Mexico City, November 2056

  Not Tlalocan, no matter how much the people tried to get it changed.

  Tlaloc resisted and he would always resist.

  He was no god of myth.

  Though, he supposed he was partially to blame for the worshiping issues that annoyed him.

  He had decided to name himself after said mythological god on account of not remembering what his real name had been.

  The slavery collar had done irreparable damage.

  That annoying pendejo, Cal Cruces, had said that even he couldn’t help recover it.

  Whatever that meant.

  The guy was cryptic when it came to what he could and couldn’t do.

  A name didn’t matter anyways, regardless of what Tlaloc’s advisers said.

  The night shifted like the tides between light and dark.

  Flashes of his red lightning cut through his rain and the multiple colors shining from the wings, weapons and armor of the outworld invaders daring to challenge his authority.

  The humanoids resembled technological angels.

  Faceless behind their fully-sealed helmets, they had said nothing beyond the initial challenge.

  Tlaloc had tried.

  Had sent out talkative diplomat-types first.

  The slick charmers were met with the silence of stone as the techno angels continued to appear out of the spire until they numbered exactly five hundred.

  The battle began immediately from that point.

  Light beams struck his bare, sun-bronzed chest.

  He had gotten good over the years at sensing power levels.

  The warmongering angels weren’t a threat to him.

  They were a training opportunity for his warriors.

  With a few exceptions.

  He hurled his obsidian axe, splitting the sky.

  The black glass cleaved through multiple light shields, burying itself into the most powerful techno angel’s armored chest.

  He reached out and pulled, shooting his massive body straight to his axe at supersonic speed.

  The sonic boom scattered the enemy.

  Tlaloc finished the rest of the exceptions with a spinning sweep of an axe head larger than an average human torso.

  He allowed himself to fall back to Earth, ignoring the light blasts and magic spells as they splashed off his chiseled body.

  A mighty leap carried him back behind his lines.

  “It’s now a fair battle.”

  His commander nodded and clasped fist to chest.

  “Fight well.” He tensed, ready to leap before thinking better of it. “Trust in your training and capabilities because I trust in you.” Then he leapt away, back toward the city a few kilometers to the south.

  His advisers had been on his back like nagging mothers about showing more appreciation.

  The newer generation did better with open displays.

  He scoffed at that, but it wasn’t an onerous burden to say a few words here and there.

  No matter what they said, he’d always believe that his trust in those that earned it was the greatest appreciation.

  That he’d leave them to face the invasion force without interfering beyond his rain strengthening, healing his warriors and weakening, slowing the enemy was proof enough of his appreciation.

  It was also a good opportunity to level for his warriors.

  Warriors fought.

  They died or they grew.

  It was the way of things.

  If any thought differently then they had no business accepting the warrior’s bargain.

  …

  Mexico City had a vibrant nightlife.

  A few people who had been alive in the pre-spires days attested to it.

  Tlaloc took their word for it because he couldn’t remember.

  The invasion had done nothing to silence the party in the downtown streets.

  Street food, bars, music, everything for a fun, festive night.

  He walked through the crowds, standing head and shoulders above even the tallest of his fellow Mexicans.

  They parted for the man mountain of muscles as hard as stone.

  Those that didn’t know him personally still treated him like some kind of gringo superhero.

  Funnily enough, those movies were one of the few memories he retained from before someone had slapped a magic slavery collar around his neck.

  Drunk youths had the liquid courage to come up to him and ask for pictures.

  Naturally, he ignored them.

  Older people had more respect. They simply acknowledged him with a look, a head tilt or a simple greeting that didn’t presume to take up a moment of his time.

  Well, except for the drunk ones.

  They didn’t act much different from the youths.

  For them he had a stern glare.

  They should’ve known better than to drink too much when under a potential battle alert.

  Everyone over a certain age could be called upon to fight or assist in emergency operations.

  He took a moment to scan the streets as far as he could see and hear, focusing on his warriors.

  They stood visible everywhere ready to clear the streets and get the revelers to the safety of the many bunkers scattered all over the place.

  Jaguar warriors stood like sentinels on key corners and intersections or stalked the rooftops like the silent hunters of the noble, deadly big cat that they emulated.

  Eagle warriors soared the dark skies, keeping an eye on the distant battle and patrolling for other threats.

  The spires had the annoying tendency of throwing monsters into battles in progress like one threw oil on an open flame if one wanted to burn the house down.

