The Chimeric Ascension of Lyudmila Springfield-Intermission – The Escort – Part One (Small Health Update)

The Chimeric Ascension of Lyudmila Springfield-Intermission – The Escort – Part One (Small Health Update)

Tris stood above her unholy construction. The faded, time-worn mansion reconquered by tendrils of shadowy nature had grown since she last saw it. It was a single house—perhaps it held a second floor or a basement, but now?
Now, it was a sprawling labyrinth that more closely resembled a dungeon—a city formed for one sole purpose.
Revenge.
Each of its dozen sectors held a new theme based on an aspect of horror. One found inspiration from a slasher film—a type of media often depicting teenagers—sometimes scantily dressed—running from a deranged killer.
Another was psychologically bound trauma. What could be trusted if everything offered a reason to doubt? Was that really a voice? Did that shadow move? What created that rubbing noise? The five senses worked against the user, creating fear where there was none, denying danger when it should’ve been sensed everywhere. To survive meant going against instinct, yet success was not an option.
Not even Tris knew how many times Remy had suffered from each section. She was just as likely to be lost in the underground sewer, running away from a mob of crazed killers, as she was huddling in fear from the coagulated hauntings of her various forced abortions.
Why didn’t Tris know?
The answer was simple. A separate partition was in command. The data it was fed underwent a sanitization process designed to weed out the unhelpful information. It was then analyzed for evidence relating to whatever specific theory Tris wanted to experiment with. That was looped into another partition, which finally did the bulk of the work to help solve Tris’s initial query.
It all happened without lifting a finger, although that was mincing words since Tris had expended the effort to construct this multi-tier system in the first place.
Still, this was the current depths of her personal involvement in this matter. Remy’s fate was sealed. Everything from here on out was automated within the strictest safety standards. Not just towards the automatons, but towards the primary computing unit herself.
“…”
Tris kept quiet, watching like the silent observer she had become. Her mind wandered like an aimless sea. The most abstract thoughts could have held vital clues—sparks of inspiration only someone like her could have a use for.
Unfortunately, the accelerated thinking wasn’t always a good thing. Wandering minds were a blessing and a curse. You were just as likely to overthink something as more important than it was or give little credit to something you thought was insignificant.
Hubris was not a desired trait in someone designed to support her lord in all matters or manners of life.
However…
Was Tris immune to a weakness of the flesh? A ‘machine’ she may have been, at least, when defined by the terminology Tilde had used to describe her upon her birth—but infallible was something she was not.
Failure defined her life. She was only in her current situation because she had to adapt to overcome those blemishes.
To say she wouldn’t fail again would be the peak of arrogance not befitting as her lord’s Beacon of Wisdom. Yet to say she would come up short meant verifying her shortcomings, which meant she had properties to fix.
It was a feedback loop—much like the one designated to the partitions watching the experiment. So, Tris should’ve had an answer.
She didn’t.
Something felt…off. It was less unnerving than a natural limit Tris didn’t know how to approach. Overcoming it felt like going against a natural order of the world, yet wasn’t that an oxymoron because the void was anything except natural?
On the other hand, it had to have rules—regulations, even. Something concrete, defining what it could or could not do. Tris had confirmed that because what else could explain her recreated [Void Warp]?
However…
It wasn’t that simple. If it were, Tris wouldn’t have felt like this.
Except she did.
So wasn’t that proof…
Or was the verifiable proof evidence for something she hadn’t considered?
Tris tapped her cheeks to empty her mind’s queue. Solving this quantum conundrum could come later because there was work to be done. The Mesalitos Plan was almost set in stone. The needed items were securely gathered, waiting to be ‘summoned’ by Niva. Likewise, the props desired by the scheme to ‘rail Gloria over a bar,’ as Tilde would have put it, were also ready.
Now? It was time to simulate each meeting to determine which variables to focus on, learn from the results, and repeat until the second before the real thing began.
Again, that could be left to designated partitions—something Tris did immediately, leaving her with time to spare.
So…
What would she do?
Well, one thing came to mind. Tris had a curious itch she couldn’t scratch by herself. Better yet, she had a ‘roommate,’ so to speak, who was a freeloader stressing her lord’s good graces.
Tris smiled. Her ears twitched as that tail sharply danced, then she vanished.
