The battle had only just begun.

John popped into existence near the mysterious globe of **** containing the swordsman that, by now, had to be Yarrick Dell. Such afforded him a decent view of the battle that ensued: Jane and Travolta were now in the clearing caused by whatever **** demolished the top floor of the school in this illusion barrier, and not by their choosing: swinging her warhammer mere inches from Rave's face was Moira Brighton, one of the few John considered contacting against the orders of Talon's text messages. Guess I should've gone to her anyways... John contemplated joining her plight against the mysterious "Collide" members... except for one missing piece of the puzzle. "Moira!"

Brighton raised her shield, deftly blocking what would've been a sucker punch from Travolta. Her steel boots sparked as she was sent skidding a full fifteen feet and nearly into John. Despite the ****, her poise remained unbroken. "Newman? I suppose it makes sense, now." She lifted her warhammer, eyeing Travolta as she contemplated her charge. John checked the score so far:

Travolta Meyer
Level 19 Martial Artist
<Collide>
391/1,195hp
100/100mp
Relationship: -2
The founder and leader of Collide, and a headstrong warrior with formidable, arguably superhuman strength.
Status Effects: Healing Stim (26 rounds remaining)

Jane Hollmey
Level 15 Chosen
<Collide>
132/690hp
86/340mp
Relationship: 7
Member of Collide with family ties to the Abyss Auction. Chosen to wield the Innate Light, a potent and malleable energy ****.
Status Effects: Healing Stim (28 rounds remaining)

Lady Moira Brighton
Level 17 paladin
<Warden of the Golden Rose>
700/700hp
3/100mp
Relationship: -5
Bearer of the Golden Rose, Heiress Apparent of the Brighton Clan, Holy Warrior of the Order, and an upright citizen with no tolerance for perversion save her own.
Status Effects: Extremely Sexually Frustrated (4 purple hearts)

What the Hell? Why would she be that horny in the middle of a... John suddenly recalled one of the few special items that survived his recent crafting spree: the vow keeper... a key that almost certainly fit into Moira's chastity belt. Oh... right. Kind of let that one get away from me- well fuck it, more importantly, these two were in way better shape when I left them, and Moira hasn't even taken a point of damage! "Have you just been tanking these two by yourself, and winning?"

"No one asked you!" Rave yelled.

"I was in luck, Mr. Newman: after all, it seems you already gave them something of a thrashing before I arrived. 'Collide' was always a mere irritation, thuggery of the lowest levels..." She gripped her hammer audibly, and readied for another charge. "But to think they'd try their hand at ****!"

"Whoa, whoa," John cut her off, "how did you even- wait, we need to talk about this for a minute!"

Moira didn't turn to address him, instead charging Travolta, who got into a grappling pose as if to catch the armored knight bearing down upon him. "Your troublesome ways ends here, kna.... ve?" Moira slowed her steps as she found herself in the art room. She looked back at the tunnel John had opened just before her, seeing him through it... just before it winked out. "... WHAT?!"

Her furious yell echoed up from the stairwell, and John winced at the sound of it. "Right, we've got maybe a few rounds before she gets back up here." Travolta and Rave exchanged confused glances, then looked back at him, expectantly. John offered them as warm a smile as he could manage, given the circumstance. "You two fought the blood mage, right?"

Rave, or Jane as John still knew her, raised an eyebrow. "Yeah... but I'm pretty sure you're the sucker Jimmie sensed coming in, so you shouldn't know that... or my real name, for that matt-"

"The stains on your clothes," John interrupted, a habit she was not going to tolerate for long. "I mean, I don't know really know what a blood mage does... but that's a ton of drying blood. Then there's the bloody wrap on his knuckles." Travolta didn't bother following his pointing finger to his hand; the ache of his healing veins was enough of a reminder. "I mean, I guess that could be from fighting Moira? But she kind of just... beats people to **** in single blows, so all these little wounds- I'm sorry. The point is that I'm missing one smuggler if this one's the swordsman, and then there's you two with half your HP missing."

Travolta's turn to interrupt came with a quirked eyebrow. "HP?"

"Health points?" Rave asked, mirroring his expression.

