Artorian's Archives Omnibus #1-3
Author: Dennis Vanderkerken; Dakota Krout
Date: 2020-04-17 07:00:00+00:00
Description: A town put to the sword. The young forcibly recruited. An old man out for revenge. The first three books in the Artorian's Archives series, over 1,000 pages of cultivation adventure! After his town is put to the sword and the children are taken to replace the fallen, an old man is out for revenge. He’s ready to fail at the most difficult challenge in the world: cultivation. Too corrupted to even take the first steps, the sly old elder simply agreed with those who told him that it was impossible. Then he quietly ignored them, rubbed his hands together, and started anyway. He had always failed i
Publisher: Mountaindale Press
Rights: Copyright 2020 Dennis Vanderkerken. All rights reserved.

Artorian’s Archives Omnibus

Books 1-3 in a Divine Dungeon Series

Dennis Vanderkerken

Dakota Krout

Copyright © 2020 by Mountaindale Press

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Acknowledgments

From Dennis:

There are many people who have made this book possible. First is Dakota himself, for without whom this entire series would never have come about. In addition to letting me write in his universe, he has taken it upon himself to edit and keep straight all the madness for which I am responsible, with resulting hilarity therein.

A thank you to my late grandfather, after whom a significant chunk of Artorian’s personality is indebted. He was a man of mighty strides, and is missed dearly.

A special thank you to my parents, for being ever supportive in my odd endeavors, Mountaindale Press for being a fantastic publisher, Jess for keeping us all on task, and all the fans of Artorian’s Archives, Divine Dungeon, and Completionist Chronicles who are responsible for the popularity for this to come to pass. May your affinity channels be strong, and plentiful!

Last of all, thank you. Thank you for picking this up and giving it a read. These three books are the start of a multi-book series, and I dearly hope you will enjoy them as the story keeps progressing. Artorian’s Archives may start before Divine Dungeon, but don’t worry! It’s going all the way past the end of Completionist Chronicles! So if you liked this, keep an eye out for more things from Mountaindale Press!

Newsletter

Don’t miss out on future releases! Sign up for the Mountaindale Press newsletter to stay up to date. And as always, thank you for your support! You are the reason we’re able to bring these stories to life.

Contents

I. Axiom

II. Alumni

III. Annex

Afterword

About Dennis Vanderkerken

About Dakota Krout

About Mountaindale Press

Mountaindale Press Titles

Appendix

Axiom

Artorian’s Archives Book 1

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Epilogue

Prologue

“Sir!”

A man in his early thirties looked up from the map he and a few others were pouring over and could instantly see that the messenger had serious and grievous news to give him. “What in the abyss is going on out there? Report!"

“Sir, the front line has fallen, the main Commander has been slain! There was… there is a Mage out there!"

Various sounds of consternation filled the tent, and a few people even ran to double-check the report. “Why in the world would there be a Mage here? There aren’t even the most basic of cultivators in this fight! How could they afford a–”

“From what I understand, the Mage is killing indiscriminately. Sir! I don’t know what to tell you. All I know is that command either falls to you or…

“Don't tell me someone is bringing him this same message! As much as I don’t want to be in charge, there is no way…!"

Even as he finished his statement, a powerful voice rumbled over the battlefield, “Charge!”

The bloodlust coming from the self-entitled voice was so thick that the warriors could almost taste it, and this group was right at the rear of the battle. “We’ve won, you backwater cretins! Turn and fight! Their line is broken! I said charge!”

The sub-commander barreled out of his tent and into the scorching sunlight that was the Soccoro Desert. Why there was a battle happening in this blasted wasteland, he had no idea. He simply followed orders and attempted to do right by his people… unlike his counterpart, who was only in the military for glory. Taking a deep breath, the sub-commander bellowed an order to countermand the words that had shaken the sand out of his tent. “Retreat! Blast that order. There is a Mage waiting out there! Full retreat!”

Sand and dust were present at the best of times in this wasteland, but the density and quantity today were on a different level. A sound reached his ears, a high-pitched *piiiiii… boom*. With that detonation, a massive amount of sand, soot, and various debris joined what was already in the air, choking the sub-commander in an instant. The sun was blotted out, and the world descended into a confusing and hazy blur.

“Traitor!” The snarl thundered across the burning sand and searing soot, burning deeper into the sub-commander than the sun ever had in this place. “Ignore him! For glory! For honor! For your King! I said charge!”

Next to the command tent, the sub-commander’s eyes widened as a chance breeze pushed aside the storm of sand and soot and the battlefield was revealed to him. Death, flame, and destruction. Every man who entered the open space of the battlefield was starting alight and was burned into a pile of ashes in an instant. Even those who were not moving forward…

*Boom*.

A roiling wave of heat struck the sub-commander square in the back, and the taste of sand filled his mouth as he was shoved down into the ground by the invisible shockwave. His skin was shredded as the dirt, newly-made glass, and flaming splinters cut hundreds of lines through his armor. He stifled a groan and pushed himself up, his aching knee pulled to his chest as the toes of his boot sunk into brittle, half-glassed sand. A glance behind him showed that only a fireball remained of the command tent, and the lack of screams made his heart sink. Those were… his… ten years on the campaign trail; those were his brothers in arms! The only family he had!

He steeled himself; he would need to grieve later. If there was a later. For now, he needed to save as many as he could. Their loss was clear; the chances of victory were nonexistent. It was time to retreat, or they would suffer a devastating rout and be killed to the last man. There was no victory to be found here—not now, not after that monster, that cultivator, the one-man army arrived.

“Disengage! Disen-*hack*-gage!” His words somehow sounded clearly across the field, and he knew he would be obeyed by most. There was power in being there for the people that relied on you, and he knew that his opposite was not as beloved as he was. The people… they would run. Hopefully, some would even survive.

“Don’t listen to him!” The next words to reach his ringing ears were accusatory. “I will chase you down, you traitor! I will chase you all down if it’s the last thing I–”

A whistle of metal pierced the space where the words were forming, and the sentence abruptly ended with a very fleshy *hyuk*. It would have been a notable detail had a pillar of flame not engulfed the position in a cascading waterfall of fire and destruction. Loss. Total loss.

The newly minted Commander bellowed, “Get back to the bunkers!”

A cold feeling of dread permeated his insides, particularly his stomach when he realized… by giving an order, he had made himself a prime target. The Commander, the other sub-commander… this Mage was targeting command structure before all else. Panic fueled the muscles in his legs as he broke into a ‘your-life-is-over’ run through the billowing walls of hot sand. The cries and wails of the numerous injured littered the surroundings, the troops around him invisible in the artificial maelstrom of glowing orange and matte black. He had made the correct decision.

*Boom*.

A high pitched *piiiiii* sound filled his now-damaged ears, an infuriatingly sharp tone. It wasn’t much, but it was all the sensory information available. Wait… had it gotten even hotter? Odd how that seemed so impossible at the edge of the scorching Socorro Desert. The panic of his current reality took grip once more, and his determined fingertips clenched into his palm, grasping the soil that he had been thrown into.