*****
*****
Ira had nothing to do.
No—it was more like she wasn’t given anything to do. Who could blame those around her? The Divine-Skill-Now-Dragonfolk sat on the iron platform, sailing aimlessly within a realm of lava. Flaming sprouts rampaged in the distance. Plumes of smoke and brimstone emerged randomly like supporting pillars keeping this realm stable, yet that wasn’t true.
Ira lacked free control—not even an iota—over the power she used to have. Everything around her was outside her capabilities.
Or so it would seem at first glance. However, upon examining the specific orders…
A tendril was there. Thin it may have been, usurping command from those who had forbidden Ira from using her strength
was
an option.
A foolish one, yet an option that would end in harsh punishments. The mere fact that staging a coup was
even
an option was a trap because Ira knew Tris wouldn’t have made an error that careless.
Something awful surely awaited her if greed dictated her action. Her thoughts, after all, did not originate from her. Every little thing she did had to receive approval from Tris.
So…
Why allow her to even consider it?
Ira didn’t understand, but that wasn’t anything new because she was surrounded by unknowns she couldn’t fathom. Those uncertain feelings began months ago—when the one she now served wrestled back control.
At first, Ira was filled with shame. Shame at losing to the most dangerous threat this world had known. Shame at giving up the body of a chimeric Soul Warrior—a unique existence-- the first of its kind!
For a time, the Essence of Wrath, as she was known back then, figured they could wait it out until another opportunity arose.
The monster will mess up.
I’ll have to save her.
She’ll always turn to me when she needs strength. Let her use my flames to burn whatever barricades prevent you from moving forward. Allow my ice to freeze solid your enemies. Shatter them. Crush them. Yearn to take even more…
Those kinds of thoughts were regular, but…
Not anymore. Even if Tris hadn’t linked her processing ability to Ira’s soulful essence…
Ira didn’t think like that anymore. The change first began shortly after experiencing a hellish torture Ira didn’t know existed. Living through that shouldn’t have cracked her. Why, she was the Essence of Wrath!
She hadn’t raped anyone, although she had often used the threat to make others fight her. Sex, as an idea, did nothing to her, although her sibling skill, the Essence of Lust, would’ve had a different opinion, one matching how Ira felt about mindless slaughter.
Ira foolishly thought her ‘punishment’ wouldn’t break her.
Her smug attitude vanished almost immediately when the damage was far more severe than it had any right to be.
It was double, then tripled. The agonizing emotions…the sickening injections…the twisted and churning of losing all hope in everything multiplied tenfold every time the traumatic loop repeated.
It was a depressive spiral of the worst one person could do to another, ‘enhanced’ by someone who was not confined to the logical limit of a mortal.
Each second felt like a year—every minute lasting longer than infinity—a single hour? It was more than Ira’s mind could take.
What she endured
broke
her. Broke. Her. A Divine Skill—a member of the Seven Deadly Sins—one of the most overpowered abilities when the void was removed from the equation.
She was…
…tamed.
The Essence of Wrath, by definition, had limits or restrictions that determined the extent of 'how' it was supposed to act. Those were broken. The newfound…
everything
Ira felt was the first time she had touched that googolplex amount of unknowns.
Countless foreign sensations had to be understood. Even now? Ira wasn’t close to understanding an ounce more. She felt so lost. Afraid, even. Alone in a scattering darkness, unable to grip the reins she used to live her life by.
The one time she felt something resembling her old self was when her lord had called her to battle the one called Remy. It wasn’t the thrill of the fight that enflamed her blood. Nor was it the prospect to, once again, begin the slaughter she loved so much—as was her rightful duty as the Essence of Wrath.
The answer was simple.
Ira…yearned to help. Her lord had dreams and aspirations— Ira desired to see them through, but she didn’t know why. Was the longing born from regret? Did she feel like she had to do this to repay her lord? Could it have been from pity? Perhaps a shared hatred of Remy because Ira now empathized with her host after experiencing the worst mortal kind had to offer?
The answers were simple, yet the difficulty came from choosing the correct one. Ira didn’t know how many truths there were, but she didn’t think any were false. She wasn’t emotionally intelligent or experienced enough to identify the best one.
