Mortals crave gold, but from the cosmos' perspective, soul is the ultimate currency—the most versatile and sought-after of all.
The lofty deities demand quality souls to fuel their divine might. They grant priests divine power, tasking them to spread their sect's influence. And when believers die, their souls ascend to the deity's realm, lured by the promise of the better world the priests preached.
Whether they truly find that utopia—endless feasts, rivers of wine, and roasted meat aplenty—
Who knows?
As for the wicked evil ones, no matter how devout their words or how much gold they donate to the Church, their souls plunge into Hell or the Abyss upon death. There, they morph into the lowliest devils or demons, cursed as loathsome evil beings for eternity, never to escape.
Why are souls so coveted by these mighty beings? Because they directly—or indirectly—amplify the power of deities and evil lords. Though their methods differ: Deities cultivate, demons reap, and devils swindle.
For mortals leaning toward order, the celestial deities seem the safer bet.
Even in mortal hands, processed souls hold immense value. Many high-tier magic items require souls as fuel for smithing enchantments—a universally adaptable commodity.
But soul-harvesting demands caution. Anthony had no intention of angering any deity. Upon entering the city, he'd set his sights on the drow's slaves.
Though his current targets had shifted slightly, the end goal remained sound. Now, all Anthony could do was pray. Would these slaves' souls even catch the eye of that big shot?
Bugbears were stronger than average mortals. Their souls couldn't possibly be inferior, right?
She was a newly ascended devil lord, currently sidelined by Bel, forced to learn management experience from that seasoned fallen angel on the Second Layer. Even Tiamat couldn't be bothered with her. Surely she wouldn't be too picky…
Since Anthony didn't need high-grade souls, a small soul-binding array would suffice.
It wasn't complicated. Any halfway competent warlock or necromancy mage dabbled in taboo experiments, chasing power beyond the ordinary.
Naturally, he couldn't let outsiders witness the setup. Anthony turned to the tamer. "Go inform Belos."
The tamer, baffled, turned—only to hear a whisper. Then, an irresistible drowsiness overwhelmed him, and he collapsed.
For dirty work, spells were fastest. But Anthony's spell slots were dwindling. He had to move quickly.
With no witnesses left, Anthony sped up. His goal was quantity, not quality—efficiency above all.
As he etched the strokes and laid the materials, a crude magic circle soon took shape, crowned by a swirling black vortex.
When the nearby creatures died, the vortex would siphon their souls, condensing them into crystallized souls upon the circle.
Preparations complete, Anthony tested his new guy. Staff in hand, he calmly opened the door. The reveling gladiators stared in surprise at his lone arrival.
What was this human back for? More humiliation?
Or maybe he'd taken their taunts to heart and wanted a fight?
The underlings hurled fresh jeers. But the captain—the ogre Gronk—sensed something amiss.
The trainer was absent. Combined with the trainer's earlier words, it was clear his master deemed this man far stronger than any of them.
He was here for revenge.
Gronk lifted his mug, subtly edging behind the stone table as he layered protective spells over himself.
Anthony ignored the monsters' curses. Narrowing his eyes, he scanned the barracks.
Clearly, bunk beds weren't in fashion yet. And with ogres and minotaurs among them, the cave was vast. The monsters clustered in scattered groups—too dispersed.
He needed to herd them together.
"Hey, dumbasses." Anthony's voice snapped every monster's gaze to him. Then, with a smirk, he waved.
"Your days as worthless slaves are over. I've sold you—dirt cheap—to House Do'Urden. If you understand Undercommon, get the hell out of my territory and go lick the priestesses' boots."
The bugbears weren't angered. This wasn't their first time being resold; they were used to it. Still, the guy's smug tone grated on them. They drained their mugs in haste, spitting on the ground for good measure.
If they had a new master, might as well spite the old one one last time.
Three minotaur warriors, lacking subtlety, hoisted their weapons and lumbered toward the exit.
Truthfully, serving drow nobles wasn't the worst fate.
Lowly as their status would be, survival odds there beat the gladiator pits—barring major wars. The only cost was freedom.
But to them, freedom wasn't worth much next to staying alive.
