Chương 2: Stepping into the light

Two whole days of travel time later they arrived and got ready to support the main army, only… The Fanahx Empire had struck a secret deal with the Southern Clans, merciless warriors infamous for their brutality. The ambush turned into a counter ambush and all hell broke loose. Their party is attacked from the forest and at first all seemed to be working as planned... Until several mages behind Gaix began to make sounds no human, beastman or else should.

The air filled with the croaking of dying people and the sound of a hidden band of berzerkers rushing them down. Gaix fought tooth and nail. Fire lances and lightning flew from his hands in all directions, lighting up the chaos. He barely paused to breathe. But the southern dogs were too many. Too fast. Too crazy from some mushroom brew to boot. In minutes, their proud company had been reduced to thirty-five, and even that was a generous count. Many were bleeding. Most were terrified.

Berserkers were nothing to scoff at. They managed to reach their camp with a hasty retreat and a few barrier spells but the mages were few and running low on mana. Since they seemingly managed to lose the southern berserkers many fell into the dirt, adrenalin no longer keeping them upright.

"Let me help with that," Gaix muttered, taking up a bundle of bandages and potions. He moved from man to man, wrapping wounds with shaky fingers or handing out potions to severely wounded. There was only a five minute of quiet when...

"NIGHT RAID!" A warning shout ripped through the camp. A flare spell arced into the sky, lighting the forest with a cold blue glow—and revealing the horror waiting in the trees. They were surrounded. Outnumbered four to one. No clear path for retreat. Gaix spat and whispered, "Fuck," before launching a fire lance from each hand, eyes burning with panic. He looked at the system screen he could see whenever he focused on it.

Each kill gave him one wish point and currently he only had twenty one from the few beast before and the current fight. To call for a minor wish he needed thirty-five so he gritted his teeth and focused on killing as fast as possible. - - - - - - - - - - - Joshua was in his cubicle, halfway through his third coffee, when a green popup suddenly appeared. [Gaix Tahinor has defeated:] [Illu Famner (Human)] [Vrell Kaizon (Human)] [Dalner Kohfp (Human)] [Strevana (Human)] … The feed kept scrolling. Names.

Dozens of them. Humans. Josh squinted.

"What in God's name are you doing, Gaix?" A coworker glanced over.

"Something wrong, Josh?"

"Uh... no. Just thinking out loud," he muttered, quickly closing the window. He tried to focus on his screen, but the names kept flashing in his mind like gunshots. Did that guy just… off a couple dozen people? By early afternoon, he'd finished all his assigned work and filed out early without so much as a word. He drove home in silence, a quiet pressure mounting in his chest.

"Show Gaix Tahinor," he demanded the moment he sat down at his desk. [Visual feed requires active prayer from Warlock at current Patron level.]"Shit," he cursed, slumping into his chair. Then—Ping! Another popup. And another. Names again. Five. Ten. Twenty. Then— The screen shimmered. The golden hue flared—and the visual feed opened. Joshua's breath caught in his throat. The screen showed a burning grove littered with bodies—some scorched black, others split open like butchered animals.

Smoke curled from the trees. Arrows littered the ground like dead leaves. In the center, a small ring of survivors stood back-to-back, facing down a horde of feral, snarling warriors. And there, bleeding from the shoulder, was Gaix.

"Dear Patron Joshua Steel," Gaix's voice came through, shaking with desperation, "I pray for your help and salvation…" Josh leapt from his chair.

"Oh for the love of—" he dashed to his bedroom and began scrambling for something—anything—to offer. His eyes landed on a collector's edition Witcher figurine. Then Jon Snow. He shook his head.

"Not enough…" Spinning, heart pounding, he saw it—on the top shelf. His prized Balefire Cerberus figurine. A towering triple-headed monster in sculpted obsidian resin. Eighty pounds, back in high school. The crown jewel of his nerd shrine. He hesitated. Then smiled grimly.