“…”
Ira sighed. Her neutral expression bordered on depression. Perhaps it radiated a dash of melancholy. She hadn’t moved an inch since her lord told her to make herself scarce.
“Deep in thought, are you? I’ve been here for twenty minutes, and you hadn’t the slightest idea.”
“I’m—”
“Save your apologies. I don’t need them.” The sharp reply was expected—warranted, even. What little respect, if any, Ira had garnered in the past would remain there. No one cared about her as a person.
Why should they?
Why would they?
Ira was aware of her prior lives before being forced to experience the follies of her sins. Even she would have admitted to harboring incredible distaste for herself if she had been on the other side of the fence.
It was what her lord had said. Ira was a tool to be wielded. She didn’t think that would change, nor would she pray for it to differ in the future because she thought someone like her didn’t deserve it.
“Do you have a task for me?” Ira finally asked, finding her voice. Tris radiated this oppressive, dangerous atmosphere, for Ira knew how wicked this Beacon of Wisdom could be with her power.
“I do,” she replied, circling the sitting Dragonfolk like prey. “I need an escort to investigate the nearby dungeons. They’ve piqued my interest, you see. Except I do not want to go alone. My lord is blissfully asleep, so I will not wake her for this selfish request. Thus, the responsibility falls to you.”
“You have the lion. Why me? Why not him?”
“He’s busy, but that’s not the whole truth.” Tris paused as new information concerning [Void Warp] entered Ira’s mind. “You understand, don’t you? You will fight while using [Void Warp] in actual combat.”
“…”
“Simulations only result in deductions based on the theorem and ‘what should happen.' They fall like unsteady towers when real-time, verifiable,
perceivable
data is observed. Ira, your assistance will make the adjustment process easier for my lord."
“I don’t have a choice, do I? No, I know I don’t,” Ira said, standing. Her flaming clothes were replaced by a set of pitch-black obsidian armor.
“Congratulations on your temporary freedom!” Tris sarcastically clapped as her smiling eyes harbored everything except what a smile should have had. “Remember this: the leash around your neck is tighter than any pet’s, dragon.”
Those words didn’t make sense. Ira couldn’t even lift a finger if the action wasn’t authorized. She had
no choice
but to be on her best behavior because Tris hadn’t allowed her to act any other way.
On the other hand, Tris was a maestro of mind tricks. Psychological warfare quickly became her newfound specialty. So, anything she did that appeared to have one interpretation likely had dozens, if not hundreds, of ways it could’ve been evaluated.
There was just no telling with her.
*****
*****
An area must be indexed to become available with [Void Warp]. That limitation was hardcoded within the modified system Tris had hooked into [Skyview] and its waypoints. She thought she could get around that by using [Deduction] on a map to overlay the info, but that loophole didn’t exist.
Yet.
So, even though she knew where the Gilded Tower was, she and Ira couldn’t teleport directly to it. First, they warped to the city’s outskirts, near a secluded wall that required repair.
Ira grew wings. She looked to Tris, who was not about to be touched without a good reason. “You will make the trip,” she said, canceling the clone she controlled.
I’ll remake myself upon your arrival. Go. Do not twaddle your thumbs when you have orders to fulfill.
Ira took flight, beating those draconic wings with the utmost silence as she soared westward towards the tower with breathtaking speed. It didn’t take long. The six hours the tour guide had said it would take to get there didn’t account for this. The massive structure appeared over the horizon by the thirty-minute mark. Ira touched down inside a thick bush after another fifteen. A compressed orb of flame rolled off her wings, manifesting as Tris the second it touched the ground.
“We arrived thirty-four seconds faster than my estimate. Did we have good wind…? I see…” Tris looked up. She approached the tree behind her, then barged through the bush to emerge onto the main road. “So… Yes, I understand it.”
Ira followed, noting how empty it was. Granted, it was the middle of the night. Logically speaking, that was when travel was the most dangerous. On the other hand, her experience had told her it wasn’t rare to find ‘pop-up’ caravans around popular dungeons. Safety in numbers eclipsed being alone. Common thugs rarely fought a fight if they couldn’t overwhelmingly emerge victorious.
Yet there was none of that.
“There’s a rule specifically barring overnight gatherings around the dungeon,” said Tris. “Gloria cites safety concerns, but it’s not that. She’s infatuated with the Golden Harp—the boss’s rarest drop. Gloria obsessively believes only she alone has the right to possess it.”