The two ogres, however, weren't having it. The smaller one bellowed, "What nonsense! We'd never be dismissed! You're lying!"
The other roared in agreement, "Aye! We've trained for ages! Our master feeds us daily! You won't chase us out!"
Their protests threw the monsters into confusion. Heads swiveled between the two sides, unsure whom to believe.
Anthony chuckled. He hadn't expected such cunning from these brutes.
Looks like force was the only way.
Meanwhile, Gronk finished muttering his incantation.
3rd-level spell: Rage!
A mimicry of a barbarian's fury, the spell boosted its targets' Strength and Constitution by two points each, with a slight Willpower bump to resist mental spell effects.
Though inferior to true barbarian rage, it spared users the post-fight exhaustion.
But the side effects were brutal. Those under its thrall attacked recklessly, abandoning defense—a last-ditch spell for mages cornered with no escape.
This wasn't a life-or-death moment. Gronk didn't care.
He just wanted the human gone. Casualties? Not his problem.
If they won, his master would overlook the mess.
Fueled by the spell, the resentful monsters snapped. The minotaurs' eyes glazed red, their bellows echoing as they charged.
They'd teach this arrogant human a lesson.
The charge faltered instantly. Thick, sticky webs materialized mid-stride. One minotaur tripped, dragging down bugbears in a cacophony of shrieks.
Yet the webs were no match for enhanced minotaurs. Two broke free swiftly. The ogres, barely hindered, stomped onward—though their pace slowed to a crawl.
That three-second delay sealed their fate.
Anthony inhaled deeply.
A cataclysmic inferno erupted. The dragon's breath scorched so fiercely even the sleeping drow outside had their hair singed by the blistering gusts.
The minotaurs caught in the flames? Their eyes seared blind on contact. Skin blistered and sloughed off in the furnace heat. Their agonized wails filled the air as they flailed, but the red dragon's cone of fire devoured all hope.
Their life force's stubbornness only prolonged the torment. The bugbears, at least, died instantly, spared the worst.
Four seconds in, carbon-based beings stood no chance. Their harrowing screams rattled even the tamer, still under sleep's spell.
So much for pleasant dreams.
Six seconds later, silence reclaimed the monsters' den. Only embers remained, the stench of charred flesh now mingling with sulfur and gunpowder—a fragrance any red dragon would savor. Pity the visuals didn't match.
The bugbears were ash. The ogres, those corpulent hogs, proved harder to incinerate. A focused second blast would be needed to tidy up.
After consuming that demon heart, Anthony's dragon's breath had fully replenished. And in Menzoberranzan, wealth meant endless meals—fuel for more flames.
Still, old frugal habits died hard. Anthony hesitated.
Ah, well. He could afford indulgence now.
As he drew another breath, a wail cut through the smoke: "Boss! You're the boss! Gronk surrenders! No more fire!"
Having witnessed the new boss's might, the blue-skinned ogre capitulated with zero dignity.
Anthony ignored the sniveling ogre, first checking the crystallized souls outside—14 in total—before replying, "Surrender accepted. You'll get two new partners to train. Harm them, and your suffering will double. Understood?"
"Yes, boss! Gronk treats newcomers nice!" The ogre patted his belly obediently.
"Good. Clean this up. I've got business."
Killing the monsters had pushed Anthony past Level 5, with XP to spare. He needed a quiet spot to study his new abilities.
As Anthony left, Gronk limped around, whimpering while gathering the charred remains of his drinking buddies—now reduced to kebab skewers. A 600-pound baby throwing a silent tantrum.
A low-level warlock but no fool, he'd ducked behind the stone table just in time.
Unfortunately, his bulk betrayed him. The table couldn't hide his feet or ass, both now sporting nasty burns.
How was the new boss's fire so vicious? Even his flame resistance barely helped. That wasn't some paltry 4th-level dragon's breath spell—it felt like the real deal!
Sighing, the blue-skinned ogre glared at the ashes. The bugbears were dust, nothing to salvage. The ogre lackeys? Fish food in the nearby lake.
As for the roasted minotaur warriors… Gronk sniffed the air. The aroma of well-done beef made his mouth water.
Heh. Problem solved.