  Competing mariachi bands, hopeful pop stars and street rappers competed for the attention and adoration of the people, from those gathering to watch and listen while they ate street food, to those loitering outside of bars and clubs for fresh air or waiting to get in.

  The musicians stood on street corners or on balconies above said bars and clubs.

  The raucous noise soothed his inner desire to rush back to the battle.

  There was another sort of battle in the dueling guitar strings and voices that could’ve sound like battle chants if he strained his ears hard enough.

  His long walk ended at a famed street food vendor.

  The old man had expanded over the years.

  What had started as a single cart with one plancha had turned into a two-story restaurant on the entire street corner.

  What Tlaloc liked was that the old man had kept the cart front and center with barely any noticeable changes.

  The bronzed demigod in form if not mentality stepped to the back of the line despite the people shooting him hinting looks to cut right to the front.

  The old man was putting in his usual time at the ancient cart.

  “Tlaloc! What are you doing, pendejo! Ay! Every time you make me waste your time. Get up here!” He beckoned with a bony arm that shook with microscopic tremors invisible to the unenhanced human eye.

  Tlaloc shoved the annoying emotion he felt at the sight down deep into his fortress of a heart and metaphorical punched it a few times for good measure.

  The old man had been the old man for years, but he seemed to be growing even older faster the last few.

  “Stubborn mule,” he growled.

  For the old man refused to take any potions or Skill-based treatments to turn back his clock. The only help he accepted was to occasionally ease the pain in his joints just enough so that he could keep cooking from before sunrise to well after dark.

  “I wait like everyone else.”

  “Yeah, maybe, but that assistant of yours called ahead and we’ve already got your order done. So, quit wasting time and get your big ass up here.” The old man laughed. “Your tacos are taking up space in my Skill.”

  Tlaloc grumbled as he approached the cart.

  The old man got another one over him.

  “Made them just like you like them.” The old man opened a battered old cooler, shooing away his employees before they could start pulling the greasy paper bags out.

  “They better be hot.”

  “Like they just came off the plancha!”

  The employees managed to force the old man to accept their help in placing the few dozen bags into a large cardboard box, which two of them had to carry around the cart to hand to Tlaloc.

  “I’ll be the judge of that.”

  “Sure, sure, pendejo. If you have any complaints you can write them down right…” the old man fiddle in his apron pocket for a few seconds before showing Tlaloc the middle finger. “Same place as always!”

  Tlaloc laughed.

  “Don’t die in your sleep, old man. I don’t feel like going down to Mictlan and fighting Mictlantecuhtul just for good tacos.”

  Truthfully, though he’d never say it out loud, he would go down to the underworld and fight its lord for the old man’s birria. No one else could make it as good.

  Box balanced on one plate-sized hand, Tlaloc headed for the portal building.

  His advisers had been split this morning.

  One half thought it wasn’t a good idea for the strongest being to leave during an outworld invasion, even if the invaders turned out to be weak enough for him to completely ignore.

  The other half had grinned like hungry jaguars at the thought that the warriors could prove themselves without their father’s broad back to hide behind.

  Both had agreed that his being elsewhere would be good for leveling the warriors.

  Ultimately, he had decided that he couldn’t always be there to protect.

  A new generation had to rise to his level.

  Unfortunately, and he didn’t like to admit it, none had to date.

  The most intelligent of his people had projected that a class needed a level in the vicinity of 90 to possibly reach his current heights.

  Eh, such problems he left to those better suited to solve.

  The guards saluted as he strode past the heavily defended gates.

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  Weapon emplacements in and on the tall, thick walls face both inward and outward.

  The portal sat inside a thick, squat building with the same multi-layered defensive system pointed in both directions.

  More guards greeted him.

  The administrator in charge on duty said some words about it being an honor and such.

  Tlaloc disliked such things, but he remembered what he had been advised, so he told them all in a booming voice that he appreciated their diligent efforts and to never waver from striving for greatness in all the things they pursued.

  The mage on duty activated the portal stones with an injection of mana.

  He took a moment to share a few quiet words with the young woman for he sensed that she had potential in her noticeably larger mana pool than the average for her age and level. Not to mention a control that he would expect from one over Level 30, not a Level 22.

  Natural talent had to be cultivated with hard work and diligence lest they fail to reach their potential.

  He made a mental note to check with his advisers and make sure that the young mage was properly noticed and supported if she hadn’t been already.