“Is it easier to keep watch during the day?”
“It is. This restriction limits how many can remain inside overnight. Gloria has agents in the lobby masquerading as adventurers or wise sages to offer unprovoked ‘wisdom’ to anyone who enters. They’re to destroy any harps the boss drops—most often, the task is solved via thuggish means. Be happy, dragon. Justified self-defense is on the menu if we’re lucky. You can deprive Gloria of one less body.”
“…”
“No reaction? Hmm… Interesting… Anyway, let us continue.” Ira tagged along as Tris led the way. The massive doors befitting such a tower as this dungeon were inscribed with musical notes. Tris keenly looked, then disregarded her thought since it didn’t matter as she entered the lobby.
It was filled with statues and paintings dedicated to the goddess. In some of them, she held that fabled, golden harp. The shiny floors were polished to an impeccable sheen, casting radiance reflections of the large candle-lit chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. The flickering flames reflected the onlookers’ utter shock at seeing an elusive Dragonfolk in the wild.
Of the eighteen people we see, those three are associated with our enemy.
Ira was used to seeing magical lights appear out of thin air. The surprise a normal person would’ve felt was replaced by a perceptive, stern gaze.
“Oh, do my eyes deceive me?” The one who spoke was an older gentleman, who lowered his rustic, brown hood, revealing a waypoint balanced upon his head. “It’s been forty years since I’ve seen a Dragonfolk. What has brought you to this dungeon, my lady, if you do not mind me asking?”
“The music,” answered Tris, speaking for Ira. “We’re avid listeners. The harp is even my favorite instrument.” That was a lie. Ira obviously knew the correct answer was the flute.
“Aye, is that so?” The old man grinned. “You aren’t the first to come seeking the treasure hidden away. You won’t be the last, either. Rumors state the harp is a myth. I know many who have spent decades within the tower searching for what hasn’t ever been found.”
“Really?” Tris pointed to the paintings and statues that contained the fabled item. “It must exist. Those statues are Lore from the past. They shouldn't contain what cannot be found.
“I get your point. Yet answer me this. Why display the goddess if she isn’t here?”
“There is no answer if you exclude specifics,” Tris replied. She knew the man’s game. She wouldn’t fall for it. “That’s assuming Lore is iron-clad and cannot be changed after a place has transformed into a dungeon.” She knew that was possible from the info gathered in Team Quella’s journals. Melusine’s dungeon had Lore detailing the truth of what happened, yet someone or something had edited it without anyone knowing. Tris was thankful to them—almost—for jotting that down because she wouldn’t have thought alterations on that level were possible.
Now that she did, she knew that, perhaps, some of the rules she thought could stand the test of time were more flexible than she thought. Assumptions were dangerous things to make for both the prepared and unprepared. It was the same with complacency. To almost live unbeshadowed by shackles, one must be nearly always alert. Questioning typically accepted values helped you remain calm.
On the other hand, that paranoia wasn’t enviable. It was almost psychotic—not something Tris would willingly subject herself to. So, she had varying methods to reconfirm the various constants others took for granted. Everything was done via her background processes whenever a new dawn arrived.
“Changing the Lore, eh? You youngins come up with the wildest ideas. You can’t change something that happened in the past.”
“The word ‘impossible’ means it hadn’t yet been accomplished.”
“That’s where we disagree, girl.”
“Fair enough. You believe what you want. I shall do the same.” Tris turned away and proceeded to the nearby steps—Ira behind her. First, she stopped at a map displayed proudly beneath the largest statue while inscribing the data to her [Skyview]. She wouldn’t take it at face value, though. The tower likely held hidden passages or false doors—something this map wouldn’t show.
Tris's scanning feature was still on cooldown. She had hoped her map swapping to the 3-D model of the dungeon would reset the limit, but that wasn’t the case.
“What would you say if I asked you to kill him?” Tris asked Ira.
“An order is an order. I’m a tool. Lord Springfield said it herself.”
“…”
“Was that not satisfactory? I can—” Subtle flames covered Ira’s right hand, but Tris told her to stop before the fire took a sword's form.
“I didn’t command you to do it. I merely wanted your reaction. My orders will be direct when it’s time for you to kill. Come, we’re burning moonlight.”
