraction worked beyond what I had expected. Yet, I showed none of that. Maintaining an appearance of complete control was my policy. If things went as planned, good. If the plan failed, I pretended it was part of a larger scheme. And if, like now, it succeeded beyond my greatest expectations, I pretended I had anticipated such an outcome from the start.

"Better to hate than to fear," Nero declared firmly, though he at least stopped echoing the discordant sound on his lyre. "And these monsters deserve it."

"But you do not," I remarked, noting that the first of the reptilians had fallen. It was the one that had shape-shifted into a double of Nero. This was to be expected. Between the shards of Blood Slime and the internal injuries I had inflicted, his Vril-gotten vitality would be the first to fail. "Hating enemies is where it begins. The next step is hating the world. And finally, hating yourself. The song of discord seeks to turn you into one of them: a hateful, wretched creature devoid of any virtue."

The goblins swarmed over a fallen reptilian monster, tearing chunks of flesh and gorging themselves. Eat or be eaten—the battle between these two kinds of cannibals had turned into a feast. The remnants of the Blood Slime in the corpse became a deadly gift when one unfortunate goblin ingested reptilian flesh along with it. I marked the incident in my HUD and issued orders. With a grim sense of satisfaction, the goblin's comrades turned on him, grabbing and, with howls and cheers, tossed him into the jaws of another reptile. Treacherous and cruel, but an effective path to victory. And, as a bonus, it provided additional data for me.

All that was left was to observe. This distraction succeeded beyond my expectations, but I was already formulating hypotheses as to why. The medium used to manifest the goblins was the drumbeat, predicated on the notion that where there were goblin drums, there would be goblins. But by its nature, the drumbeat was in part the essence of goblin, so the song that described them was heavily imbued with the Discord of their creator. To face such Discord required more noble resistance than the reptilians possessed, or else they would be subsumed by it.

Unfortunately, ethical testing of such a hypothesis, like exposing various test groups—from criminals to highly moral individuals—would be unethical to the extreme. And difficult to manage, for maybe one thief merely sought to feed one's family, while a high moral housewife could be consumed by envy.

Well, I would have to be satisfied with pure observation when I used the Bone Tree. Although examining my own thoughts, I should limit its use as well. I was acting a bit more ruthlessly than average.

As the battle began to wind down, Agrippina and the others suddenly became visible, appearing in the corner of the triclinium. For a moment, I wondered if my magical torch had failed, since I had not given her instructions on how to quench it. But then, I noticed she had used a piece of cloth to smother its light—a clever, mundane solution.

She rushed to her son, immediately beginning to fuss over him. Nero reacted predictably, showing that teenage boys being embarrassed by their mothers' fussing is a universal phenomenon.

Agrippina, while maintaining the dignity befitting her status, could not hide her concern. "Nero, are you harmed? Let me see," she insisted, her eyes scanning him for injuries.

"Mother, I'm fine!" Nero protested, trying to step back, a slight blush on his cheeks. "Really, it's just—"

Cutting through the familial exchange, I intervened, turning to Agrippina. "I suppose now is the time to proclaim your son the Emperor," I suggested. Nero shot me a grateful look. "As for Claudius, we could say he died of sickness."

"There's one problem with that," she responded thoughtfully.

"Yes, I imagine most would suspect you of poisoning him. But bearing such a reputation might be inevitable," I said.

"Not that," the Empress corrected me. "One of the monsters assumed the form of the Praetorian Prefect."

"Sextus Afranius Burrus? Now, that is indeed a complication," I acknowledged.

"Without him, proclaiming Nero is going to be difficult," Agrippina's observation shed light on the nuanced political realities of the time. The role of Sextus Afranius Burrus as the Praetorian Prefect wasn't just ceremonial; it was crucial for legitimizing the transition of power within the Roman Empire. His endorsement or proclamation was akin to a seal of approval from the Empire's military and bureaucratic backbone, a necessary step to ensure Nero's smooth ascension to the throne without inciting unrest or opposition.

In the intricate dance of Roman politics, the Praetorian Prefect's support could sway the Senate, the military, and even the common people. Burrus, known for his loyalty and influence, was a key figure in this delicate balance. His supposed death, or the usurpation of his identity by a monster, posed a significant complication. It wasn't merely a matter of finding another figurehead; Burrus's reputation for integrity and his pivotal role in the security of the state made him irreplaceable in the short term.

Moreover, Agrippina's position was precarious. As a woman in ancient Rome, her power was indirect, exercised through her influence over male relatives. The accusation of poisoning Claudius would be damaging enough, but her manoeuvring to install her son as Emperor needed to be flawless to avoid exacerbating suspicions or accusations of usurpation.

My concerns, however, transcended these immediate political intricacies. "Not just that. He's not fated to die for another five years," I said.

"You managed to break reality," Archer sarcastically commented, resorting to modern English. "Took you longer than I thought."

"What's going to happen now?" Andrew inquired, his voice laced with anxiety, a clear indicator of his inner turmoil. "Jane, Terry? Are they... are they gone? Never born?"

"Time is more resilient than you might think," I reassured him. "If this timeline ceases to lead to our future, it simply means we've stumbled into a parallel one."

"So, all your dire warnings?" Archer probed, a smirk in his voice. "Was that just you being melodramatic? I don't remember you being the theatre kid when we went to high school together."

"Not exactly. We need to place the ring into our past, not an alternate one. To create a closed time loop; otherwise, we couldn't have used it in the future to save Earth from the demon. Besides, I maintain a link to our original future. We'll just have to repeat the process until we get it right."

"Then why did you make it sound so critical?" Archer pressed.

"Because it is. Each trip consumes fuel and, more importantly, time. And our supply of both isn't infinite. The more effort we expend on this, the less we have to save Earth from that other invasion. The reptilians may be repugnant cannibals with a penchant for murdering humans, but ultimately, they're the lesser of our problems."

"Are they?" Archer pondered aloud. "Perhaps by focusing on the bigger picture, we overlook the pebble that starts an avalanche."

"So, Jane and Terry are okay?" Andrew sought clarification.

"Yes," I confirmed.

"And we have to do this all over again?"

"There's no point. The Praetorian Prefect was likely replaced before we even arrived."

"So, we travel further back?" Archer suggested a practical solution.

"No. If our actions didn't diverge the timeline, then this still is our past." I paused, contemplating. My intuition was signaling that this path was still viable, that this moment could still lead to our future. And then, various pieces of the puzzle clicked into place. The witches proclaimed Andrew as Praetorian. "We'll borrow a strategy from the reptilians' playbook."

"Explain," Archer demanded.

"If they can replace the Praetorian Prefect, so can we. Andrew, let me be the first to congratulate you on your new position."