To his surprise, the flat rock he gripped was solid and cool. Without being able to actually see, there was still enough difference to inform him that he was now in the shade. He had gotten into the bunkers!

Hope blossomed as the poor excuse for a Commander forced himself to his feet. He took a few steps, then found himself falling into a deep hole that someone must have been using as a sleeping or cool-down area. As he settled on the dirt several feet below the bunker and tried to regain his breath, he realized that his dry throat was making each inhalation excruciatingly painful.

As soon as he could manage, there was no hesitation in snatching the waterskin—now considerably singed—from his belt. His shredded leather belt didn’t survive this pull, falling to tatters as he pulled open the container and took a long pull. He did his best to squint his eyes open, at least enough to rinse out some of the caked-on foulness.

Though it did little to help the pain, it was still sufficient to restore a semblance of visibility. A jarring cry echoed down to him, so he pulled himself up to peek over the edge of the hole. Hope filled him for a moment as a duo of familiar figures burst into the underground space… but they were not the only things coming through the opening. Fire, prefaced by a sound like thunder heralding a storm, flooded into the space after them.

The air seemed to coil and writhe, producing a horrifying orange glow. The air became a swirl of ebon particles that danced in the air, and the only sound was the crackle of sand becoming glass in the sudden torrential heat. The sight of his men… his family… being swallowed by the flames was the last he remembered. He couldn't avoid the hail of rocks that erupted from the ground and shattered against the opposing wall, ricocheting straight for his head.

Darkness took him.

Chapter One

*Thunk*. The old warrior woke from a deep sleep with a pained jerk, his latent nightmares still sending the word ‘traitor’ ringing through his skull. His forehead stung as his aged body awoke to the aching impact of a shelled nut. Right on a sore spot near the temple. It had healed over… oh, decades ago by this point.

*Plink*.

The communal gasp of several youngsters was the first sign of what was likely going to be a taxing day. A child’s voice whispered frantically, “You hit him!”

Half-muffled replies from another tiny voice snapped in panic, “I didn’t mean to!”

The first voice remained frantic. “You hit the Elder! You hit the El– *mlmm*!”

Any following words were muffled by the tight grasp of multiple hands, and a communal *shhh* hissed from several sources. The scuffle of feet moved with the unskilled stealth of a weighed-down pack mule as the small gathering of children tried to escape unnoticed. Fat chance of that happening.

Dry wood croaked like a grumpy frog as the Elder struggled to get off his resting place. One leg clambered over the edge of the bed, and a moment later, the other followed. A deep breath was held before the *hmmmpf* of effort pushed the aged wreck up and off the padded sheet. Trembling hands fell to his sides after the old man was finally upright—at least as upright as an almost fifty-year-old who spent most of his time horizontal and in bed could be.

Small crunches rippled and popped underfoot with every step he took. It appeared he’d wandered into… a mess of small shells. He pondered the unnatural addition to his floor, uncertain what to make of the situation. “Hmm. Curious.”

There was a slight stagger as a shell cut into his foot, but a few steps later, he was leaning on the window hole in the wall. This particular hole was ‘mysteriously’ missing the thin cloth that usually gave his home a touch of privacy. The Elder stuck his bald head through the window and squinted to find the missing cloth. Sure enough, it was floppily attached to the top of the frame and detached from the other three supports. The cover aimlessly flapped in the eternally soft breeze, the wind making his waist-long beard follow suit.

Barely a white puff floated overhead, the sky was its usual gentle blue. The beautiful sky was a common sight in this corner of the world thanks to a low annual rainfall. He realized right then that he must have overslept, as the sun was past its midpoint. Then again, as a member of the community not needing to perform any task concerning physical labor, he didn’t give it a second thought. Nobody else did either.

As usual, it was a warm day—a pleasant one, even, as the cooling breeze took the weight and excess warmth right off his shoulders. A thumb and forefinger brushed along his upper lip, smoothing out a snow-white mustache that curved out past the sides of his mouth before sharply angling downwards. It was nearly a fourth the length of his equally colorless beard, and it served to distract from his wrinkled features, scars, and large, prominent nose.

“*Eeeeee*!”

A screech from the children allowed him to easily pinpoint where they’d scampered off to hide. When the Elder turned his still-waking gaze to meet them, they froze like wide-eyed rabbits before the alarmed pack sucked in a simultaneous breath… and scattered. Some dove behind shrubs, while others thought that thin, willowy trees half their width would conceal them fully. The last child mostly just dawdled in place—about to move left, then about to move right, then changing his mind like he was about to move left again. Distress was drawn on his face like a finely carved woodwork.

“Sproutling.” The Elder’s voice was slow, full of depth, and held a parent's questioning tone. The inflection at the end of the word made the young child freeze. While the Elder’s words had been forceful, his voice still possessed all the warmth one would expect of a doting grandfather. The tattered-robe-clad child panic-smiled, showing a mostly full row of teeth. His eyes darted around looking for help… only to see that the others had thrown him into the river and had left him to drown. They peeked out from their respective hiding places, motioning for him to stay quiet about their ‘hidden’ selves.

With no way out, the child swallowed loudly and attempted his best—completely innocent—response, “Y-yes, Elder?”

The Elder held a tense silence as he leaned his sharp-featured face forward out of the window further, beckoning the young child closer with a digit. Sharp eye contact was firmly maintained along with the ‘come here’ tug of the index finger. With much chagrin and a pinch of defeat, the young lad approached the window. Hidden children were watching with rapt attention, looking for a chance to flee while their ‘caught’ member dragged his feet.

While the sproutlings sought escape, the Elder had a cursory glance at the village. His small lodging was nestled near the center of the village, given that the ‘center’ was measured by proximity to both the bonfire ring and their haphazard attempts at an apple orchard. The lasting silence allowed quick deduction that the majority of adults in the village were out working the salt flats.

There was no loud whining in the direction of the apiary, so the caretakers were not currently working with the honeybees. The distinct lack of sizzling and iron striking bronze also added to the strong indication that young children—sprouts, or sproutlings in this village—were entirely unsupervised.

He’d actually have to get up today, and his inner lethargy bemoaned the very notion that such effort was going to be necessary. With a sigh and forced determination to get going with his day, he reached out with his thin, trembling hand and patted the sproutling’s head after he’d approached. While the grandfather’s voice was tired, it wasn’t the kind of tired that came from freshly waking up and coping. It was the kind of slow, creeping drain that stuck with you at all times, regardless of what you did to try and work through it. His question was tender and soft. “Were you all trying to see who could get shells into an old, snoring mouth… so I would choke, wake up, and be able to tell my stories sooner?”

The small youth’s eyes brightened with a mixture of wonder and surprise. How did the Elder know? He hadn’t said anything, and they would have sworn that he’d been asleep when they’d come up with their devious trickery. The conflicted youth sputtered, “H-how?”