"Y-Yeah... look, I don't have time. Am I right? Did you two fight or defeat the blood mage?" Heavy, armored footsteps could be heard echoing from the stairwell.

"Yeah," Travolta finally answered, "and I take it you took care of the Hellbat?"

"Y-Yeah, in a sense..."

"In a sense?"

"She's not going to bother anyone anymore," John assured, raising open hands to try and calm the man.

"I'm going to need a bit more than-"

"Baldy, relax," Rave sighed, "we've got more important questions... like how do you know me?! Answer me now before we get another inter-"

"NEWMAN!" Moira yelled, her hair a bit messed by her furious stomping.

"Oh for fuck's sake, Moi-moi!"

"Think you can send her down again... Newman?" Travolta smirked, but he didn't dare take his eyes off the paladin.

"I'm... not sure I would want to- Moira!" John called out, walking to intercept her march to Collide. "Relax! They're not the enemy!"

She did not slow her march until she came within a few feet of John, her hammer extended like an accusing digit. "Do not pretend to know the interests of my Order, Mr. Newman, now get out of my way! The sooner I beat the location of the Gorbachev out of them, the sooner we can rescue her."

<Fairy, get Tricia up here!>

<As you wish, Master!>

Huh... Fairy seemed oddly happy about that one- Tricia and Fairy blinked into existence... just above his head. Fairy's wings fluttered, and Tricia's ****, naked body fell onto John, forcing him to catch her in his arms. The Collide members stared in surprise. John stared in surprise. Moira stared in surprise, and then disbelief, and then anger. "What... the Hell... do you think you're doing, John Newman?"

John stared down at the limp body in his hands, his left hand accidentally cupping her breast, his right finding a handhold by scooping her cootch. She moaned under his unintentional ministrations. "I-... I, uh," John stared daggers up at Fairy, who began to fly loops overhead as she whistled a happy tune. "I... rescued her?"

"No... I'm still a virgin, John, please..." The tiny voice came from the girl in his arms, and the blood began to drain from John's face.

Tricia, as John would learn in time, is infamous among her drones for being a sleep-talker. She only slept once every week, and only for four hours, as estimated to be necessary even with the physiological and mental regulatory aid of her suit. While the latter could inhibit her conscious mind, however, her **** mind was still the playground of her true self. By this medium, all manner of mutterings had been recorded, reviewed, and promptly deleted by the Gorbachev scion, mostly out of embarrassment. Her drones, meanwhile, pretended to have forgotten or to never have cared, but pay close mind as part of their monitoring protocols, picking up names of sexual partners not yet met, of enemies not yet fought, and any other potential, unintended revelations from a lineage famed for, among other things, a gift for prescience. She had an average prediction success rate of 3%, well below any likelihood that she truly has the gift of the seer, and so her sleepy-time mutterings were likely to be nothing more than that. But this fact was lost on anyone who wasn't a tiny, floating drone with a microphone attachment in her living quarters. It was certainly lost on Moira, whose anger multiplied.

"Your crimes can be ignored no longer, John Newman."

"I-It was only anal, I was-!"

"... WHAT." Everyone did a double-take, and Fairy continued her laughing spree above... and her mirth only paused when she heard the sound of steel.

*

One floor below the scene, a nervous Jimmie was on edge following what sounded like an entire platoon of knights marching up the staircase nearby. As such, he nearly jumped out of his chair as the Fateweaver device on the table before him sputtered, surged with an electric pulse, and winded down until it was silent and dead. "That... That's... not supposed to happen."

*

Everyone turned to the sudden noise. It was the noise of ringing steel, true, but it had too much bass, it was too loud, and it reverberated throughout the entire trap barrier, sending an uncomfortable chill into each body. It was wrong, as if their minds screamed at them that what they heard couldn't possibly be, and only Travolta and Rave could show an informed level of shock at the sight of it: a full foot of a katana blade sticking out of the inner-trap's dome. Behind it kneeled a man, his arm arched back as he held the rest of the blade's length inside the tiny bubble, with the butt of the beautiful hilt, there in his right hand, touching the opposing wall. It defied logic: there was no room for him to pull the blade and push it through the barrier even if it wasn't made of reality, a factor that was the only real question on the minds of Rave and Travolta. He would've had to angle it through, though his kneeling position left no room to do that; what's more, the sheathe by his side, now empty, was already angled upwards near where his sword hand rested, such was the tight fit of his prison. How did he even draw it? None saw it happen, save Fairy... and she was no longer laughing.