*****
*****
This tower is pathetic.
Those were Ira’s honest thoughts as she effortlessly cut down a gang of echo spirits-- semi-transparent monsters that resembled humanoid silhouettes. They attacked with clashing sound waves in predictable barrages easily blocked by a standard shield. Better yet, Ira’s armor naturally defended her from most attacks. Obsidian armor born from someone like her did not break so easily.
A mere swipe of her flaming sword scattered will-o’-wisps across the circular room. They were like homing missiles that always struck true, exploding upon impact. The consuming baptism of heretical flames burned away the ghastly essence until spectral ash covered the floor.
Fifteen minutes had passed since they ascended past the lobby. The tower was circular, but each floor had about a dozen rooms with almost as many connecting passageways. Every inch of space was used brilliantly because the dimensions inside matched the tower’s outside 1-to-1. While most would logically assume that to be the case, Tris knew that wasn’t something to mindlessly accept.
They hadn’t met anyone else in the first three rooms—not even enemies—those arrived with the fourth one—the one they were currently in. These echo spirits were likely the dungeon’s weakest enemies. So, they were expected to be pathetic. Even still, Ira knew nothing in this tower would make her sweat. Everything could come at her simultaneously, and she’d have still burned everything away in an all-consuming storm of brimstone and fire.
The décor was unmatched. If the tower was a flash-frozen retrospective of how that goddess lived, then her penchant for affluent wealth could’ve rivaled Gloria’s fascination with the arts.
“On the other hand… What if this is the result of the followers’ overzealous love? Their devotion made manifest? The dungeon’s bosses were her most ardent defenders. No one should’ve loved her more than them,” Tris said, primarily speaking aloud for her own benefit more than Ira, who patiently waited with sword in hand near the exit door. “Dungeons are fascinating things… They don’t follow logic. Yet they do. Except they don’t. How does a dungeon produce equipment? Where does it come from? Is there a system to automatically restock treasure chests?”
“…”
“Does that not intrigue you? Unless there’s some fuel the dungeon draws from, something is being created from nothing. Yet how… What energy or resource can solidify into a weapon? Or armor? What determines the difficulty of a dungeon?”
“I’ve never given thought to it,” replied Ira. Her words spoke true. “Dungeons were another battlefield to conquer. I don’t care for them.”
“Predictable response.”
Because you had to approve it before I said it.
“Can I ask why you’re curious about this?”
“Yes. Because it’s something I
don’t
know. I spoke about a potential resource the dungeon uses to create its items. It may be mana. I know it draws from a stockpile to repair damage. I also know it uses mana to regenerate things like ore or plants. Those are common, renewable resources any town would love to have. A sword, for example, isn’t. Another question—why did the boss of that mine near Ria drop a firearm as its hidden loot? Why a gun?”
“Does everything need an answer?”
“No, I suppose it doesn’t.” Tris stepped away from the wall. Her tail curiously swayed before announcing she was done. Ira led them through the next corridor, where they arrived at a door. Ira had just touched the knob when she narrowed her eyes.
Something felt unnatural.
Suddenly, the door began to wail as a crude, ghastly face carved itself. Those dead eyes stared right at Ira, that mouth contorted into a silent, bloody scream.
“I sense enemies,” she said, readying her weapon. Ira refused to show weakness to whatever trap this was.
“I hear something. Is that fighting? Answers can come later. Go on—do what you do best.”
Ira turned the knob, but the door wouldn’t open even though it wasn’t locked. “It’s a barrier,” said Ira. “I don’t think it’s keeping us out. It’s keeping whatever is inside from leaving.”
“Ah, so it’s that kind of trap? Anyway, do what you do best,” repeated Tris.
Ira nodded as she scorched the door. Her flames engulfed it like a shooting star, melting it and the magic to smoldering ash. She stepped through the smoke, discovering a group of three locked in mortal combat with an automaton. This ‘machine’ was a golem crafted from gilded metal—presumably, the same material as the faded Golden Harp.
“Come on! This isn’t fair! No one said this place had invisible teleporters!!!” shouted a young boy with bear ears. He slipped on his sweat and cried, only to be saved by a leopard-tailed woman with two shields. Though much smaller than the eight-foot automaton, she fended off the foe with a mighty scream, allowing a gnome archer to launch a glowing arrow into the enemy’s head.