“Gather your friends; fetch me a pail of water. I’ll be out to tell you a story after I’ve washed.” He paused and clenched his fingers around the head of the sproutling to keep the child’s attention. Ever so slightly, he tilted the young head up, so their gaze remained met. Chestnut brown innocence met the Elder’s deep-set, dull blue eyes. “Next time, wake me properly when your caretakers are nowhere to be found. A nudge of the arm will do.”

The young child beamed while trying to nod, clearly having already forgotten half the information. As the young one had not been held firmly, he slipped free and darted away to screech the information at the rest of the playgroup with glee. They made a massive cacophony before speeding off to the well like a poorly organized mob of energetic squirrels. The kindly Elder watched them bolt, then looked down at the floor behind him. The shells were small and broke easily.

He did have a tendency to snore or otherwise sleep with his mouth parted since he could never trust his nose. Since the children had never bothered him even when they had reached the pinnacle of boredom, this was a new experience. In fact, he had the sneaking suspicion that someone had put them up to this. He’d have the children clean the crunchy mess on his floor up later.

Staggering over to the center walkway, he patted an unstrung and long unused hunting bow hanging from a supporting beam. They had many adventures together, but that was all in the deep past now. From the edges of the beam, he picked up a simple, gray gi and white outer robe. The hanging robe was soft, made from the fur of those mountain animals. What were those called again? Alpacas? Popular beastie for cloth. “Shall we go wash? Alpaca towel. Oh, ho-ha!”

His thoughts slipped before returning to the forlorn bow that had been repurposed as a clothing hanger. Well, forlorn was too strong a term. It hadn’t been that bad in his many years here, spending his days on the edge of the known world. ‘The Fringe’ was what everyone called it, at least those who knew what a map was. Here, the social rules were considerably different, and education was entirely a personal ordeal—normally, an ignored personal ordeal. Being called ‘Elder’ still felt odd, but he’d gotten used to the naming conventions. In fact they were very simple—your name in the village was a derivative of your function.

Nostalgia struck him suddenly. He recalled arriving years ago, running from all the problems in the world. Had it actually been problems he was running from or merely regrets? His grip around the robe strengthened, and a tinge of discomfort bit through as he forced the thought to pass before reaching for his woven tabi and wood-carved sandals. This penchant to wander off in thought was going to be the death of him one day. Now that he thought about it… he had certainly been running from the regrets.

The Elder had to give up his name in order to be admitted by the Fringe. Now he was just ‘the Elder’. It had been a rule as much as it was a ritual and one he recalled not trying to fight in the least. It wouldn’t ablate the memories, but what lost soul did not appreciate the chance at a clean slate? When his arms were still strong, he had helped gather the salt from the flats each day after the thin tide that rolled over the flatlands evaporated, leaving behind only the substance that the town was named for.

Salt.

That had been long before he started deteriorating. There were people in the village who beat him in age yet still had more vitality and youth in them. While physically, he counted around the age of fifty, visually, he appeared several decades older. His position became more administrative as a result—check up on everyone else’s tasks, keep stock of events, and humor the children. Or rather, educate them, as nobody else had the time or ability to do so. There had not been any sort of election or formal process to this.

He kept doing what he could, and the way people had addressed him simply shifted over time until they’d all called him ‘Elder’. In this village, being called an Elder also made you an Elder. Being ‘gifted’ the title afforded you an automatic council position. It assigned larger responsibilities and decisions, such as speaking to the traders that came every few moons and keeping track of goods. His word relegated where the settlement grew, as such tasks were left to those who spent all their time paying attention to the minutiae.

The aged man stopped to squeeze the bridge of his nose and groan at the unfortunate recollection. The traders. That unpleasant conversation was tonight, wasn’t it? Elder ‘Switch’ would no doubt muscle her shrill voice to the top of the pile again, making endless, unreasonable demands that only suited or benefitted her. How had she ever become a respected Elder in this town?

A pain in the shoulder snapped him from the vestiges of reflection. *Mmf*. He soothed it with a stern, thumb-pressed rub, drawing upon his limited knowledge of acupoints, being anything but quiet about his discomfort. When the mystery pain passed, he finished dressing and could already hear the panting breaths in the distance.

The *thudthudthudthud* of small feet accompanied a hasty beeline towards his small home. Was that sloshing? Why would there be sl– Ah! The pail of water. Good.

“I’m getting old,” he mumbled while hitting the small of his back with the side of his fist, preparing his muscles as he lifted and moved the wooden plank covering the door. Shifting the rectangular weight to the side, a few of his stockpiled things fell to the floor. He stuffed the plank behind a spare cloth, logs, and other clutter he’d accumulated and stored over the years. An attentive moment was spent to safely store the fallen roll of vellum. Handwritten philosophy notes were priceless beyond compare… at least to an academic like himself.

Exiting his small home, he kept his hand over his eyes, so the light of the sun didn’t stab him right in the face. His blocked vision aided in noting the smell of crushed posies and hibiscus that hung on the breeze.

“Ah, so Hibi is home,” he spoke to himself, a small smile forming as he thought fondly of events to come. If Hibi was home, it meant that when For returned from the salt flats… he could tease the young man about the moon-eyes he constantly made at the girl. The current matter came first, as his slightly hunched form awaited the stampede coming right for him.

“El~de~ee~er!” screeched a mousy voice in the distance, though that distance was lessening in a hurry. Those little rascals were just so fast! With a curt nod, the Elder hummed his way forward and began his daily trek to the deeper salt-stream. One’s health and cleanliness were important. He, as usual, didn’t get far before there was a parade of activity underfoot.

“I got the freshwater!”

“No, I got the water!”

“I got it first!”

“I filled it after you dropped it!”

“I only dropped it because you pushed me!”

“Did not!”

“Did too!”

The Elder clapped his hands together. “You all got the water here, so you all did wonderfully. Put it in the usual place, would you?”

His tone was calm, passive, and weighted with pensive depth. The whirlwind stormed off, a wooden *tak* sounded as the bucket loudly hit a stone, and then the sproutlings raced back. “Elder, we get our question!”

“Yes, we get a question!” The children were all bouncing with big smiles, balled hands, copying his hunched posture. Sure enough, he’d told them before that if they helped him with something, they would get to ask a question outside of their adventure time. Which normally was generally nothing, but he tried to get lessons in between the many attention-demanding voices squawking over one another like a flock of tiny birds. He needed a solid breath.

“Very well. You did earn it. One question.” The Elder paused in his calm stride and raised a single digit as little students fought to be heard.

“Why are leaves green?”

“Why can’t we use leaves to color our clothes green?”

“Why does mum wash the color out of my robe?”

“What was your name before it was Elder?”

“I found a pretty leaf. Can I put it on your head?”

