The conference room is barely large enough to hold us. The Qellis only put out ten chairs, one for each species that was expected to attend, but most of the leaders didn’t come alone. Including the Qellis, which proves their own short-sightedness.

  For the Laranya of the First, a spider thin to the point of emaciation settles like a needle upon the chair, a unique pattern on its carapace glowing vibrant yellow. It is named something three times longer than Zara’s actual name, but it starts with Borb, so that’s what I’m going to name it. It is only level 29, which means that it is at best the spiritual leader of the Laranya, not the physical. The assassin at the top would of course never reveal himself so openly. Can’t necessarily rule out that he’s here, though.

  For the Ekinor of the Second, Assless the Deathlord himself settles into the chair like a king upon his throne, his red eyes glowing evilly when they settle on me. I smile, and he grimaces to reveal his missing teeth. Over his right shoulder hovers none other than Weri, the Ekinor from the street duel that ate the Gorinar’s soul. She is now a tidy level 48, barely below Assless himself, and her Artifacts bear weight just like his do.

  Fuck I’m glad this portion of the Tournament doesn’t have lone survivor rules. Fighting through all of the Ekinor would be a nightmare.

  I flick away a notification requesting a duel from both of them one after the other, shaking my head ruefully. I’m not that dumb.

  For the Drelni of the Third, the love of my life strolls in looking like she owns the fucking universe, her lithe hips mesmerizing as she saunters to her chair. No, not hers. She stands beside it as a tall Drelni enters, his long black hair drawn into a top knot over his head like some kind of anime antagonist. The derision in his face and the curved sword at his hip fits the image perfectly. His name is Ezyo, and he’s a single level above Vesyla’s 46.

  Vesyla’s sunset eyes meet mine, and her lips curl into a smile. She gives me the smallest nod. Ignoring the fact that my heart skips four beats, I lift an eyebrow and smile back. The sword at her side is new, an ice blue inlay wrapping its hilt. Been out Challenging, clearly.

  For the Aethid of the Fourth, a tall, slender woman with rich burgundy hair in a power pony struts in, a falsely solemn look on her face. Her name is Lo, and her techsuit has more pockets than is rational or decent, especially since they all hug her body like they’re empty. My head hurts trying to imagine what the hell that means. Her soul might as well be screaming her smugness. The bastards made out well during the Havenless night, and she’s clearly here to rep that. A pair of assistants follow, glowing power gauntlets on their hands.

  For the Qellis of the Fifth, Vury sits at the center of the table, his bandage gone, his hair slicked back and coifed like he’s going to a ball. He looks Official and Serious and Confident, though he barely knows more than his guests what the hell is going on.

  For the Urnza, a deep sapphire slime lurches in and oozes onto the chair. The sight is almost comical, because the Jello species doesn’t have bones or ergonomics to give a shit about things like sitting, but he seems to be playing the part to match the rest of us. His Class is called Icemarrow, which is, again, kind of funny. As if the slimes evolved to have bones.

  For the Otachai of the Seventh, a wizened little bush woman with leaves the color of a mountain autumn walks in leaning heavily on a staff with a few marble-sized fetishes dangling from its end. Her name is Greenflower. The thinness of her face makes her auburn eyes appear even larger than Threenut’s, and he wasn’t lying about his size; I’d imagine he’s almost twice this tiny creature’s height. She climbs atop the chair with difficulty and peeks over the table’s edge, her little orange and yellow leaf hair swaying.

  For the Gorinar of the Eighth, a powerful shaman walks in, eight feet tall if an inch, her every step confident and sure. Her tusked face, pale pink like garden roses, seems locked in a permanent scowl above a cloak decorated of crimson feathers at the shoulders. A pair of towering brutes walk in her wake, their teeth bared to the assembled leaders. She is Eltare, a Stormcaller, and an impressive level 45. I’ve never seen or heard of her, not even on the leaderboards. Weird, for someone to get so strong without being noticed. Judging by her face, she probably eats whoever she kills.

  For the Cobald of the Eleventh, none other than Fallo Grent strolls in, arrogant as a peacock and twice as garish. He’s got shiny shit all over him, piercing his scaled face, draped about his neck and his fingers, so much gold and silver that I’m shocked he even has the strength to move. Beneath the jewelry, his snout is shorter than Burl’s, and his scales are an ugly brown. He’s wearing a pair of pants and a suit vest buttoned far-too-tightly over an impressive belly. Atop his head rests a traditional black top hat like he’s an 1800’s robber baron, the biggest emerald I’ve ever seen set with a massive feather along its brim.

  I can’t understand why anyone would like him, but in a world devoted to capitalism, I get why Burl views him with a little hero worship.

  And then there’s Ellie, representing us. She already knows the score, but she still wanted to come and get a measure for what we’re up against. After all, this is the first time anything like this has ever happened. It isn’t a collection of the strict strongest, but it is close enough that you’d be crazy not to be here if invited.