  The portal opened completely and he strode through.

  Norway or was it Sweden?

  Somehow, he remembered that those were countries in the old days.

  Freezing cold, snow and ice.

  That was the extent of his knowledge.

  Well, whichever country he was in didn’t really matter did it?

  Old names, old world.

  Second Asgard.

  The name meant nothing to him beyond sounding strange.

  A warrior did need to protect their ass, but it seemed rather juvenile to name a city after the deed.

  Perhaps, they had a different name for buttock protection and it was the Universal Translation System butchering the term as it sometimes did.

  Their portal building differed from his in that they had a huge open skylight.

  Dark night and twinkling stars welcomed him.

  His advisers had insisted on a short briefing lesson when he had told him of his plan to leave so as to not be tempted to rejoin the battle.

  Thus, he knew that local time was very early in the morning and that this time of year the sun rose much later than he was used to or barely, if at all, depending on how much closer one was to the North Pole.

  The cold air blew down, washing over him.

  Not that he felt the cold.

  He knew it was cold because he knew this part of the world was cold.

  It was also snowing and the slavery collar hadn’t taken that knowledge.

  Second Asgard guards and a fierce-looking woman covered in tattoos greeted him.

  Words were exchanged.

  Nothing challenging.

  He remembered what his advisers had wanted him to say.

  He sensed the woman’s power level.

  High.

  Much weaker than him, naturally, but stronger than his strongest warriors.

  He made a mental note to invite her for a few friendly-ish fights at a future visit.

  It would be a good opportunity for both sides to learn and grow stronger.

  Plus, alliances couldn’t be had without first getting the full measure of each other’s capabilities.

  It was the only way to forestall potential treachery.

  He handed over several bags of holding that looked small in his hands, but looked like full sacks in theirs.

  And the warriors of Second Asgard weren’t small people.

  They were all taller and larger than his on average if he was a good judge of size, which he was.

  He had a true warrior’s sense of scale.

  He handed over the box of birria tacos to the tattooed woman, saving two greasy bags for himself.

  Proper protocols concluded, he stated his destination.

  To her credit, she didn’t hesitate. Didn’t try to challenge him or redirect him to some other inane welcoming ceremony. Didn’t try to bring him elsewhere to greet others.

  He appreciated the lack of artifice and false displays of friendship.

  Thus, he told her so.

  She only laughed and nodded before pointing him in the direction he wanted to go.

  Surprisingly, they left him alone at that point.

  No escort, well, no visible escort.

  He sensed several sneaky warriors following, watching at a respectful distance. Sensed several animals watching him in the way that indicated a class’ hand. Sensed spells, probably multiple forms of scrying and magic eyes.

  He paid them no mind.

  Long strides carried him to his destination quickly.

  The city provided helpful signs on the snow-covered streets.

  At this very early hour in the morning they were empty of all but the ones keeping their eyes on him.

  Several armed patrols crossed his path, but judging by the pattern he observed the encounters were by chance rather than intent.

  His destination loomed at the end of a long street leading up a gentle rise overlooking a small river.

  The building was comparable in size to one the warehouses where his people stored everything from food to weapons.

  It appeared to be built out of sturdy stone, which made it look more like a fortress than a brewery.

  The head of a huge blue troll grinned down on him from the top of the brewery. Twin mugs crossed beneath the pointed chin as if they were swords.

  The double front doors were huge and open.

  It was rare thing when he didn’t have to duck and angle his boulder shoulders to enter a building.

  The cavernous interior was empty as stray snow blew in from outside, creating slushy carpet around the opening.

  Long wooden tables with simple wooden benches stood on the bare concrete floor. They all looked hand-carved by skilled hands.

  It felt cool under his bare feet, which meant the concrete must’ve been really cold.

  An enormous bar snaked along the far wall where a pair of double doors just as wide and tall as the entrance at both ends of the said bar likely led the way to where the actual brewing was done.

  Despite the odd touch of the bar’s sinuous shape, the layout was comparable to the ones he frequented back home.

  A sound like the rock slides he sometimes triggered in the mountains near his home rumbled from one of the propped open double doors.

  “Sit anywhere you want at the bar.”

  Tlaloc did so, placing his greasy brown bags down.

  The troll from another world emerged with four barrels of the mead Tlaloc had come all this way to drink.

  They sized each other up immediately and quickly.