"Alright, old boy. Time to shine." He dragged it into the system's blessing slot. The moment it touched the panel, it vanished in a flash of crimson light. The feed flared white… then black. Then a low growl rumbled through the screen. The Balefire Cerberus now stood fourteen feet tall, molten eyes blazing, smoke curling from its fanged maws. It towered behind Gaix, who stared up at it, slack-jawed in awe and terror. Josh's heart dropped.

"No—no! Those are the allies! Not the enemies!" The monstrous beast tilted one of its heads… and looked directly at Josh—through the screen, through the world, through everything. For a single heartbeat, they locked eyes across realities. And the Cerberus nodded. What followed was not a battle. It was a massacre. The beast pounced, mauling, ripping, and incinerating everything in its path. It didn't just kill—it devoured.

Blood sprayed, warriors screamed, and within minutes the enemy was reduced to ash, bone, and silence. Josh slowly sank back into his seat, mouth hanging open, hand still hovering over the keyboard. Princess whined at his feet.

"I think I just summoned Satan," he whispered. - - - - - - - - - - They were surrounded. The flare spell had lit the forest just long enough to reveal the truth: they were outnumbered four to one, hemmed in by shadows wearing war paint and carrying bone-forged blades. Southern Clansmen. Fanahx war mercenaries. Gaix stood among the wounded and weary, sweat and blood clinging to his robes. His magic reserves were technically endless—yes—but his body was not.

Every fire spear, every crackling bolt, each summoned spark had chipped away at him like a blade against stone. His fingers trembled. His mouth was dry. And he was afraid but he shoot wildly into the incoming enemies. The commander's voice was gone. Killed. Or lost in the chaos. All that remained now were whispers and glances between the bloodied few who had survived the first ambush. Gaix knelt behind a fallen comrade, hands shaking as he tried to wrap a torn bandage over a gaping thigh wound. It was pointless.

They wouldn't live to see morning. Another flare spell lit the night. The enemy was closing in, methodically, like wolves in tall grass. Gaix finally saw well enough to land a few killing blows along with his team the counter for his wish finally turning to thirty-five. He dropped to his knees, smeared with blood and ash from the fight. His forehead touched the earth as he whispered, voice quivering:"Dear Patron Joshua Steel… please… I pray for your help and salvation." He didn't expect an answer.

But the world felt an unseen hand. The air split. A roar, not from lungs but from hell itself, tore through the glade. The earth trembled. The trees bent backward as if shielding their leaves from what came next. A great burst of sulfur-smoke and heat erupted behind him. Gaix threw himself back. The air turned choking-hot, thick with the stench of brimstone and scorched iron. From within the smoke, glowing chains clanked as something moved. Then… it stepped forward. A Cerberus.

Not a some weak summon but a monster straight from the deepest nightmares. Fourteen feet tall at the shoulder, three snarling heads ringed with flame, eyes burning with ancient fury. Each breath was a furnace. Each claw the size of a man's chest. Chains still hung from its necks, glowing red as if freshly forged. The ground sizzled beneath its paws. Gaix fell onto his elbows, staring up, paralyzed by awe. The beast lowered one of its heads—the central one, massive and black-scaled—and looked directly at him.

It was hungry. Gaix whimpered, "I… was the one who called for help…" Then, impossibly, the beast looked up. Toward the sky. Or… no, not the sky. Toward something else. Something unseen. It paused, and nodded. Then it leapt. Over Gaix. Over the terrified survivors. And directly into the enemy lines. The sound it made when it landed was not a roar. It was a declaration. What followed was not a fight—it was carnage. The Southern warriors screamed as they scattered, but the Cerberus was too fast.

Flame erupted with every bite. It tore through armor like parchment. Bones snapped. Flesh burned. Claws raked across the ground, sending bodies flying. Gaix watched in stunned silence as men he had feared moments ago were reduced to ash, gore, and shattered steel. Some tried to flee. None succeeded. One of the beast's heads caught a fleeing spellcaster and swallowed him whole. It ate them. All of them.

