Chapter CXLVI: Eye for the Rare ~Multehx

And so, the Spectrum sped on, looking for clue to the next Creation's Weapon. Problem was, apparently, some had already found them...

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The boarded up shack was silent until a green fist shattered the plank-covered door. The other boards were torn down and Vole walked in. He surveyed the dark interior carefully, his demonic sight allowing him to see clearly in the darkness. He saw only the normal signs of life having been there once- dishes in the sink, now coated with cobwebs, a dusty and dirty set of chairs and a sofa, a busted in T.V., a molding stone fireplace, and dry leaves covered the floor. He crossed them, and they crunched and crackled under his boots. He stopped in the center of the living quarters. The demon's keen eye surveyed the room. The couches, the chairs, an overturned table; all was taken in. Then his gaze fell on the fireplace. He stopped and looked it over. Frowning slightly, he walked over to it and crouched down. He ran a finger along the inside of the hearth then examined it. No sign of anything but dust.

"So," he said to himself, standing, “never been used apparently. Funny...a hearth built that's never seen use...fancy that." He grinned slightly, readying his knuckles of one fist with the other hand. "Usually some kinda triggering mechanism here...but then again..."

He glared at the fireplace. The demon emitted a bone-chilling cry of rage and ploughed his fist into the brick. It crumbled away under impact as easily as stale bread. He grinned, drawing back his fist.

"I've never been one for technology," he completed his statement before unleashing a barrage of punches upon the structure.

Moments later, after exposing a great hole in the wall, and stopping a couple of blade traps with his bare hands (they only had slight cuts in the palms), he walked into a musty storeroom. Most of the shelves were bare, but a few weapons remained on their rack. He chuckled, walking over to an aged and dusty broadsword on a rack. He drew it and examined it. Vole thought for a moment, and then flicked it with his index finger. The blade twanged in response and hummed with a low resonance. Just as he thought.

"Weapons tend to decay over time. Judging by the dust, this thing predates the Macedonian Empire of First Earth...only intensely strong magik could leave it in such fine shape this long." He grinned evilly, lifting the blade slightly. "Creation's Weapon or not, this thing should leave a nice magik residue..."

Turning, he dropped the blade to the stone floor. It clattered and came to rest upon it motionless before a thick leather boot came down on it and crushed the blade under its heel. The floor suffered some damage from impact as well. As Vole moved his boot, he could see the smashed blade clearly. Nothing appeared any different to the eyes, but he could sense a difference; the magik present in the atmosphere had quickly climaxed, then seemed to fade. Where to? He could easily tell by the warm sensation in his limbs and body. He snickered, turning to the other weapons in the storage.

"Well, let's se what we have here," he said, lifting a large ornate spear from another rack.

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The well-dressed man cursed. He couldn't believe it. For the seventh time today, he had lost to the same fellow. He dabbed at his brow with a handkerchief and adjusted his tie, clearing his throat. The gent at the other end chuckled slightly and reached out with an orange hand and retrieved two dice from the table; one white with red dots, the other black with white dots. The fellow grinned, tossing his dice in his hand.

"What's wrong? Running out of payment for the increasing stakes?" he asked in mock pity.

The man shook his head.

"No, not at all. I just feel a tad warm - is all."

The dice-holder smiled and nodded.

"Understand fully."

He placed the hand without the dice on the table and smiled slyly at the man.

"So, bet's...fairly over twenty one trillion...think you can make any additions to your wager to match it?"

The man reluctantly pulled a piece of parchment from his pocket and tossed it on the table.

"There, the deed to a storehouse of...rather 'exotic' and hard to find objects I've collected over the years. That should almost do it, so-" The man tossed an ornate dagger onto the table. "There, that's a family heirloom, quite durable and almost gives a smell that makes your nose tingle. That should be enough."

The man with the dice grinned and closed his hand around the dice, rattling them in his palm.

"Well, round and round they go, where they stop!" he said, throwing the dice out. He grinned lecherously. "Only I know."

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"But, your lordship? My lady? Are you quite sure?" the aged broker asked.

Drakon frowned.

"Quite."

The little man adjusted his glasses where they sat on his nose.

"But, missus, please reconsider," he asked imploringly to Mel.

She sat on the edge of the desk.

"No, my step-brother is right in his thinking. We must confiscate the family heirlooms in the old vault as soon as possible."

The broker looked crestfallen.

"But, your parents specifically wanted you to sell them off for money that would make your lives as simple as possible. There's a fortune of old things in there, including some antique paintings to royal amour to ancient armaments-"

Mel shook her head.

"No, we're taking them in the morning. We've made up our mind on it."

The small man sighed. When their mind was made up, no one on heaven, earth, or Hades below could budge them.

"Yes, sir and madam,” he said regretfully.

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Luck was with the rest of the council as well, scouring the ends of the Multiverse in their search. Some ventures found them empty-handed. Others were strictly rumors. But they would eventually hit the jackpot. And, by the principle of "Magik Residue" from certain artefacts, the Creation's Weapons the most powerful of them, but the numbers of other magik weaponry made up for it, and their power slowly but surely increased significantly over the span of the next few days. When near a week had passed, they reassembled in their lair in the cave system that they owned, each substantially more powerful then they had been. They each set to work creating a specific domain for themselves, readying for times to come.

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And so, things have gone. Much has happened, and much will happen, but though I might see the future from abilities granted to me by my job, I must only write a recollection of the past to the present, for mortal men shall not glimpse their destinies, lest the fabric of things be endangered greatly. And so, I sit here at this table, writing away in this logbook. I do not know why I do this, but something compels me to. The tales of this entire venture thus far are recorded here in my hand. True, they are in the yellow book I gave to Kyanosa as well, but... I don't know. I feel this might prove of some significance down the line. All I can tell, as this is hardly a glimpse of the future but more an obvious thing, upon the end of this, our route will be set once again, I shall sit my fountain pen down upon this desk, close this book, and look out the window. I cannot recall much of the time from Kyanosa's departure till the present, as, well...when you have experienced it all, time blends to you. For all I know, this could be moments after his leaving. Either way, I write this in the purest form of Rhenzin; none but those who naturally read Rhenzin shall be able to read this, and based on what I know, I have nothing to fear from this crowd.

All I can safely say, from what I know, is, Forces that be, do not let any of us suffer in vain...