  The troll was more gray-skinned with a blue tint rather than the pure blue like on the sign outside. He towered around half again as tall as Tlaloc. His proportionally longer limbs made him seem lean and lanky with wiry muscles, but Tlaloc could tell that they were close in size to his own bulging muscles.

  A disconcertingly human-like face gazed down at Tlaloc. Intelligent eyes studied him down a long, hooked nose. Mouth revealed human like teeth, just sized up much larger with more pronounced, pointy canines.

  “If we’re done mentally playing out the hypothetical battle, let’s get this started.” The troll’s grin resembled a feral animal.

  Tlaloc’s hackles rose, but he forced them back down.

  He had been briefed extensively on the troll’s mannerisms specifically to avoid an international incident.

  The troll carried the full-sized barrels to the bar like they were mugs.

  Long-fingered hands placed two down near Tlaloc.

  The two underneath the troll’s arm pits rolled down and nearly smashed into the floor before he caught them lightly and placed them on the bar.

  “Gruntlerionadras, humble brewer.” He extended a hand. “Welcome to my humble brewery.”

  The long-fingered hand was cool to the touch.

  They squeezed with restrained strength.

  Tlaloc knew he was significantly stronger.

  The troll didn’t care to test that.

  Tlaloc noted the thick nails with slight points that showed signs of significant trimming. He could easily see how they could grow into deadly weapons if the troll wanted.

  Not a warrior then.

  “Thank you for accepting my request. I won’t take up too much of your time.”

  Gruntlerionadras shrugged in a disturbingly human-like manner.

  “I had to start earlier today, but it’s not a big deal. The kids asked and I’ll always owe them for welcoming me with open arms and giving me a place to pursue my true passion in peace without asking much in return. So, drink till your heart and bladder are full. Then go piss it out,” he nodded at the bathrooms near the entrance, “and come drink some more.” He took one barrel, popped the stopper and poured a full mug for Tlaloc. “Basic mead. Traditional honey. Funny how traditional mead on your world is exactly the same as the one on my world.”

  “Bees?”

  “Funny how the same creature can be found on two worlds.”

  “There were none of your kind here.”

  “That’s the spires for you.”

  Gruntlerionadras flicked a glance down to Tlaloc chest before turning.

  “There’s a variety of ready hot food in the cabinets. Stasis enchantment. Feel free to grab anything if you get hungry, but I see you’ve come prepared.”

  That reminded Tlaloc.

  He pushed one greasy bag toward the troll.

  “Birria tacos from my home. Made by a master of his craft, like you of yours. The best.”

  The troll raised a brow and grinned.

  “Now, this might make opening up so early worth it. My second passion,” he explained as he snatched the bag like a greedy drunk just before closing, “is sampling culinary delights from everywhere. If this is good then I’ll be willing to trade recipes. One of my brews for tacos.”

  “It isn’t mine to trade, but I will ask for you.”

  “Fair. Thanks for the new food! I’ll be in the back trying it out and cleaning. Always cleaning. Just come find me if you run out.”

  With that Tlaloc was left alone with the mead.

  Four barrels, four flavors.

  The traditional honey and three that looked like some kind of berries, an orange and an apple from the drawn labels.

  He drank for awhile before breaking out the tacos.

  There was much tacos in the bag, but the curse of his size and power meant that they never lasted long enough.

  He found much regret in not keeping another bag or five for himself.

  Gruntlerionadras eventually returned and placed a small booklet in front of him.

  “My recipe for the traditional mead. Consider it a gift. You tell that master taco maker that I’d like to talk. It doesn’t have to be a recipe exchange if he’s the kind that likes to keep his secrets. I understand, myself. Let him know that I’m willing to pay well for periodic, regular taco sales through the spires marketplace. And I’m willing to pay more if he is willing to come here and cook for me.”

  Tlaloc bristled.

  “Not on a permanent basis. Monthly? Bimonthly? We can negotiate. I’d pay more if he’d be willing to teach others.”

  It sounded like business, which Tlaloc cared nothing for.

  He made a mental note to tell his advisers to handle all of it.

  It seemed like a good way to cement closer ties regardless of his personal, possessive feelings.

  The troll’s icy eyes flicked down to Tlaloc’s bare chest again.

  “Ask your question.” He tried not to speak with a growl. “I’m a guest, so I would speak when I would normally tell you to mind your own business.”

  The troll spoke lightly or as lightly as one with a voice like rumbling rocks could.