By the time the smoke began to clear, the glade was silent but for the low growl of the Cerberus, standing alone amidst its feast. Flames still licked its legs. The chains steamed with heat. Blood coated its three jaws. And then it turned back toward Gaix. He didn't know what to say. He could barely breathe so he fell to both knees.

"…Thank you." he whispered. The Cerberus lifted its heads and let out one final, bone-shaking howl. The sound echoed through the ruined forest, silencing the wind itself. Then, in a burst of flame and radiant light, the beast dissolved—its massive form scattering into glowing embers that floated briefly on the air before fading into the dark.

"By the Eight Divine…" murmured Lilly Wargave, one of Gaix's comrades who collapsed beside him, her face pale, her chest rising and falling with ragged breath.

"Your patron just saved our arses."

"Yeah… he did," Gaix replied, still staring at the scorched battlefield, eyes distant. He summoned his system window and saw the notice. Minor Blessing had been granted, 35 Wish points consumed. He let out a dry chuckle…

"Minor?" Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there. Captain Horatio who shockingly survived the fight stepped forward, his face smeared with blood and disbelief. He extended a trembling hand and pulled Gaix to his feet.

"I've seen warlocks summon horrors. I've seen men channel madness," the captain said.

"But that? That wasn't wicked. That was… something else." He tried to laugh, but it came out more like a gasp.

"Too bad the puppy had to vanish. We could've used him." Gaix managed a small smile.

"Let's just be grateful we're still breathing." he looked up at the sky.

"Thank you," he whispered, voice sincere.

"Truly." - - - - - - - - - - Far away, in a world of screens and toys, Joshua leaned back in his gaming chair, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Yeah… no worries," he muttered.

"I got you bro." The figurine—his prized Balefire Cerberus—was gone for good. It hadn't reappeared. No refund, no souvenir. Just scorched memories and one hell of a story. And still… he couldn't stop smiling. He'd saved not only his warlock, but dozens of people. Real ones, probably. It didn't feel like a game anymore. Then a thought struck him. If his previous junk gave Gaix fire and lightning spells… what would a healing item do? He spun in his chair and began digging through his drawers. Old batteries.

USB sticks. Expired gift cards—"There it is!" He held up a slightly dusty bottle of aloe vera cream, the kind that promised faster healing and skin regeneration. A silly purchase from a summer trip he barely remembered.

"Let's hope this works…" He placed it into the glowing blessing slot and pressed [Convert]. A soft green shimmer enveloped the cream, and the screen flashed briefly before cutting to Gaix's stunned face. The warlock blinked at something off-screen… and then smiled. In the fading prayer feed, Joshua caught one last glimpse of Gaix sprinting across the camp, hands aglow with healing energy as he knelt beside the wounded. The connection ended. Joshua sat back, chest warm, heart steady.

Not bad for a guy with a desk job and a dog named Princess. - - - - - - - - - - Two days had passed since the forest burned. The survivors of the doomed raid group, now a celebrated strike force, rode weary but proud through the gates of the eastern warcamp. The banners of the Kingdom of Vancott fluttered above the tents. Trumpets sounded as they passed, though the notes were uncertain, unsure whether to honor heroes or welcome back ghosts. Gaix Tahinor adjusted his cloak as he walked beside Captain Horatio.

He still limped slightly, but most of his injuries had healed thanks to… well, himself. Or rather, his patron. The lesser healing magic he'd discovered was still being passed from mouth to mouth like some kind of battlefield legend. Behind them, Lilly Wargave was laughing with two of the younger scouts, her arm now in a proper sling. A few others walked quietly, heads lowered, haunted eyes occasionally flicking back toward the horizon—as if afraid the Fanahx might rise from the earth again.

They didn't talk about the corpses. The command tent was flanked by golden-armored guards, each one a wall of muscle and discipline. Inside stood the Third Prince of Vancott, Lord Peren Del Vancott. He was tall, sharp-eyed, and his left pauldron bore a deep dent with black scorch marks around the edge. He'd fought. That much was clear. Gaix swallowed hard. The prince stepped forward, nodding to Horatio before addressing the group directly.