Several more questions whizzed past. It reminded him of the blather that happened closer to the evening when all the seamstresses got together and whispered that new gossip to one another. Of course, they whispered loudly enough for others to hear, and most things said were just to rabble-rouse, but everyone had to find joy somewhere. In the questions of the children though, one was out of place.

“What was my name before it was Elder? Now, now. You know that’s not something one is supposed to talk about in the Fringe. Before I answer one of the others, what is the rule?” His tone shifted to a sterner, determined flatness as he kept a solid eye on the one who had chirped the question.

Serious engagement made the congregation fall silent and shrink away an inch. They knew better, of course they did. With a swallow, the mousy voice piped up, “Everyone that wants to live in the Fringe becomes part of the Fringe, and everything you were before is left behind.”

The Elder nodded and dropped the stern quality; it was unnatural for him and took effort to uphold. “That’s correct, sproutling. Now, while I have your attention, was it Elder Switch who put you up to that game from earlier?”

Embarrassed nodding did the rounds. The Elder sighed and rubbed his forehead. “That woman is rage incarnate.”

The embarrassment of the group changed to quizzical frowns. They didn’t know those words, so he explained, “She’s always angry, particularly at me.”

Clarification complete, he then turned to the young girl holding a very big leaf. “As for the question I’m answering. I pick yours, and yes, you can put the leaf on my head.”

The Elder lowered himself down, and the smiling girl zipped up to place the big leaf on the Elder’s bald head. He promptly got back up and struck a pose. “How is it? Do I look beautiful?”

He did a turn and a flourish, playfully taking the hem of his robe to make it sway from side to side as he took little, bouncing steps to match. A smile remained on his bemused face as he stood there like an awkward duck with the leaf on his head. The laughter and snorting giggles from the children made him not mind one bit. He didn’t bother taking the large greenery off as he turned to continue his trek to the saltwater stream. At least the freshwater in the pail was going to quench his dry throat upon his return.

When the laughter was dying down, the Elder turned to look at them; dramatically and with much vigor as possible, he snapped back into the awkward ‘look at my leaf’ pose. As expected, back down into the land of snotty, ugly laughter the children went. One of his arms was poised above his head, oddly bent as he pointed at the leaf while his face scrunched up and eyes squinted. One knee was bent, while the other remained straight out and at a sharp angle. He couldn’t hold that long, of course, so he released the pose and patted the new hat on his head.

“It’s a great leaf,” he mentioned as he wandered to the stream, giving them a light wave and an idea of where he was going to be when done with bathing. “Orchard. Bring your cups.”

He stopped to look over his shoulder as a, “Yes, Elder!” rang out behind him. He gave a positive nod and the children charged off. “They’re good little ones, beneath all their wide-eyed wonder and boundless energy.”

The Elder mumbled the words to himself but couldn’t keep the smile off his face as the sun uncovered from behind a single dense cloud and stabbed him right in the eyes. He recoiled from the searing assault with an *argh*!

It had gotten him again today. “You win this time, shiny sky orb. You win this time!”

Chapter Two

*Shkrack*! A thin wooden cup crashed against the wall in the village longhouse, fragmenting into sizable chunks. The Elderly, bossy voice shrieked, releasing a spray of spittle as the sound of a long, thin piece of wood impacted with a *switch*.

“Ahh!” A screech of pain erupted from a young voice as they were hit by a sharpened switch. The wince was as deep as the injury, but the cowering young adult bore it as silently as possible.

“I. Said. Do it!” the curmudgeonly Elder demanded.

The young villager stammered in an attempted reply, “E-Elder, we can’t just–”

His words were sharply cut off as the thin, freshly cut hazel branch swung and missed with a sharp *whizz*. “I am the only Elder in this village whose opinion matters. I am the oldest. I have been here the longest. I am sick. And. Tired. Of being told I cannot do what I want with my village. If I say we are accepting the new trading currency, then we are accepting it. If I say you work on the salt flats this year, then you work on the salt flats, and If. I. Say!”

Another *whizz* of the rod swinging past without striking the intended target interrupted the diatribe. “That I am the only Elder who matters, then you will live by that rule, or great hazel help you, I will strip each branch from that tree only to beat you with it until you’re disciplined! I chased you as a bothersome little child, and I’ve had to chase you all the way to the age where we’re supposed to name you, yet you can’t even follow simple tasks!”

The hesitant reply came with a concerned tone, “Elder, the rule of the village is that all Elders must agree on a decision. Otherwise, it can’t be said that the village is sure—or united—about what is good for everyone.”

He deftly dodged another wildly swung *whizz* from the ancient, enraged woman. “That tired old relic isn’t fit to be an Elder, and I don’t care what the rest of the village says! I will never accept him as my equal! I am the one that grew up here, and I am the only one who truly knows what is best! That lost-in-thought outsider has his head so high in the clouds that he forgets mid-conversation what I am talking about. That fallen log can’t agree with me on the most basic tasks of how a village should be run, and he has stolen all my precious young sproutlings!”

She took a heaving breath and continued her tirade, “My stories are the true lore and history of the village! Not those flighty, made-up tales that blind oak keeps rattling off. It’s affecting their young minds and making them deviate from what is truly good for the village! The youngest is even asking questions about things that have nothing, nothing to do with what he’s going to spend his life doing! All those bothersome, pointless questions about color? There’s nothing wrong with a lack of color! Our clothing is functional, and I have the softest robe. What else matters?”

The sneering tirade paused as the old crow of a woman leered, her dense brown gaze heavy upon the soon-to-be adult. “Tell the traders the deal is accepted.”

A deep sigh was all she got in reply. “A decision cannot be given if all the Elder in t–”

The crone shrieked as the violent whip of the fresh branch snapped loudly enough to scare some others out of the longhouse. “Get out!”

The young man’s protest was silent and done swiftly with ink and vellum in tow. His arms were full of written documents that clearly weren’t going to be delivered, and the man was sour about having been declared ‘not an adult’ and not deserving of a name.

“Grouchy old toad.” His trembling voice was nearly audible as he stamped out of the building. Nobody cared that the longhouse was the most comfortable building to physically be in; by any other standard, it was the worst building to be in. Elders had privileges that other villagers simply didn’t. People had to listen without interrupting when they talked, they could set the rules you had to follow, they could assign names, and they would determine the results of any disputes that became loud enough to make it to their old ears.

What you got out of life stopped being a matter of discussion, instead becoming entirely dependent on their ruling. They were also the only ones in the village who could properly write, even if most could decently read. Once a village had agreed on who was an Elder, the spot was permanent. They couldn’t suddenly not be—as much as some very much desired it—unless an Elder declared they would discard the title and step away from the discussion table entirely. A few had done this, but almost always for the reason that any interaction with Elder Switch was beyond undesirable. Unfortunately, that also silenced their voices and opinions unless called upon, as it stripped them of privileges they otherwise had.