<Master, we need to get out of here.> John barely registered her words, looking instead at the strange claim of his Gamer's eye on the sword's tip.

Umbral Voice of Southern Winds: unique relic. The blade is made from voidsteel, an Outside material that makes it effectively indestructible but also makes it consume the lifeforce of any soul who wields it. The entire blade is magically void; it cannot be affected by spells, and spells cannot resist its edge. Wounds made by the Umbral Voice are opened within the Tapestry of reality, preventing all damage resistance, including divine, preventing healing except by paragon or divine magic, and making it capable of damaging leylines.

The bubble vanished in a single pulse of solid white, and the sword vanished with it as if it were an illusion. The gorgeous hilt found itself buried back inside its sheathe, and silver chains held it there as if it had never been drawn. The man stood, smiling as he took in a strong inhale of fresh air. His eyes were gentle, and he looked at each person present with a friendly curiosity. "Well now... that was a unique challenge! Finding and cutting the leyline of a trap barrier, even a bad copy of one, is not something I thought I'd have to do under the duress of suffocation... but these little tests are the spice of life, yes? Indeed, haha!"

Rave and Travolta braced for the man; they already saw what they reckoned to be his ability to teleport, and the moment he vanished again they'd be ready to spin around and fight his next cowardly attack. Moira hefted the warhammer onto her shoulder as she appraised the man. "Are you with these... 'Collide' ne'er-do-wells, then?"

"Can it, Moi-moi," Rave interjected. "Weeaboos aren't our style."

"He's with the smugglers," Travolta added. "... the ones who were actually trying to kidnap the naked girl."

"I suppose I was." Yarrick spoke in a light-hearted manner, leaning back as he stood, never bothering to draw the ugly, damaged hilt his left thumb rested on. His right hand, meanwhile, remained at his cloth belt, the same light blue of his kimono, and casually gripped it despite the ugly black burns that traveled out from his palm like lightning. "I couldn't quite tell from being inside that little trap of yours, but... I take it they've been defeated?"

"Dead as doornails," Rave spat, "just like you will be soon enough, you lame-ass Kenshin villain rip-off."

"We're too good for weeaboos, huh?" Travolta mused, glancing at Rave... and then looking beyond her to John Newman.

The young man, who had somehow defused the Hellbat, had not spoken up... and apparently it had been because he was too afraid to speak. John's mouth hung agape, his eyes were wide, and his brows were arched in an expression of mortal terror. He clutched onto Tricia as if she would be taken away at any moment, oblivious now to his inappropriate grip on her. He said nothing, and only stared at the samurai-wannabe... or rather, at some point in space just above the guy's head.

"Newman." John finally snapped out of his staring, and looked at Travolta with a confused glance. "We don't have time for introductions, or for Brightons. Are you with us to take this guy out?"

John didn't answer with any words, and simply stared back at Yarrick, the man Rurik Talon had described as being as strong as the blood mage he didn't even get to meet, but who was defeated by people barely above John's level. It dawned on John, then, that the Artificer lacked his ability to read actual levels. "How the Hell... is this even close...?"

Yarrick Dell
Level 55 Warrior Amalgamation
<No Affiliations>
16,424/17,215hp
1/1,193mp
Relationship: 0
A time-spanning amalgamation of several generations of warriors. Origin unknown. Creator unknown. Bears the Hate of Abaddon.
Status Effects: Abysswalker, Greased Lightning, Hate of Abaddon, Hide Presence (High, Empowered, Eternal), Throne Breaker, Void Mind

[Hello dear readers! TheFunatic has opened a Discord server for readers to interact with the authors of The Gamer, CHYOA Edition, and has welcomed any who'd like to chat about any particular branch (each one has its own discussion group), insult Warhammer armies they don't like (also a discussion group), or just shoot the shit with us in the general assembly. If you'd like to get the server info, just PM me or comment requesting it and I'll send it over as soon as I can!]