"You held the line," he said, his voice calm but carrying.

"We feared you all dead. And yet, you routed the Fanahx ambush and crippled their advance. Because of that, the contested territory is ours. You turned the tide." A moment passed. Then he smiled.

"Your bonuses will reflect that." Murmurs passed through the strike team—tired, grateful, still not quite believing. As the formalities ended and soldiers began to drift out into the camp, the surviving group huddled near a fire pit just outside the mess tent. Gaix sat quietly, still sore, still unsure how to explain what had happened. The others weren't sure either.

"Alright," muttered one of the scouts, rubbing his temples.

"How exactly are we explaining the giant three-headed fire dog god to command without sounding like lunatics?"

"Simple," Lilly replied, still grinning.

"We lie."

"Lie?" Gaix frowned.

"Well, soften it," she said.

"You say 'divine intervention' and everyone nods. You say 'a fire-breathing hellhound the size of a house looked into the soul of the universe and nodded at something none of us could see' and suddenly you're flagged for mental evaluation."

"Good point," another soldier added.

"I say we stick with: 'Our warlock's patron sent a celestial guardian in our hour of need.' Period."

"Agreed," Horatio muttered.

"Keep it vague. Let the nobles argue over what it was. We just owe our lives to Gaix." The group went quiet. Then, slowly, Horatio stood and extended a hand toward Gaix.

"Fifty percent," he said. Gaix blinked.

"What?"

"Fifty percent of our bonus," Horatio repeated.

"You get it. Without you—and your patron—we'd be bones on a scorched field."

"I… That's not necessary," Gaix said, startled.

"Yes, it is," Lilly interjected, pointing at him with her good arm.

"You gave everything you had. And then your god gave more. Without you, we don't make it out of that hell." One by one, the others nodded.

"Fifty percent," they echoed. Gaix lowered his head, overwhelmed.

"Thank you. I… I'll use it well."

"No pressure," Lilly smirked.

"Just make sure your next miracle comes with a leash." That earned a round of much-needed laughter. Gaix needed an altar. Urgently. Technically speaking, the altar wasn't essential. The connection with his patron didn't require it—no glyphs, no conduits, no ancient runes. But it was symbolic. And symbolism mattered, especially to warlocks. A proper altar showed reverence, structure, and intent. It was the only anchor he had in a relationship that was otherwise built on fire, lightning, and silence.

So, he gathered stones. Flat ones, smooth ones, heat-cracked ones pulled from the edge of the burned glade where the Cerberus had been unleashed. He set them in a ring, stacking them with careful symmetry. It wasn't ornate—just functional. A little rough, perhaps, but honest. His fingers bled from one jagged edge, but he didn't complain. He wiped the sweat from his brow, then sat cross-legged in front of the new altar, breath steady but mind racing. What do I even offer him? That was the problem.

Patrons didn't grant blessings freely—everyone knew that. Whether it was an ancient forest spirit or a screaming god from beyond the stars, there was always a price. Gaix had survived twice now without paying that price, and it made him uneasy. That last healing spell… that was a bonus. Something unheard of among warlocks as much as he learned in his search. He wanted to give something back. But what exactly did a patron like Joshua Steel desire? The name alone was strange.

It bore none of the usual weight or grandeur. It wasn't the dark chant of an eldritch god or the melodic drift of a fae lord. It sounded almost… mortal. Tangible. And yet, the gifts had been undeniable. His magic screen shimmered faintly as he summoned it to life. The runes hovered in the air, tidy and clear, as if someone had updated the interface overnight. [Blessings Available:] [– Fire Spear] [– Electric Shock] [– Cleanse Wound] He tapped the third with a warm smile.