Only two Elders remained now, and one of them was a nosy outsider who had properly followed all the rules of the Fringe to be admitted. He had been brought up to the position by the virtues he freely provided to the villagers. Elder Switch, to the knowledge of anyone who indulged in gossip, despised her opposition above all else. Her regional purity clearly made her ‘superior’ in her own crone eyes, and she had not a single inhibition about being vocal about the matter. The whipping *switch* of the rod had even become so prevalent that it had been added to her name.

Elder Switch seethed as she sat alone, sneering at the small fire that reflected the burning, eternal smolder she felt inside. If something didn’t go her way, it didn’t need to go at all. She’d spent years and years solidifying her grip on the village. However, that sopping wet rag of an outsider had doused her rapid rise to power by simply existing! The slight left a sour expression on her face that could be seen just by glancing at her. Each of her heavyset wrinkles described the story of her long rise.

*Plink*. Old ears perked up when she heard a sound similar to a cup gently plunking on to a nearby table. Elder Switch sharply exhaled through her nose and started talking to the hidden figure who had just made its presence known. “Gold. It will replace salt as the main currency of the Fringe, and we will be the first to adopt it. I refuse to lose out any more to Lapis, that pathetic crag of rock-gatherers with their tiny, little village of color-loving savages. Blue this, blue that, blue rocks, blue fabrics. They’re living in a blue world, and I don’t want nobody to listen! To their attempts at sales, that is. I’m going to throw a cup at someone if I see that abyss-hued color. I tire hearing of how well it sells! Our Salt is a much more reliable and profitable village, and salt must remain the best-sold good of the region.”

She swiped a piece of vellum from the little nook next to her, crumpled it in her gnarled fingers, and disdainfully threw it right on the fire. Switch derisively watched at the conflagration of the secret message in the hearth. “Lazuli has no place alongside Salt. The Fringe will be known as my salt region once the mapmakers come.”

“Is the trader informed?” her impatient voice crooned.

A sharp, metal *plink* of a fingernail cleaning knife ceased its repeated activity. Words full of breathy poise and tact bled through a powerful woman’s sharpened teeth, “Of course he is, Grand Matron of the Salt v– Fringe Region.”

The voice had altered its sugary words at the end, but the obscure figure slithered them forth with only the most minor of pauses. “The trader has all the gold ready; we only need the written documentation and the proper adoption. Once gold is the main currency, our bountiful services will be… available. My men can’t do much with the sacks of salt your village is able to provide.”

The obscure female continued her sales pitch with dark fervor, “Gold, however, will bring in an age of wealth the Fringe has never enjoyed before. All the comforts of the inland regions will start flooding into your coffers and homes. You will be the first to enjoy the tender warmth of a Beast-skin cloak—a robe of such refined quality, so unique in its singular presence that only the most loved, respected, and honored of Elders could possibly have one. Which, of course, can be none other than yourself, Grand Matron.”

Elder Switch took a deep, serene breath with a toothy smile, half-lidded eyes nearly closed as she relished in the praise. *Ahhh*. “Yes. Yes, that’s it. That’s the feeling I love. Thank you, young one, for humoring a Noblesse such as I. Your presence is warming, and I am ever so pleased you’ve come with news. Are they ready?”

Switch snapped the last words before the figure in the back rose, only to take a serpentine step forwards and bow. The experienced raider was scarred; her dark-pitch black hair was tightly bound on the back of her head, while a few exposed knives covered her leather-bound frame. Her words had the same inflection of a slow-bleeding laceration as she drawled out the answer, “Your men just wait for the right moment, Grand Matron.”

The obscure female sidled even closer. “We will remove all those who stand against you and secure your reign over the Fringe. Only your wisdom can lead it to the greatest prosperity, as you are the only one with the foresight to accept and understand the value of gold. Such insight is far too rare in the lands. Without you, Grand Matron, my men and I could have never come this far, and we relish the opportunity to repay you as soon as it arises. I, Hakan the Gilded Blade, will direct all my raiders at your guidance. The Reaper faction will guarantee that your plans see fruition, Grand Matron.”

Elder Switch nodded, hands laced, feeling as though she was on top of the world. She shooed the raider out. “I’m pleased. You may go, young one.”

Having been dismissed, a *thunk* of fist striking chest replied, and Hakan vanished into the shadows, slipping out into the almost entirely deserted village. Why sneak at night when you can walk in broad daylight without a soul present to see? A massive grin graced her face; after all, it wasn’t frequently one found such a disgustingly easy mark. That dumb, old toad was just eating up her honeyed words. Hakan was also delighted to learn that her second mark, the Lapis Lazuli village providing blue pigment as a trade good up north, was such a sore spot she could use as a weapon.

The trap had been baited, and thanks to her additional ploy with the trader… the gathering this town was going to have in the evening would be colorful indeed. Soon, her blades would run her favorite color of red once more. Hakan could scarcely hide her delight as she noticed a huddle of children running about.

“I’ll be back for you soon, my delightful recruits.”

Chapter Three

Past the bend of the nearest birch forest, a rather sizable caravan waited near a hastily hidden raider encampment. Lit torches hung from the cart’s sides as several bulky, scarred men tended to the horses. Hakan raised a disappointed brow at the number of her men who were patting and paying attention to the hooded cart rather than the watch duty they had been assigned. The scarred force almost sounded like babies talking to the beasts. Hakan’s reaction was so reflexive that she heard the slap to her forehead before she felt it.

They were children. Worthless, dumb, children. Still, this provided her an excellent ‘teaching’ opportunity. A thin dagger slipped from her bound thigh; her malicious grin returned to her lips as she silently charged at them with serpentine tactics an adder would find impressive.

Only the spooked jump and loud whinnying of the horses caused some of the lookouts to turn around, while the rest snatched reigns and attempted to calm the animals that had just experienced the chilled, discomforting warning of a rapidly advancing predator.

*Shing*. The slice of steel accompanied a shrill, unmanly scream as one of the scarred men gained yet another ‘failure’ mark on his face. He clutched it in panic, trying to keep the skin together while an unsympathetic boot crashed into his ribs.

*Hurk*! The airy sound exploded from the man who had just gotten the wind kicked right out of him.

“Pathetic!” decried Hakan as the swift *swip* of a bloodied dagger vanished back into a sheathe against the side of her thigh. “I leave you to safeguard the caravan from surprise ambushes, and you all just let me run right up to it? Shame! All of you, shame!”

Enraged, another kick beat the breath right back out of the fallen man’s lungs, right after he’d managed to take a solid one. “Pick this meat up and send him to Needle. Another failure will mean him losing his head!”

Her deadly gaze snapped to a random member tending the horses, letting him feel a dab of murderous intent. This emphasized that this could happen to someone else if they failed to pay attention to their appointed tasks. Fear instilled itself into the actual caretakers of the animals, who were suddenly very invested in their tasks. The fright remained with them while the others hurried to jog off and warn the remainder of the raider camp.

