The First Great Game (A Litrpg/Harem Series)

Chapter 161: Do you not see the demon?

Ilya watched Blake fade from her dream, so desperate for him to stay she woke in a cold sweat. She blinked awake and slowly turned to look from her cage, and found the demon's red eyes staring from the closest bars. She covered the scream with her hand, heart sprinting as the demon smiled.

"Dreams within dreams, is it? Oh yes, pretty orc. I sensed the magic. Your doomed hero can't hide from me. No. Not from me."

The creature pushed away from the cage and flapped its wings, red eyes blazing as it stretched and flexed its huge, muscled body.

"I must wait," it said again and again. "Wait, wait, wait. Dream dream dream. Then eat and torture little orcs. No, no," it laughed. "Torture and eat. That's the way, torture then eat."

Ilya sat up and cleared her mind. If the creature was trying to terrify her, it was doing a rather good job. She hadn't seen any spells from Blake that convinced her he could kill this demon. Moving objects was very impressive but she could see no way to use it to destroy such a powerful thing. Drop the cage on him, maybe? Unlikely.

His mind magic would surely not work. Demons were said to use such spells, and his recognition of the dream magic seemed proof enough. Did he have more? Something she hadn't seen? Probably. But his plan to kill Gromsh seemed largely to use orc warriors. No. Ilya needed to help him.

The only way she could see to do that was to speak to the spirits of the dead oracles who came before her. Her mother had said it was dangerous magic that could wake the wrong spirits, but Ilya saw no other choice. She could either sit in her cage, useless and helpless until the inevitable end. Or she could take a chance.

With a grim smile, she thought maybe the spirits would fight with the demon. Of course, if they were powerful enough to do that, then only the gods knew what they'd do to Ilya when they were finished.

She closed her eyes and started her spell. She had to repeat the words of the ancient orc clans in perfect order, then the names of her ancestors in an unbroken line. One of the functions of the oracles has always been to remember the history of their people, but they had learned that great power came from the spirits of the dead.

She spoke the words, and the names, ignoring the demon's taunts when it heard her. She blocked out the world as her mother taught her, imagining the flame of a single candle, the soft feel of the blankets with her hands.

She smiled when she got to the names of her grandparents, then her parents, and siblings. As she felt the magic swirling around her, and read the names, a strange feeling of warmth seemed to fill something she'd been missing inside. It was loneliness, she realized—the magic and the spirits seemed to be filling up a missing piece of her spirit, reminding her of who she was.

She opened her eyes, and the ghostly forms of a dozen orc crones stood staring from the far side of her cage.

"Impudent girl," whispered one hoarsely. "Where is her offering? Where are her robes of clan and kin?"

"Do you not see the demon, Agrita?" A bent old orc matriarch practically hissed until the others cleared her a path to sit in a ghostly chair. She smiled at Ilya with a single tooth. "Go on, girl. You've cast your spell correctly, and thank the gods for that. Now tell us what you wish of us."

Ilya tried not to be awed or terrified, fighting a panic that threatened to blank her mind and tongue. "A...warrior will come to face the demon,” she said. “He will need my help. Can you teach me a...spell? To hurt the creature? To do something?"

Several of the old oracles tsked and scoffed but the old crone waved a hand at them. "You don't kill demons with magic, child. Save for the kind you touch them with, and I wouldn't recommend trying that. Give me your staff, Agrita." The crone stretched out a ghostly hand, and the other old orc glared until she obeyed.

"Here we are. Grip this, girl. Don't be frightened. Come, come, I'm not getting any younger."

Ilya seized it with a trembling hand, wincing at the icy cold touch.

"There we are now," said the old crone, her eyes losing their kindly warmth. Her voice harshened and the crones chanted in unison, and Ilya couldn't seem to take her hand off the staff.

"Wait...you’re hurting me…stop..." the cold seeped down her hand, lancing through her until her chest ached and her breath frosted in the air. "Please," she whispered, feeling still and powerless and heavy, so very heavy.

"Join uss," whispered the oracles. "Join uss."

Ilya's eyes drooped and the world faded, and she felt like she was dying. Her last thoughts were in apology to her family, and to Blake for coming to face the demon for no reason. But she couldn't wait to see her kin in the afterlife.

* * *

Ilya woke with a groan, and a cramp in her hand so terrible she cried out and slowly released a grip she felt she'd been holding for eternity. She was alive. She was alive! Wasn't she?

[Item gained: Staff of the Ancient Stoneblood Oracles. May it serve you as it served your forebears. Enhances all restorative and spiritual casting. Stirs cauldrons pretty well. Hurts quite a lot when striking uppity youths.]

[Class removed: Apprentice Oracle.]

[Class gained: Oracle of the towers. Please select your class powers.]