[Cleanse Wound — Halts bleeding and accelerates natural recovery. Does not regrow tissue or repair bone.] A support spell. Simple in design, but astonishing in function. Priests trained for years to access such magic, and even druids—natural masters of healing—would have envied its utility. The fact that he could use it endlessly only deepened the mystery. He now had long-range firepower, close-range lightning arcs, and restorative support. There was no consistent theme to them. No elemental alignment.

No school of magic. And then there was the Cerberus. He still couldn't fully grasp what had happened. A fourteen-foot beast of living flame and fury, chained like a prisoner of war, summoned with a single, desperate prayer. It consumed a minor blessing worth of wish points. Simply appeared, acknowledged him, spared them, and obeyed. He scratched his jaw, frowning deeply.

"Joshua Steel," he murmured to himself, "what are you?" A demon of metal? A god of structure? Or perhaps… a construct spirit? Something born of steel and discipline? Even his blessings felt sharp, measured, mechanical, not to mention the wierd blue window. The so called system window was likely one of this deity's creation. He turned the ideas over in his head but found no answers. Eventually, he sighed and looked down at the small pouch at his side. Gold. He had more coin now than he'd ever dreamed of.

His share of the strike force's reward had been generous even before the others offered him their portions. He was wealthier than any back-alley hedge mage in the city. It wasn't enchanted, wasn't rare—just gleaming, warm, and universally valued. It was as good a starting point as any. He placed a small handful, maybe twenty sovereigns at the center of the stone ring. They gleamed faintly in the sunlight, their stamped faces catching the air with a low metallic sheen.

"If gold is meaningless to you," he whispered, "show me. And I'll find something better. I just want to… honor our bond." He exhaled slowly, placed his hand over the coins, and whispered the phrase that had become second nature.

"Patron, I offer." - - - - - - - - - - Joshua Steel was dead to the world. Sprawled diagonally across his bed, half-covered by a crooked blanket, he snored softly into his pillow while Princess occupied the far side, belly up and twitching in a dream. The soft glow of a magical window hovered a few inches above his head, casting a faint, ethereal light across the room. [Incoming Prayer from: Gaix Tahinor] [Category: Offering & Petition] The system waited and waited… for ten whole minutes.

Josh rolled over, muttered something incoherent, and pulled the blanket over his head, entirely oblivious to the glowing divine alert above him. Eventually, the window blinked once… and disappeared. - - - - - - - - - Back in the realm of Vancott, beneath the smoke-stained sky of the borderlands, Gaix knelt in silence. He prayed and waited. Then he added another handful of gold coins to the growing pile at the center of his new altar… simple, honest offerings gleaming faintly in the moonlight. Still… nothing.

"Figures," he muttered, rising to his feet with a sigh.

"Gold must be too… mundane for a being like him." He dusted off his knees and glanced at the cracked stone ring that marked the edge of the old battlefield. There had been power here once. Now it was quiet.

"I'll try again tomorrow." He walked back toward the camp, boots crunching in the gravel. The night was cool, the stars distant, and the warmth from the fire pits was already fading. When he arrived, he took a detour toward the merchant stalls, which were beginning to close for the night. Rather than carving a new altar by hand, he opted for something simpler—a brass ritual bowl, polished and raised on three clawed legs. Lightweight. Compact. Easy to travel with. It wasn't elegant, but it would serve.

What he needed now wasn't ceremony, it was knowledge. The next day, Gaix arrived in Avenglade, the nearest city on the Vancott side of the border—a place known for its sprawling markets, tight alleyways, and secrets traded like coin. It was also home to one of the few places a warlock could go without drawing attention. The Black Pitcher. Despite the name, the tavern's interior was warm and raucous. Smoky lanterns hung from rusted chains, casting shifting shadows across the wooden walls.

Most of the patrons sat hooded and hunched, speaking in low tones. The air smelled of old ale, wet wool, and faint traces of brimstone. It was a haven for the unsavory. Rogues, assassins, dark mages, and warlocks… people society politely ignored so long as they stayed here. Behind the bar towered Grisselle, a half-troll with braided gray hair and arms like tree trunks. She moved with surprising grace, balancing trays stacked with mugs and plates, seemingly unfazed by the din.