This particular leader of theirs was impatient. Their supplies were short, and she wore her temper on her knife-clad sleeve. Scars tended to be added to people who failed to work according to the plan—or whatever Hakan decided was the plan, at least. Her voice hissed out her demands, “Where is Boro, the traitor?”

“You mean the trader?” a confused reply came from the bulky raider, who ducked for cover as a throwing knife flew through the air where his head had previously been. Her aim was dangerously accurate.

“Fetch my knife, and by the abyss, you’d better hope that my mood has improved when you return it, recruit.” Hakan’s words were a whiplash, and the scuffling movement told her that at least the burly recruit was rushing to retrieve her property. At least he was trying to be useful. “Fool.”

The sound of flourishing robes and jingling accouterments invaded her aural space. “I am where I always am, mistress Hakan. Anywhere there’s a profit.”

Hakan sneered. Without looking, she could feel Boro wring his hands together with a greedy, half-lidded smile of his own playing across his features. Hakan could hear him do his customary bow of welcoming, the flourish of his heinously rich robes fluttering behind him as he performed a mocking greeting, “You called for me, Raid Leader?”

She detested how his willingness to debase himself somehow brought him prosperity instead of death. “The pleasant news is that the old toad has the hatred for Lapis that we thought she did. Is the item we discussed ready?”

Her impatience was clear, and Boro wasted no effort in smoothing over his response. “Ready, folded in a pristine box, and paid for. It must only be delivered.”

The trader folded his hands together to bow once more when he was close enough. “Mistress Hakan, you must grace me with your insight on why you believe a colored robe will force the hand of that old toad. I feel that Elder Switch, while… unreasonable at times, still would not go against the rules of the Fringe.”

Hakan sharply turned on her heel and blessed Boro with an unnerving smile that ran from one ear to the other. Boro and the surrounding raiders felt an unpleasant shiver clench their spines at the sight. “Because, my dear trader who sees only glittering coin, it is not what is being delivered but who it is being delivered to. After what I heard today, my only regret is that I cannot be there myself to taste the very moment she snaps and betrays the community she serves.”

Hakan’s vigor slowed, and she took a deep, relishing breath as she imagined the internal torture that aged bat would feel. “We will have our coin. You will deliver the conversions, and then… then I add new prospects to my family. It has been Far. Too. Long. Since I’ve had unmarred faces to cut.”

Boro’s muscles cramped beneath his lavish robes as he shivered in horror, but he kept his footing. A single step would show weakness, and he knew that this blade-crazed lunatic would only relish in taking the opportunity to sate herself with his suffering. Especially since his face was an ‘untouched canvas’. Not tempting Hakan, who saw herself as a bit of an artist, was a stressful prospect. One poor for the business, he thought. Very poor for business.

The deal with the Reapers was lucrative, so he held his ground. For many a season, he’d been ‘in bed’ with Hakan, converting the natural resources of a village into silver coin which the raiders could take and spend back at the very source that had handed it all out in the first place. Boro considered himself a monetary genius for creating the system, even if it left fewer villages to trade with once they had been… expended. The survivors added to Hakan’s raiding party, and she only liked them young.

The rest? Well… Boro had developed a learned hatred of the smell of burning flesh and now purely subsisted on fresh vegetables where he could afford to do so. The occasional feast still had him indulge in meat after enough cups of fermented fruit in liquid form, but the constant experiences had soured his tongue. He shook off the disturbing line of thought. Salt would be merely another casualty in a long string of villages yet to come. That, however, was not his primary concern right now as he hesitantly asked what was bothering him, “Have the pursuers relented?”

Hakan’s mirth vanished in an instant. Her smile bled into a frown, and her fingers curled around the hilts of considerably larger blades on her person. “You take this moment to end my pleasant thoughts, Boro?”

Boro said nothing and stood his abyss-blasted ground. He only repeated his question. “Have they?”

Silent for a moment, Hakan leered into the watchful eyes keeping silent in the forest, doing absolutely nothing as even the accidental sound of interference was grounds for flying daggers. Dejected, she spat on the ground and groaned an unpleasant *ugh*. Hakan flagged a hand at the general group for someone to approach and inform her. She didn’t know the answer and was obviously unhappy about that.

An idea winked into her thoughts, and she stepped up to a decently sized hazel tree. Picking off a branch and stripping the excess, she decided that she preferred hazel over birch based entirely off the aesthetic from the swing. As Hakan waited, the scouting party came forth.

“It’s not good, Mum.” A wicked, loose snap of a switch struck the scout. It silenced him after a yelp, and that pleased Hakan greatly. Her voice oozed pleasure.

“Ooh, that’s nice. I like that. The old toad may not be of great value, but I certainly appreciate her style.” A few more wayward swings of the trimmed branch snapped through the air. “I’m not your mother. Someone give the report properly.”

The wounded scout was sent off, and another took his place. Hakan considered striking this one just for the fun of it but noted it was a girl. She stayed her hand, having an extremely easy tell on the preference of who she preferred to hit. The lightly armored woman saluted before speaking. “Mayu reporting. The clerics are gaining ground every day. The loose ends we’ve left out are running dry, and they found one of the villages we sacked this morning. A messenger corvid came in with information that it was the third village we sacked while in the Fringe, and that’s maybe a few days away.”

“Per instruction of Raid Leader Majorca, we’ve sent a bird back to have them relocate camp to the second village we sacked. Both to throw the clerics off our trail, as well as to have them search in the wrong direction. We… will be losing that raid group when the clerics find them.”

Hakan grit her teeth and quipped in irritation, “Well, that’s not too–”

The raid leader’s words cut short when she saw the urgency in her scout’s eyes. There was more, and it was unlikely to be good. “What is it?”

The scout kept her spirit strong. She knew this was bad news. “The clerics received reinforcements. It’s no longer the novices and common flock anymore. The… weird ones are here.”

Hakan tensed with the intent to cleave someone. “Speak plainly, scout.”

The scout nodded obediently, swallowed hard, and did as she was told. “Cultivators, raid leader.”

Hakan’s snarl was the definition of fury. “Abyss.”

“What do the clever ones think we have left to work with?” the leader spat, hoping there was more detail from the scout about this point. The scout took the hint and unfurled the vellum to read directly from the source. If someone was going to get punished for reporting this information, Mayu was going to send it straight down the command line to save her own scrawny butt.

“We have a handful of moons, at most, before they find this encampment. If we don’t fully move camp within two moons, the other raid leaders have suggested a full withdrawal from the region. They said we have a lot of muscle, but not… enough.”

Hakan’s eyes were full of wanton fury at the report from her scout, fingers tensing and twitching around the wooden punishment tool. “Over nine hands worth of strong men and we don’t have enough?”

The scout nodded at her leader’s displeasure to confirm it—forty-five and a few extra was a low number for raiders.

“Aargh!” A muffled thud resounded as the raid leader angrily punched a tree to vent stress, still holding the switch in her off hand. Her eyes snapped to the trader as she spat out orders.