  “You know, I only agreed to this because the kids asked, but that was because Cal said you weren’t a threat.”

  Tlaloc bristled.

  “You misunderstand. You are capable of being a threat, but not in these current circumstances unless we attacked you first, which we wouldn’t because we’re not the war-making sort. We’re more war-finishers. So, where’d you get it?” The troll indicated the tiny obsidian axe embedded in the center of Tlaloc’s massive pectorals.

  “On a mountain top.”

  “Inside a stone?”

  “Yeah.”

  He threw the troll a bone and gave a brief account of what he remembered of the day the trajectory of his miserable life changed for the better. His and the tens of thousands of people under the storm of his protection.

  “Do strange voices speak inside your head? Guiding? Telling?”

  “No. Never. You talk like you know what this is?”

  “Not specifically, but I have some familiarity with magic items that appear mysteriously and provide power, though usually with a cost or costs. There have been many recorded in the history of my people. An axe in a stone. A shooter floating in the mist. A crown hanging from a tree as if it was fruit. Trousers in one’s closet. And many more.”

  “Are you trying to be funny, pen—”

  “No, not at all. There’s a book with all the verifiable and unverifiable stories. A who’s who of my people and others that traded their class for a chance at quicker and potentially even greater power. Naturally, such power comes at a cost.”

  “Like?”

  The troll shrugged.

  “It’s the nature of these magical items. Obviously, someone or something had to create them. And to send them through the spires into other worlds? Well, that requires an intent. A purpose worth the cost. I can’t speak for any of this, but the wearer of that crown I mentioned left a memoir. She wrote about the voices in her head. According to her they belonged to a race of gods.” Gruntlerionadras chuckled. “There are no such things as true gods. Powerful beings? God-like? Sure, but no one and nothing has ever displayed true omnipotence and omniscience. I’d say the spires are the closest thing to that. These voices claimed that they didn’t want anything from her but to use the crown and grow powerful, do great things. Take and defeat the greatest Quests. Earn untold numbers of Universal Points.” The troll’s shoulders started shuddering as his body shook. “Get this, they wanted her to do all that because they got a percentage of what she got just for making the crown.” The troll laughed. “Gods? They were basically investors in the stock that was the Queen of Frozen Crimson!” He wiped tears from his large eyes. “Whatever it cost them, the crown and the queen got them their investment back and more, if I had to wager. She conquered half the world and ruled over the millennia of history later called the Ice Blood Age. Terrible name, but it stuck.”

  Tlaloc couldn’t speak because he didn’t know what to say to that.

  He had heard no voices from the axe and he didn’t believe that it had ever influenced him in any way.

  The troll appeared perceptive enough to notice.

  “I don’t mean to bring you concern. Like I said, you have been vouched for and I don’t believe you’d be allowed to keep that axe if there was a malignant will hidden within. Although, that isn’t to stay there isn’t the possibility that your gains are being siphoned since the spires don’t reveal that. At least that’s how it was for the queen, according to her memoir. She would’ve never known had her investors not contacted her. Apparently, they were really happy with her.”

  “So, they just use our world for sport?”

  Gruntlerionadras shrugged.

  “That’s the law of the spires, isn’t it? The powerful does what they will to or for the powerless. Level. Gain strength. Or forever be ground beneath the foot.”

  Tlaloc touched the tiny axe.

  “I threw off a collar once. I can do it again if it comes to that. Whether this thing’s makers have plans for me doesn’t matter. They will find my will more than equal to theirs.”

  “Thats the spirit!”

  …

  Tlaloc returned to Mexico City a few hours later with one barrel of each mead flavor Gruntlerionadras made inside several bags of holding around his belt.

  The city was as he had left it.

  Quiet in parts, loud in parts.

  Bright lights and music.

  Several of his advisers waited near the gatehouse.

  Faces and body language showed no concerning signs.

  He couldn’t see or smell fires in the city except for the magical fires atop the tall poles scattered throughout to ward against the spectral-type monsters that sometimes leaked out of the closest spawn zones in the ancient ruins of the Aztecs and the mountains surrounding the valley.

  Back to his duties, which was a welcome distraction from some of what the troll had told him.

  Despite the disconcerting information, he decided that it had been a worthwhile way to spend a few hours.

  Like some of his advisers had said, it was good to go on vacation every once in a while.

  Perhaps, he would return to Gruntlerionadras’ brewery in a year or two? Perhaps, the troll would be willing to have a friendly fight?