A Waste of Time-Chapter 4: Splinters of Self

Daemon sat alone inside the tent, wrestling with the annoying, tingling muscle pain.
But his focus was mostly on the movements of his clone, which crept silently through the woods thanks to Da Niu's hard-earned familiarity after living there for months.
With the small axe in its hand, plus its sharp, almost animal-like instincts, Daemon felt oddly calm watching it gather fruits and edible herbs. A strange, detached sense of security settled over him, knowing his other self was out there — a living extension of his will.
He wasn’t worried for his clone's safety; in fact, he was more worried for his own.
Especially since he’d be the one on the receiving end of any negative aftereffects. If his clone had to fight or run for its life, his poor body — already at its limit — wouldn’t survive the strain!
That's enough, come back.
Daemon ordered when he saw his clone with a full bowl.
“But there’s plenty more up ahead,” the clone protested.
I'm starving. You can gather whatever you want once I’m full.
Daemon growled, inwardly cursing the idiot for being so over-enthusiastic about every task. He had to admit it was a little funny, but it was also extremely dangerous.
“Fine!” The clone stomped back unwillingly.
A couple of minutes later, it stormed into the tent after washing everything in a nearby creek. “Here, enjoy!” it said, dumping the contents of the wooden bowl into Daemon's lap before turning and leaving.
Daemon shook his head, then started stuffing his mouth while keeping track of the clone’s movements. Honestly, the taste of some of these herbs was borderline disgusting, but right now, he had no choice at all.
His nutrition tank was empty — the situation called for an urgent refill. Waiting could mean fainting, getting sick, or worse.
At some point during his meal, Daemon closed his eyes to endure a mouthful of extremely sour fruit.
At that exact moment, he found himself standing on a narrow road suspended in the sky.
To the left, endless snow avalanches mimicked a waterfall. On the right, lava cascaded down into the abyss.
Ahead was a colorful wheel with strange names: Elementals, Abyssals, Infernals, Draconians, Avians, Netherworld, Heavens, and many more. But the size of each section varied wildly — the piece labeled Heavens was no more than a sliver, barely three fingers wide!
[Spin the wheel to choose a Hero]
Before Daemon could even think, the message appeared.
“Uh... how do I spin—” But once he said the word “Spin,” the wheel moved automatically, without him lifting a finger. Still, Daemon’s eyelid twitched. Whoever was behind this didn’t care about his opinion at all.
Sigh. Just go with the flow, Daemon. You can’t afford to offend anyone now. Hopefully I’ll be back before that idiot does something stupid.
He watched the wheel spin and spin until it finally slowed, bit by bit.
Ding
“Fiend, huh. Judging by the size of this section, the rarity’s second only to Netherworld and Heavens. Hopefully that’s good, but... what’s a Hero, exactly?” he muttered, not expecting an answer. Right before his eyes, the names vanished, replaced by life-like avatars — then the wheel spun again.
Ding
“Asura. I know that one — three heads, six arms.”
[Spin the wheel to choose a Faction]
Daemon felt unreasonably rushed through this surreal ordeal, but he knew better than to complain. So he said, “Spin,” resisting the urge to roll his eyes.
Ding
“The Horde?” Daemon frowned. His third spin had earned him one of the least rare results. Even humans, demi-humans, or beast-kin were ranked higher! A familiar wave of disappointment — the universe mocking him with bad luck — washed over him.
[One Dice Roll per day]
The scenery shifted. The left side was now a lightning storm hammering a raging ocean; the right, a battlefield where rivers of blood flowed.
In his hand appeared a dice, as big as his head. Ahead, the road split into six black-and-white tiles.
The first black tile glowed ominously red with “???”
The second white tile read “Faction Summon” in green.
The third black tile read “Wave” in orange.
The fourth white tile read “Construct” in blue.
The fifth black tile read “Quest” in gold.
The sixth white tile read “Hero Summon” in purple.
“Roll.” Daemon muttered the word, mentally scratching his head over all this.
Ding
His first attempt ended with the dice showing 2.
A blink later, he sat on a simple iron throne in a clearing somewhere in the woods. In front of him, a campfire burned — but strangely, he could see everything around him, front, back, sides, without turning his head.
The extra four arms were just the cherry on top.
“What is this?” Daemon muttered, moving his six arms and glancing around as he rose from the iron throne.
[Heroes Altar: Indestructible]
“Hmmm... if that explains this throne, then what about this thing?” Daemon said, eyeing the swirling circle of light suspended behind the altar.
[Summoning Circle: Indestructible]
[Number of Summons Available: 1]
[Type of Summon: Faction Summon]
[Nature of Summon: Two-Way Summon]
“What does
two-way summon
mean?” Daemon asked.
Tsk. Of course you’re ignored, Daemon. It’s a grave sin to question your betters.
He sighed and said, “Summon.”
Omm
The swirling light pulsed bright — and from within stepped out a green foot.
“Hmmm... a Goblin? No... since when were Goblins this bulky? But it isn’t exactly an Orc either!” Daemon circled the creature that emerged. The squat Orc knelt on both knees and lowered its head.
“Greetings, Lord Asura.”
[Grunt: Tier-0]
[Race: Orc]
[Faction: Horde]
[Worker/Builder/Gatherer/Miner]
[Strength: 3]
[Agility: 2.5]
[Vitality: 2]
[Endurance: 3.5]
[Intelligence: 1.5]
[Magic: 0.5]
“On your feet, little Grunt,” Daemon ordered, returning to his iron throne. The small orc followed him like a lost puppy, eyes burning with excitement. “Tell me, what can you build?” Daemon asked, drumming his fingers on the throne’s arm.
“Houses, sentry towers, fences, chief tent,” the Grunt said, savoring the warmth of the campfire on his cold fingers. He was in awe of Lord Asura — stark naked, yet unaffected by the weather!
Daemon nodded to himself. This little fellow was only Tier-0 for now. “What do you need to build a couple of houses?”
The Grunt looked around, then shrugged. “Just wood — plenty of that around here, my Lord.”
“How much do you eat every day? How long to build a house? How much rest do you need?”
“One meal a day, my Lord — no need to worry about me. I’ll scour the woods for food, maybe get lucky hunting, too. A small house takes a day or two... three or four if you don’t want it blown over by a storm.” The Grunt snickered wickedly — Daemon shivered at the genuine joy on the brute’s face. “One or two hours of rest, once or twice a day, is enough for me.”
“Alright then. Start building a small house for yourself, immediately.”
“For the Horde!” The Grunt raised his arms and shouted, spit flying from his mouth while his lower fangs flashed in the firelight.
Daemon swore he could smell the creature’s breath from his throne — despite the fire between them and the height difference! A foul, earthy stench wafted over.
“That’s the spirit, little Grunt,” Daemon said, waving him off. He pretended it was a gesture of encouragement — but really, he just needed the smell gone before he gagged.
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