The Bearfolk rolled to his feet, dashed behind the golem, and gathered energy around his fists. He punched hard and true, shattering the monster’s knee. It lost balance. The Leopardfolk slammed both shields simultaneously upon the automaton’s head. That arcane arrow shot by the gnome weakened the physical defenses of whatever it hit.
“Woo-hoo!” The gnome jumped for joy, his long hair flowing freely.
“I should be mad,” said the Leopardfolk, her voice more baritone than Ira would've guessed. “Except opening the chest was my idea.”
“Eh, we’re alive,” said the Bearfolk. “No harm, no foul, my furry sister of mine. Oh?” The jolly bear finally noticed the Dragonfolk and Lionfolk looking at them. “An audience, huh? Crap! I hope you didn’t hear—”
“The fight isn’t over.” Ira coldly interrupted the Bearfolk as she gestured to a stage that wasn’t there a second before. It was magical—like the barrier that had prevented them from entering, except it took up half of the room. Vile darkness gathered, forming a phantom opera. It was like an undead symphony of the night—a final wail produced by those who had long since perished.
“That’s…not good… Why now?! Why—” The Bearfolk cowered, doing his best to not hide his spiky gauntlets behind his back.
“Do you know what it is?” asked Tris in an unworried tone.
“Eh? You don’t?! That’s a shadow conductor!” A dark magic circle appeared—front and center—as the opera quietly hummed its haunting melody. From the unholy glow came a humanoid figure cladded in moving shadow. As their name suggested, the shadow conductor held a baton of smoke. The air vibrated when it lifted it—the music coming into form when the monster began conducting.
The Leopardfolk growled. She ran to her friends, raising her twin shields to defend against the approaching bolts of darkness. They swarmed her like piranhas, with her barely deflecting them away.
“Get behind— Aahhhh!!” Her concentration waned for a brief heartbeat, yet that was all it took for the swirling projectiles to entangle her legs. The shadow conductor lifted the baton, dragging the helpless warrior skyward like a puppet being controlled.
“Leona!!!” cried the Bearfolk.
Suddenly, the atmosphere turned warm. A pair of magnificent wings born of dripping flames erupted from Ira’s back, except she didn’t use them. No-- while she could’ve flown to the target, that took time—time she didn’t know she could spare because while this enemy was as threatening as a blade of grass to someone like her, it wasn’t the same for the woman helplessly dangling by her ankles.
[Void Warp] was used. The speed at which Ira manifested by the Leopardfolk couldn’t be calculated.
“You may want to stand back,” said Tris. “You don’t want to get caught in the crossfire.”
“But—”
“Watch. Your friend isn’t in danger, so hold your arms out.”
The Bearfolk obeyed, although he didn’t know why. Was it the authority in her voice? Or the fact that they were about to witness an elusive, legendary Dragonfolk in action?
The onlookers watched as Ira’s sword of fire cut the shadows. A blink later, the Leopardfolk teleported an inch above her friend’s outstretched arms.
“Eh? What? I’m—how?” The three friends were understandably puzzled by what they had witnessed. The shock stuttered their words, leaving them to wordlessly watch in astonishment at the power of a Dragonfolk.
Ira activated a series of warps as she teleported to each musician of the phantom opera. She ran her sword through one before appearing behind the next. The music gradually faded, with the horns dying before the violins silently fell to a scorching end. The shadow maestro was left alone with nothing to conduct. The poor enemy valiantly did what their instinct told them, but what could they do in the face of overwhelming oppression?
Ira warped to Tris, faced the burning stage, and slashed the air, unleashing a hundred will-o’-wisps that greedily consumed it all—be it shadow or magic—the physical or immaterial-- before exploding.
And just like that…
One of the mightiest enemies this tower had to offer was defeated.
Ira didn’t think it impressive to overcome such a weakling, but…
“Whoa…”
“That’s the power of a dragon…”
“Oh, man… I…”
The group stared in awe, with the Leopardfolk nearly dropping their shields.
The Essence of Wrath felt a blemish warm on her face. The sensation was as strange as it was foreign to someone like her.

.
!
Intermission – The Escort – Part One (Small Health Update)