Ilya was holding a dark, wooden staff much like her mother’s, but this one held some kind of red gem clutched at its head. She ran her fingers over the whorls and lines in the wood, then finally over the smooth surface of the ruby. "Thank you, ancestors," she whispered as she stared at the text, vision blurred slightly by her tears.

A long list of potential powers scrolled before her eyes, but she could only choose three.

The oracles said she couldn't kill the demon with magic, so the offensive options made little sense. One day, perhaps, but first she had to survive and get out of this cage.

Healing and vision magic had always been the fundamentals of the Oracle, so she felt she had little choice but to take at least one. Second Sight or Far Seeing wouldn't help her, not with this—as they showed hidden objects or let her see into the distance, respectively. So she chose Healing Wind first. It wasn't as powerful as the touch version, but she could heal Blake through the bars at range.

Now for the difficult choices. Oracles also had powerful enhancement spells, but these were largely for warriors. Like Shamans, she could also take spells to resist magic. Finally, she could summon spirits in battle, or command beasts in various ways. Both appealed to her, but again likely wouldn't do much to the demon.

With little delay, she took a single target enhance power—Fortify Body, and a single target resist—Protection. The first would channel her mana into thick layers of strength and vitality, making even the slight wizard into a warrior for a time. Protection would make him all but immune to any kind of magic that tried to harm him physically, at least until Ilya’s mana ran dry.

She clenched her jaw and then her staff with her other hand, uncertain if she'd made the best choices, but knowing it was far better than nothing. The demon was staring again, eyes squinted as it inspected the staff and sniffed around the cage.

"Why do I smell dead things?" it growled. "Dead she-orcs. Dried up wombs and dried up souls. What have you done, you sneaky little thing?"

For the first time Ilya met the creature's eyes, still afraid but brave enough now to face it. She clutched her ancestor's staff and stared through the bars, showing her fangs.

"You will soon see, Kazikdra," she said with as much courage as she could manage. "The Stonebloods remember. We killed your kind once. We will do so again."

The demon stared and stared as it flapped its huge wings. It no longer smiled. Though Ilya wasn't sure if that was less frightening, or more.

* * *

Blake leaned against the cold stone and closed his eyes, trying to find a moment of calm. His mind was getting...rather busy.

His fifth permanent construct joined the others in the armory, and Blake took a breath and inspected them. His mana was nearly gone but that didn't matter, controlling them didn't take any. What it did take was incredible focus and quick thinking, which drained his mind in other, far less system-calculated ways.

He could set the constructs on simple 'modes' that dictated behavior, basically 'defensive' or 'offensive' in video game terms that just meant bodyguards or aggressive murder-bots. But he could also program them with all kinds of greater detail, much like his Mental Partition. And he could also command them individually with far more control if he focused.

His constructs stood in a line, all thin, light humanoids to accommodate their wings. Two were Psionic Affinity, three Arcane. Blake's plan was to send in the Psionic first to distract and absorb the creature's attention, then for the arcane to attack and use their super-heated strikes. If that all failed, his plan was to bust Ilya out of her cage, and run like hell.

But first he needed a little practice. The Maker Hall had a huge, cavernous ceiling, with plenty of room to fly around. With one last deep breath, and a quick check to make sure he had enough mana for Telekinesis, Blake ordered a construct to carry him into the air.

It seized him rather roughly, then furiously beat its wings and leapt, but clearly couldn't ascend with the added weight. He brought in a second construct, and together they managed to lift him up.

He swore and grunted in pain as they damn near pulled him apart, then re-adjusted their position to keep him balanced between.

"Be careful, master!" Navi zipped up and flew beside him, the orb able to 'fly' with no discernible concern for physics.

"How do you fly, anyway?" Blake said, trying to find a slightly more comfortable position between his minions.

"Am I flying?" Navi looked down and spun several rotations before it stopped. "I guess I am!"

Blake rolled his eyes, then winced as his minions took him high enough to break his legs if he fell. "OK," he muttered. "Now don't rip me apart. Or drop me."

He commanded them to fly him back and forth, then circle around the cavern. The air rushed past him, and after a minute or two of constant panic, he had to admit, this was pretty bloody fun.

"OK," he glanced at the hard stone floor. "Now set me down. Gently."

The constructs descended, their strange, almost rubbery wings slowing in their movements and expanding to kind of drift them down. Blake stumbled a little as his shoes hit the ground. But all things considered, it had all gone rather well.

“Right." He re-arranged his dirty clothes and shook off the fear, again inspecting his constructs. What he needed now, he decided, was something to destroy.

He glanced at Lumiere, who watched quizzically not far off, shrinking slightly at Blake's gaze. Then he smiled, deciding on a solution. First he needed a little more mana. Then it was time for robot wars.