Her resilience allowed her to work triple shifts, and the tavern never lacked her presence. At the door stood Korran, a half-orc with crossed arms and a permanent frown. His greatsword leaned against the wall, untouched, because no one dared challenge him. He didn't frisk guests or interrogate them, he simply watched. And that was enough. Gaix made his way through the crowd, earning a few wary glances, but no resistance. His robes were clean. His eyes were tired but focused.

And he carried himself with the quiet posture of someone who had survived death. It took less than five minutes to spot the trio, three warlocks, deep in discussion at a corner table beneath a crooked iron chandelier. Their drinks sat untouched. Their eyes glimmered with mana residue. One of them, a woman with golden sigils burned into her jawline, was gesturing animatedly as she spoke of the realm of sunken gods. Gaix approached slowly and nodded toward the empty chair.

"May I?" The three paused, looked him over, then exchanged glances. One of them—an older man with a salt-and-pepper beard, smiled and lifted his mug.

"A brother in the craft is always welcome," he said, voice smooth with experience.

"Pull up a chair, friend."

"Cheers to shared madness," the second muttered, lifting his own mug in a half-hearted toast. The table was thick with the scent of damp parchment and stale ale, but Gaix barely noticed. He sat across from three weathered warlocks—each dressed differently, each scarred by a different life, and each studying him now with a mix of curiosity and quiet wariness. It was Pilz who spoke first.

The oldest of the trio, with skin like cracked vellum and a beard that shifted from grey to white and back depending on the candlelight, he squinted at Gaix with clouded eyes.

"Joshua… Steel, you say?" The name left his lips slowly, like it tasted foreign.

"That's no fae. Not an ancient. Not a god I've heard whispered in any circle, high or low." The woman beside him, Petra, leaned forward slightly. Her black hood fell just enough to expose the golden sigils etched like tattoos along her jawline, magically branded markings that pulsed faintly with restrained power.

"Steel sounds... constructed," she murmured.

"Man-forged. Not born of nature or void. But your blessings—fire, lightning, and wound cleansing, those aren't minor. They're structured. Refined. Purposeful. This is no petty spirit. Whatever it is, it knows what it's doing."

"Which makes it more terrifying," Pilz muttered, tapping the edge of his mug.

"I've dealt with patrons who gave too much too fast. They always come calling later."

"And what would you suggest?" Gaix asked, voice calm, though a thread of tension coiled in his chest.

"It accepted an eclectic sacrifice, gems, blood, enchanted wing, but not gold. It hasn't spoken, hasn't shown itself again, and I don't know what it wants." Pilz scratched his chin thoughtfully.

"Send a commandment tablet," he said at last.

"Blank. Let it imprint what it wills. Many divine patrons do it when a follower reaches deeper into the pact. Even if it doesn't respond in writing, the gesture may provoke a reaction." Gaix nodded slowly.

"Or," Petra interrupted, raising a slim finger, "you're overcomplicating it. The blessings speak for themselves. Knowledge and order. Precision. You're not wielding wild magic, you're invoking systems. Offer it a magic tome, something structured, annotated, full of logic and arcana. If it accepts, then you'll know it's a god of understanding, not chaos." Across from them, the third warlock, Kanhtar, finally stopped stirring his drink with his dagger and grinned.

"You're all being too poetic," he said, voice clipped and sharp with a slight tremble. His hair stood up in wild tufts, and one of his eyes twitched every few moments like a faulty enchantment.

"You want power? Feed it power. Monster parts. The more dangerous, the better. You've already summoned something that eats people. Just keep feeding it apex meat and see what happens." Petra rolled her eyes. Pilz let out a weary grunt. Gaix, for his part, tried not to grimace.

"Right," he muttered.

"Three suggestions, three different directions. But at least I'm not at square one anymore." He thanked them politely, payed a round for the trio, and left the Black Pitcher with a lot more to think about than when he arrived.