  George refused to come. Grettel—or the Bui speaking from her mouth—was right in some respects. I have a little bit of faith that he may bounce back, but he has the classic signs of serious trauma-induced depression, and there’s no therapist to talk to, no friend to confide in. Either he’s going to find his solace in the fight, or he’s going to disappear.

  There are no seats set for the Ninth, nor for the Tenth, and, predictably, neither shows. The lone Klaspe survivor remains one of the biggest mysteries of the tournament, wherever it is, and the Ninth, well… they aren’t here overtly.

  I Identified everyone as they entered, noting two different parenthetical levels. The first belongs to Fallo Grent, and what a fucking doozy it is. His true, personal level is 11, but his Corp boosted level is 49. It’s the truest reflection of capitalism I’ve ever seen: the manager makes decisions and takes on the work of delegation, granted power by the workers whose labor makes the company possible. The grunts like Burl risk life and limb to keep the company strong, then get fired if they get injured in a workplace accident.

  Burl’s ‘accident’ might have involved a giant walking death mech, but the analogy still applies.

  The other parenthetical, though…

  Identification: Je Darkmoon, Aethid Boneshaper

  Level: 23 (34)

  Strengths: Intelligence, Will

  Weaknesses: Charisma, Strength, Toughness

  Skills: Natural Tech, Improvised Technology, Golem Crafting

  The Aethid are the Competitor species of the Fourth. Contrary to Earth myth, Aethid are a race dedicated to technological innovation and refinement, always seeking the next great discovery to push their species forward. They value intelligence over any other evolutionary factor, and that choice has left them vulnerable to personal physicality.

  Je stood on the loyalist side of the Steelshaper rebellion, serving among the coalition military in charge of the Great Pacification. In the battles against the Steelshapers, Je acquitted herself well, earning herself an apprenticeship to Z Shadowstar, the greatest craftsman of the Porta system.

  The guard standing on the Aethid leader’s right, a thin woman with short dark hair, does her best to look the part, and I’m quite sure would be successful without my unfair magic. While the last to arrive gets settled in, I narrow my eyes and flex my new Identification. A bit of soul energy pours into the Skill, and my senses attack whatever natural protection the Bui have to hide themselves. The struggle is less than a split second before I’m through, a whole new set of text spilling across my eyes.

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  Identification: Lurn, Bui Bonethief (Je Darkmoon)

  Level: 34 (23)

  Strengths: Intelligence, Will, Charisma

  Weaknesses: Strength

  Skills: Bone Shatter, Biomass Absorption, Golem Crafting

  The Bui are the Competitor species of the Ninth. Born as little more than intent and hunger, the Bui grow in strength by joining with a host body and, over time, completely absorbing the host’s soul. Once joined, their true bodies are nearly impossible to extricate without destroying the host and Bui both.

  Lurn ascended eleven times before the Tournament interrupted her designs on a twelfth, placing her squarely in the upper echelon of clandestine operatives of the Ezarta clan. Had she successfully ascended again, she had plans to contend for leadership, as the Ezarta patriarch himself had only managed thirteen.

  There you are, parasite.

  A twinge of disquiet chases on the heels of the unkind thought. If this is how the Bui were made, is it my place to judge their evolution? Weren’t they dictated to be what they are by an uncaring god, same as the rest of us? Their numbers shrink as their host bodies fall. I look again at the creature’s history. This Lurn sounds like she might just be ruthless and ambitious, two things that would be celebrated in a lot of places on Earth. Who am I to judge an entire species based on how they survive?

  “By the Twelve, you are a strange sentient.”

  I smile at the Bui and mouth ‘sorry, Lurn.’ The Bui doesn’t react visibly, a consummate actor. Its spirit, however, flinches. Whoa, how the shit did I see that? I mean, I didn’t see it, I more felt it, but with a sixth sense that has nothing to do with my body.

  The world spins, and I reach out to steady myself on the table. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Gonna have to get used to that, I guess.

  Silence falls on the room as my assembled enemies all turn to look at me. Their souls are like competing fields of gravity, pulling and pushing at one another in a silent conflict I’m pretty sure only I can feel. The weight of their gaze would have staggered Sam Foreman, Literature Major, but that’s luckily not who I am right now. Or any longer. That mask is one I’ll never be able to wear again.

  Not sure how I feel about that. A bit sad, but hopeful. That girl wasn’t happy, and never could be.

  “Competitor, is now the time for self loathing? You have an audience…”

  I know. Look at ‘em stew. Who do you think will break first?

  “Hmm,” she murmurs, pondering. She sounds amused, almost happy. I think she likes my confidence. “If I had to guess, it would be the Qellis. He hates you too much to let you stay in control of the room.”

