Statistics To Remember
The chamber was cold.
Not from the stone walls or the lack of firelight, but from the silence—the kind that wasn't empty, but watchful. Seven chairs were arranged in a crescent, facing a long curved table behind which three Keepers sat. Their robes were immaculate, ash-white and trimmed in silver thread. Their mouths were veiled in thin bands of black silk.
The veils were not for show.
They did not speak.
They couldn't.
Each had willingly severed their tongue in service to their oath—truth unspoken, but forever remembered.
Veros stood behind them, not as an administrator or figurehead now, but as the voice of the Order. His presence carried weight, but it wasn't burdensome. It was the weight of expectation. Of trust.
"We begin," he said, hands folded behind his back.
No ceremony. No oath spoken.
He didn't need one.
Each member of the party gave their account in turn.
Thessa was the first to speak—her voice strained, yet honest. She did not hide her moment of weakness, nor the pain of it. Her words were sparse, but heavy. She admitted what she saw, what she wanted, and how it broke her. She ended with a quiet plea that the record be preserved in full.
Junen spoke next—clear, sharp. She described Greed's influence with precision, noting how it eroded focus, how it crept in by appealing to survival, to fear of failure. She mentioned how her sanctum wavered near the end, how even the strongest shields could bend under the weight of unvoiced desire.
Wren's account was softer. She had seen visions not of power, but of belonging—an academic utopia, herself at the center, honored and adored. The realization that it was built on control over others haunted her still. "It offered me the feeling of being needed," she whispered. "And in doing so, it almost made me forget what it meant to choose freely."
Deker was brief. "I just wanted to make something that lasted," he said. "Not because it was needed… because people would know I made it." He scratched the back of his neck. "Greed made that feel… bigger than it was."
Terron chuckled dryly when his turn came. "Mine wasn't subtle. I saw myself alone on a battlefield. Bodies everywhere. No one left to protect. Just me and my hammer. And the silence." His tone faded at the end. "It offered me rest in the shape of slaughter."
Maia hesitated longest.
Her words came slow, wrapped in the pain of what she almost lost. "I saw Oria saved," she said. "I saw a city without plague. Without fear. Koda at my side. A child in my arms. Everything perfect… except none of it had been earned. It was handed to me like a gift I didn't remember fighting for." She looked down. "I would have taken it… if he hadn't been there."
And then it was Koda's turn.
He stood.
The room waited.
"I saw them," he said quietly. "Maia. Our daughter. A life that could have been. Peace without struggle. Love without sacrifice."
He paused, looking at the scribes.
"At first I thought it was a lie. Then I realized it wasn't. It was a promise. Greed's promise. Everything I've ever wanted, without the cost."
His voice didn't rise. But the weight behind it filled the room.
"And I almost stayed."
Veros didn't interrupt. He let the silence hold.
Koda looked down at his hands.
"I want that life. Still. But not like that. I want to build it. I want to bleed for it. I want to earn it."
He sat again.
Only then did Veros step forward.
He looked to the scribes, who were already carving into their scrolls.
Then back to Koda.
There was a different look in his eyes now—not just respect, but a near-reverence.
"Would you allow it?" Veros asked. "For your vision to be shared more broadly. With the people. Carefully worded. Filtered, yes—but clear. I believe it would inspire them."
He took a breath.
"Because I believe… that wanting peace, wanting family, and rejecting power to preserve it… is exactly the kind of greed the world should see in its heroes."
Koda didn't answer right away.
He looked down at his hands—still stained faintly from the scar's remains—and then turned his gaze to Maia beside him. Her expression was unreadable at first, a calm mask built from too many battles and not enough sleep.
The chamber was still, the only sound the slow scraping of the Keepers' pens as they recorded every breath of the moment. The question Veros had posed lingered, not like a command, but a hope. And hope was heavier than any order.
Koda's mind turned inward.
The vision of Greed still echoed through him, not as temptation now, but as memory. A daughter's laughter. A garden in bloom. A home without scars. It wasn't just his dream. It had never been. Maia had been woven through every moment of it—her smile in the sun, her hand in his, her voice soft as wind through leaves. It was their future. Not imagined. Desired.
To make it public felt like peeling back the armor he'd just begun to rebuild. But it wasn't shame holding him still. It was reverence. That vision had been sacred. And now, someone wanted to show it to the world.
So he turned to Maia.
Her expression was unreadable at first—poised, still, her brows slightly drawn in thought. The firelight cast a soft glow on her cheek, catching the faintest shimmer of tired tears not yet shed. But when his gaze met hers, something shifted.
She smiled.
Not wide. Not proud. Present.
And then, she nodded.
A simple gesture, filled with meaning.
Then she leaned closer, brushing her shoulder against his. "I don't mind," she murmured.
Her voice carried only to him, but it was clear. Real.
Then the corners of her lips lifted, and a soft, teasing lilt colored her words. "You realize… you're basically going to be confessing to me again, but this time in front of every noble, general, and curious gossip in the kingdom."
She giggled—quiet, quick, and unguarded.
It slipped past the quiet tension in the room like light breaking through cracked stone. That sound—so rare, so Maia—unlocked something in Koda's chest he didn't realize he'd locked shut.
He looked at her, and all the weight of Greed's false promises, the power he had refused, the pain he had chosen instead of peace—it all made sense.
If he could carry that weight and still hear her laugh, still hold her hand—
Then he could bear anything.
He turned back to Veros.
His voice, when it came, was even. Clear.
"If the world needs a hero," Koda said, "then let it be a man who didn't want to be one."
He paused, the firelight catching in his eyes.
"Let them know I saw a future worth wanting. And that I chose to fight for it. Not steal it. Not fake it. Earn it and make it real."
Veros inclined his head, just slightly. His eyes reflected something close to reverence.