“Boro, go today. Pretend you’re early and take all the gold with you–just keep it covered. We’re taking the gamble, and we need the old toad to take the bait. I had wanted to do this tomorrow, but it seems time is against us. Take the package. Make sure to deliver it. Everything relies on that dumb, little box being opened at the right time. Can you wring your way into their ridiculous town meeting today? It will be in the longhouse. The building had preparations already in place well before I left.”

Boro merely smiled with the calm demeanor of a practiced salesman having made a very expensive sale. “It will be done.”

He bowed with a flourish, then fully took advantage of this opportunity to make himself scarce. A few of the people he flagged over quickly followed suit. While they didn’t want to load up his cart for him, it beat out the possibility of a random stabbing due to inactivity. None of them liked being stuck under this raid leader, but there was no chance in the abyss anyone was going to defy her or tell her that fact.

Hakan waltzed deeper into the camp and slumped into a seat that had swiftly been vacated upon her approach. A cup of fermented juice was handed over with great deference. The raid leader sipped it, sneered at the taste, and longed for something more pleasant to think about. She pulled out a small, secret potion bottle and tipped it into her drink, shivering as she sipped the potent healing syrup. The image of the pliable, gentle, playful children in the Salt village came to mind. She whispered huskily to herself and closed her eyes.

“Soon.”

Chapter Four

The children didn’t know where the sudden, cold shiver running down their spines came from, given they were all plenty warm under the sun. Aside from the momentary discomfort, they gave it no thought as they gathered up fallen fruit into woven baskets like they were supposed to do. There were more than apples in the orchard, but some trees bore fruit they simply did not know the name for. Today, the group was in a hurry.

If they didn’t bring something home by the time their parents came back from the flats, there would be scolding. On top of that, they only had time to gather until the Elder arrived. This signaled story and playtime, and they prepared oh-so-many more questions.

Trudging along his way to the orchard after having done the usual daily tasks that kept one healthy and clean, the Elder spotted one of his sproutlings sitting alone by a tree. The otherwise cheerful boy poked at fallen fruit with a stick, clearly disheartened. Detouring hastily, the Elder said nothing on his approach. Rather, the weary grandfather noisily grunted and sat down next to the depressed, grim child. This glum behavior was recently common for the boy, whom no longer had direct remaining family or parents.

He didn’t like his life with the family that took him in, as they only had eyes for their own offspring and were particularly strict on him even as their doting was directed elsewhere. The sproutling muttered a half-hearted greeting. Replying with action, the community-minded Elder wrapped his arm around the child’s head, pulling the lad into his robed side for a hug. Warm and supportive, the Elder brushed the flat of his hand across the top of the unhappy boy’s head.

He didn’t need to ask if the sproutling was feeling lonely; that was clear to see from the sullen expression and stick-prodding that didn’t have a shred of effort put into it. The boy wasn’t his actual son, but that didn’t matter to the Elder as he kicked up happy memories to distract the boy.

“Did you know that your father had a favorite stick?” the Elder warmly chimed, keeping the sproutling held comfortingly. A wordless nodding was the only reply.

“He would swing it every day, loud and boisterous, saying he’d be the best at it while bouncing about the apiary. Your mother would scold him because he swung so recklessly and wildly that he frequently struck something without thinking. It made a few people quite upset, and one day, to no one's surprise, he hit a beehive.”

The Elder mimicked the sound of a great number of angry bees followed by the croaked, pitched squeal of two young people bolting. “Oh, the bees were mad! Your parents both ran screaming down the hill with a whole swarm chasing them. Api, the apiary keeper at the time, was booming profanities at them as they tumbled.”

“Do you remember how they avoided the swarm?” Another nod was felt in the side of the ribs. The mumbled reply was something along the lines of ‘hid under the water’. The Elder approved, as that was correct. “Indeed, they had to share a reed to breathe and were so embarrassed about the whole thing they didn’t speak in public for many moons. Until, of course, we started catching them together in the… ow!”

The child had soft-punched him in the ribs, face red and embarrassed. This little one wasn’t any good talking about affection and wholeheartedly rejected it, though it made him hurt to do so.

“Hmm. Why don’t I let you go then?” the Elder responded, following with a side-eyed ‘hmmm?’ only to find the grip on his robe to be significantly tightened. The little red face didn’t want to be seen crying.

“I don’t have a home,” the boy miserably admitted, only to push his face painfully into the old man’s freshly punched ribs. A soft sigh and a reassuring set of pats to the child’s back accompanied soft words.

“Grandson, you will always have a home wherever I am.” He remained quiet as the young one hiccupped little sobs, but the Elder supportively held the boy regardless—not speaking, not judging, just being there for a mind that was experiencing grief and loss. The Elder knew those tears well and did not question nor tell the child to stop.

He watched the sparse clouds and the occasional wayward bird. As usual, he lost himself in thought faster than anything; he began to wonder why the sky sometimes changed color. At least, he would have, had the sproutling not stirred and sat up to wipe his red, puffy face with the length of the Elder’s robe sleeve. “I will?”

With warmth, the Elder soothed, “Always. When you can't handle it anymore, all seems lost, and everything feels like it has utterly fallen apart. Even if everyone rejects you, nobody wants you, and the world feels like it wants to crush you on all sides. I’ll be on my little hill, waiting for you to come home. It won’t matter to me what you’ve done, what anyone says about you, or even whatever darkness holds you tight on the inside.”

He then softly poked the child’s nose with the soft love of a grandfather. “You can smash your face into my ribs and cry anytime. I will hide your face so nobody sees–”

A punch in the arm made the Elder jump.

“Oww.” He bent comically forwards and held his arm, deeply exaggerated since the actual impact didn’t do much of anything. “Why so hard? You’ve left a bruise!”

The Elder pouted with overdone expression. His sniffling sproutling smiled a weak, triumphant ‘serves you right’ and wiped his face using the Elder’s sleeves. Satisfied that his little one felt a little better, the Elder scowled and stood up with an *oof*, still pretending to rub a devastatingly injured upper arm.

“Awfully strong for such a little thing,” he muttered dejectedly with full intention of having the sproutling hear it. Which, of course, just grew the smile on the boy’s face. Opening and closing his hand a few times, he reached his open palm towards the boy. “Come now. Let’s go see everyone. You’re part of the family, and you’re important to it. Take part in the stories with everyone else.”

The boy took the Elder’s hand and walked with the surrogate grandfather as he trotted off, giving a silent, strong nod. It felt good to be included in the family.

The sprawling orchard was a chaotic food fight by the time the Elder arrived. A laughing chorus of splats signaled an important task was forgotten until one of the children let free a sudden, sharp, and throaty panic-inhale as their feet skittered to a halt. The old man had his eyes closed, and that was fine. There was, he guessed, a juicy peach stuck on his face. The half-crushed delicacy slowly dribbled down his freshly washed cheek, beard, and robe.