  Nah. He’s too used to situations like this, even if he’s rarely on the back foot. My guess would be…

  “Well, human?” Fallo Grent rumbles, his voice somehow gravelly and nasally both at once. It is perhaps the most unpleasant combination of sounds I could imagine. “Stop wasting our time. Why have you brought us here?”

  Interesting. He doesn’t have any of the New Jersey that Burl does. Different dialects? Social classes?

  “Yes, human,” the Gorinar shaman snarls. “Tell us, now, or we walk.”

  “Alright, alright,” I say, patting the air with my hands. “I just wanted to make sure we’re all comfortable. Anyone want refreshments?”

  They stare at me silently. I don’t have any refreshments. This isn’t even my meeting room.

  “No? Okay. So, I’ve got information that every single one of you would kill for, and I wanted to give it to you all at once so that no one gets an unfair advantage.”

  “Your people don’t know?” Vesyla says, gesturing languidly towards Ellie. Her eyes are knowing and playful.

  God damn it.

  “Of course they do, but, after the Havenless night…” I press my lips into a line. “I don’t think any of you should begrudge us a little head start.”

  “Yet we do,” the Deathlord whispers. “If there were enough humans remaining, I would use your bodies as stairs to ascend to the next stage of this existence. The few of you left will not sate my desire for your souls.”

  “Rude. Bad Deathlord,” I say, wagging my finger at him. “Behave, Zelnar, or you get nothing.”

  “I’ve said what I came here to say. Unless…” He presses his palms to the table and stands with a rasping hiss. I decline a second invitation to a duel, plastering a patient expression on my face. He doesn’t look surprised. “Very well, coward. Hide behind the gods, while you can.”

  He leaves, several of the Competitors shivering as he passes close behind them in the small room. Weri, his second, takes the seat in his place. The intensity of her violet gaze burns against my skin. When another request for a duel flickers into a view, my knuckles go white around the arms of the chair.

  “Careful, Heartseeker,” I say softly. “You might just get what you fucking wish for.”

  “It would be my pleasure to taste your soul.”

  The air is thick and heavy in the small room.

  Be smart, Sam. You saw her give a dude a heart attack with a gesture, then eat his soul. Fighting her might be suicide, and its counterproductive to why you called these people here.

  “I see you said ‘might.’”

  Hush, you. I’m not going to fight her.

  “As exciting as all this is, we have better things to be doing than witnessing some kind of personal vendetta,” the Aethid leader says dismissively. “Can we reach a point this millennium?”

  “Sure,” I say through gritted teeth, picturing grinding them both together in opposing gravity fields like a magical car crusher. The image brings a smile to my face, and I turn to the gathered leaders again. “The reason I’ve called you here is because I have learned the nature of the Ninth, and I want to share it with you all.”

  “What will that cost us?” Grent grunts, though he leans forward in spite of himself. They all do, at least spiritually. I clench my eyes shut for a second, fighting dizziness. Nope. Not right now, Soul Sight.

  “Nothing,” I say once I’ve regained my composure. He scoffs, but I hold up a hand. “I’ll give it to you, freely, and you can decide if the information is worth a reward.”

  “That is the worst bargaining position I’ve ever heard,” Grent murmurs in disbelief. “Why would we aid our enemies?”

  “Quid pro quo, dingleberry.” They all look confused. Right, the translation isn’t perfect. “Listen, I know you guys don’t have any concept of charity or community, but this information benefits everyone. Except the Bui, I guess.”

  “Is that truly what they call themselves?” Vurin says, leaning forward in spite of himself.

  With people of all species listening, I tell them what I know, from the Bui’s parasitic nature to the likelihood that they’ve infiltrated every species on a fundamental level. Look out for behavior changes, for unexpected turns of phrase, for suddenly manifesting abilities.

  While I’m talking, Lurn’s eyes grow wider, a faint look of panic cracking through her grim facade. Her eyes roll back into her head briefly, and she sways. At first, I think she’s about to faint, but no, there’s clarity there when she looks back at me.

  Huh. Communicating? Can they tell one another apart? Is there some sign my Perception is unable to recognize? Can they talk to one another silently? Telepathically?

  “These methods are imperfect,” Vurin says impatiently when I finish. “How can they be detected?”

  “Well, I’m not saying you should trust me, but… I can tell.”

  “What?” a Gorinar shaman speaks up, her pale pink face locked into a perpetual snarl. “How, human?”

  “I have a Skill that gives me information about people and things, especially things with stories.”

  “Everyone has Identification,” the Drelni leader says, his voice like warm fudge. “What of it?”

  “Ever seen a parenthetical level next to someone’s name?” I ask, opening my hands.

  “Wait, you can see levels?” the Urnza speaks for the first time, its voice a distinct gurgle. “With Identification?”’