The Keepers didn't nod. Didn't react.
But their hands never stopped moving.
Every word etched in ink.
The truth—not perfect, not clean, but honest—would be remembered.
And Koda, for all his restraint, felt something steady inside him now. Not pride. Not relief.
Resolve.
The world wouldn't be saved by stories.
But maybe, just maybe, it could start with one told right.
Koda leaned forward slightly in his seat, hands resting atop his knees, the quiet confidence in his voice echoing through the scribe chamber.
"I want more than just memory preserved," he said, eyes locked on Veros. "If we're going to prepare for the other fragments of sin, we need more than stories."
Veros furrowed his brow, intrigued. "What do you propose?"
"A record," Koda replied. "Of us. A baseline. So the Order understands what's truly required to stand against a fragment. Not speculation. Data."
He turned his head slightly and looked at the others. "Let the city know what kind of strength it really takes."
The Keepers' pens poised, unmoving, waiting for consent.
One by one, the others nodded. Then Maia stepped forward.
----
Maia of the Holy Mother
Level: 27
HP: 130
Mana: 120
Stamina: 66
Stats:
Strength: 5
Vitality: 13
Agility: 5
Intelligence: 12
Wisdom: 16
Endurance: 5
---
The scribes scratched their quills across parchment, the veils over their mouths shifting faintly with breath.
---
Terron of the Divine Shield
Level: 28
HP: 140
Mana: 50
Stamina: 112
Stats:
Strength: 17
Vitality: 14
Agility: 7
Intelligence: 5
Wisdom: 5
Endurance: 9
---
Veros glanced briefly at Terron. "You've grown faster than most of our guards do in years."
Terron shrugged. "I hold the line. That's what I do."
---
Wren of the Divine Librarian
Level: 25
HP: 50
Mana: 150
Stamina: 74
Stats:
Strength: 5
Vitality: 5
Agility: 9
Intelligence: 15
Wisdom: 11
Endurance: 9
---
Her tone was modest when she added, "I prefer not to get hit."
---
Deker of the Divine Librarian
Level: 28
HP: 60
Mana: 180
Stamina: 64
Stats:
Strength: 5
Vitality: 5
Agility: 7
Intelligence: 18
Wisdom: 14
Endurance: 10
---
A proud glint shone in his eyes. "I do more with less."
---
Thessa of the Holy Mother
Level: 30
HP: 140
Mana: 150
Stamina: 68
Stats:
Strength: 5
Vitality: 14
Agility: 5
Intelligence: 15
Wisdom: 15
Endurance: 5
---
She stood taller when her turn ended, her voice strong. "I've made mistakes. But I've grown with them."
---
Junen of the Holy Mother
Level: 27
HP: 150
Mana: 50
Stamina: 114
Stats:
Strength: 15
Vitality: 15
Agility: 5
Intelligence: 5
Wisdom: 5
Endurance: 11
---
Junen added quietly, "I was built for one thing—protection. And that's what I'll keep doing."
Veros's jaw tensed as the last of the numbers were recorded.
He stepped back and looked over the group again. Not with skepticism. With something closer to awe.
"These numbers…" he murmured. "This kind of balance, power, endurance… any one of you would be a cornerstone of a warband. But as a unit?"
He shook his head slightly. "You're already at the level of field generals. All of you."
He looked back toward the scribes, then to Koda.
"The records will speak of your deeds. But your numbers alone will be studied by every command post, every high-ranking tactician. You've reshaped the bar for what a hero's party truly is."
The room was still for a long moment.
And for the first time since their return, it felt real—
That they had become something far larger than themselves.
All eyes turned to him.
Koda stood slowly. There was no hesitation in his movement—only calm, the kind forged under a mountain of fire. He gave the briefest glance to Maia, who met his gaze with the quiet confidence of someone who had already seen the depth of him. Then to his team, each member subtly bracing, not for surprise—but for the impact they knew was coming.
He stepped forward.
The Keepers raised their pens.
Veros opened his mouth to speak, to request the details—
But Koda was already raising his window for them them.
---
Koda of the Eternal Guide
Level: 40
HP: 660
Mana: 660
Stamina: 660
Stats:
Strength: 66
Vitality: 66
Agility: 66
Intelligence: 66
Wisdom: 66
Endurance: 66
---
The tension hung in the air like a thunderclap with no sound.
For a moment, no one moved.
Even the scribes—disciplined, emotionless, silent—froze mid-script. One of them dropped his quill. The scratch of it hitting the floor echoed through the chamber like a bell toll.
Veros's expression shattered from reverent curiosity to pure disbelief. He stepped forward instinctively, scanning Koda up and down, as if seeing him for the first time.
"Sixty-six… in every stat?"
Koda gave a slight nod.
"Your HP, mana, stamina—660 each?"
Another nod.
Veros looked back at the parchment. Then at the scribes. They were staring at Koda now, as if he had walked out of scripture. One had pressed a hand to his chest. Another trembled with the weight of what they were writing.
Junen's jaw set slightly, her gaze sharpening—not in challenge, but in awe.
Deker muttered something low, inaudible, eyes wide.
Wren whispered, "No wonder…"
Terron exhaled a long, low breath and gave a faint nod like something had finally clicked.
Thessa, visibly shaken, crossed her arms over her chest. "That's not just growth. That's divine alignment."
Maia said nothing.
She simply took a step closer to him, placing a hand gently at the small of his back.
Veros's voice, when it came again, was tight with disbelief and reverence all at once. "This… this isn't the product of battle. Or training. Not entirely."
"No," Koda said softly. "It's the system. It's the path. It's balance. It's temperance. It's Charity."
Veros looked down at the record slowly being etched into immortal ink.
"History will remember this number."
He met Koda's gaze again.
"And it will remember the moment the scales changed."