This was fine. His robe was undoubtedly stained. That too was fine.

With deliberate motion and breath, his head tilted while he kept a hold of the young lad that had been crying earlier. His free hand slowly peeled the fruit from his forehead with a wet *squelch*. He said nothing at first.

The Elder just squinted through the sap as children remained frozen in place. He looked down, and the concerned, puffy, red-faced child locked his gaze. He was confused as the Elder reached down to hand him the half-smashed fruit. However, the Elder made the imperative quite clear as his commanding voice rumbled, “Get ‘em.”

The fruit was taken gleefully. His youngster let out a war cry and did exactly so, storming off to resume the paused engagement. The Elder found himself alone, no longer hand-holding as the sproutling ran off and launched the half-smashed fruit with the full force of his strength. While missing the intended target, the peach became a fully smashed fruit as it spun wildly out of control and splatter-squished into the oldest girl’s nose, who was promptly knocked to her butt as she slipped and lost her footing.

A gaggle of children ready to make a glorious mess of things made the area ring out. The war of fallen fruit was on. The Elder wiped his face clean with the bottom of his gi, unknowingly avoiding being struck by an overhead projectile while bent to wipe his beard off. A few deft steps later, he was tactically positioned behind a sizable tree. Entertaining as this was, he didn’t have the energy for it.

He could already feel the tremble return to his hands, and if it hadn’t been for the warm sun, the aged soul would be feeling quite chilly. So, the Elder sat, thinking of taking a rest while the pinprick shocks took their daily toll. The ruckus died down a little later when a sproutling came around the bend and spotted the grandfather’s unmoving form. Sounding an alert, the sproutlings dropped their respective fruits and ended play as one of them loudly began trying to rouse their caretaker.

“Elder?”

Multiple children nudged his shoulder while the oldest girl spoke, “Elder!”

Blinking as he woke, he raised his head to see the faces of worried children. When had he fallen asleep? He could not recall. “Hmm? Yes? Is it storytime?”

He made a show of yawning and putting his hand in front of his face, but it was a facade. To his luck, not one of the children picked up on his obfuscation as the important word shifted their expressions—their worry turned right around and into enthusiasm.

“Storytime! I pick this time!” yelled the oldest girl, getting the ball rolling. She had noticed something was wrong with their pale Elder but didn’t want the group to dwell on it. Her robe was a mess of fruity colors and sweetened smells that matched her cashew hair and striking emerald eyes, the clear dominant trait for this generation of sproutlings.

“No, I’m the biggest! I pick today!” snapped out the oldest boy, equally covered in a mixture of pinks, browns, and greens. The Elder could feel the communal scowls suddenly leveled at the oldest, and the commentary was scathing.

“Oh, like you got to pick the best cup and the best robe and it had to be your pail? You picked enough today!” The Elder’s hand rose before another fight broke out as the kids spoke over one another, his voice sinking back to the usual landscape of steadfast patience.

“What’s all this about cups. Did you not bring them?” The children looked around as their conversation was shut down, so the Elder moved it along, “Well, won’t you fetch them?”

The youngest shot a sharp, challenging glance at the oldest and ran off. “BestCupIsMine!”

The rest of the horde followed him in a hurry. “No, it’s not!”

When the tiny horde returned, they found the Elder doing some elaborate stretches. They watched him while holding a cup each, not interrupting. The eldest held two cups. Clearly, his strength had won out as the additional mud-marks on several robes were tell-tale of a scuffle. “I see you have two cups, sproutling. How did that happen?”

The Elder rose and observed the cup-holders, gaze resting on the oldest as he calmly questioned. The oldest, of course, beamed with pride. “I’m the strongest! They couldn’t get them out of my hands. So obviously, I was going to win and get what I want!”

The Elder nodded in understanding. “Ah, I see. Might makes right, is it?”

The youngster’s nod altered direction to a solemn no as the unpleasant memory of Elder Switch came to mind. A stoic, disappointed look developed on the Elder’s wrinkled face as hands laced behind his back. Deep worry crossed the oldest boy’s visage, the Elder eroding what the prideful youngster thought had been certain success. He held firm to his two uncertain prizes as the Elder’s lesson began. “So, does being stronger and being able to make others do what you want make it the right thing to do?”

The sentence from the old man was clearly aimed at the holder of both cups, and the boy stammered out a guessed answer, “…Yes?”

A sigh with some depth left the Elder as he hung his head for a moment, and his wrist turned to motion for a circle. They all sat, and the lesson began. “The answer was no. Let’s show you why.”

He took one of the cups and placed it in the center. “Say we had one cup. Just one. This is the only vessel that can hold water for everyone to drink. Is it right to fight over the cup, so only you have the water, or is it right to share the cup and work towards filling it as often as possible so everyone has enough?”

He held up his hand, for now not wanting an answer. “People will fight over the empty cup because that’s what people do. They get scared that there’s only one cup. They fear that if someone else owns the cup, they won’t get any water. That is, of course, easy to understand. If there was only one toy, you’d all want it.”

A round of nodding went about the circle. “So, say you fight for the cup. The strongest is likely to win, yet by winning, you have gained something far more dangerous. Something you don’t want.”

A circle of frowning faces now hung to his words. “You’ve gained the cup, but you’ve also gained everyone’s animosity.”

He paused at the look of confused expressions. “Their feelings of anger, want, and judgment. That which you feel for someone you’re unhappy with before you think about why. Hostile intent.”

The scrunched faces faded as they learned the new words. “In fighting for the cup, you haven’t filled the cup. The cup may even have been damaged and now be less able to hold water. Most of all, you have not filled the cup, and now only you can do so. Because you have the cup, it means everyone who cannot drink from it now goes thirsty—because of you.”

The oldest was in distress thanks to this sentence and put down both of the cups like they were hot coals. He didn’t want that on his conscience. Everyone else followed suit but mostly because they didn’t know what to do. “When you took the cup, you did not gain the cup, so much as you have denied it from everyone else. Now, which is the cup you were all fighting over?”

They all pointed at the smoothest, most well-made cup. The Elder understood and nodded. “Which is the least desirable cup?”

That took a little longer, but eventually, the children settled on a wreck of a cup. Not surprisingly, the youngest had been holding it. The Elder took a cup from the middle and held it out to the youngest. “Swap these.”

The youngest handed over his bad cup and was rather pleased about a higher quality cup being close at hand. The Elder then held up the worst of the vessels. “This is my cup.”

“Why do you want the worst cup?” The oldest girl was baffled. Her voice reflected the silent question of the group.

“An excellent question, always a sharp mind on you.” With the Elder giving her a compliment, her mood brightened, and her face lit up. “Not only will nobody want to take this cup from me, but I can fill it as often as I need! Now, it’s no good for me to have an empty cup, and that’s the point. Filling the cup is what gives it meaning.”

Grasping the intent, the oldest girl’s eyes went wide; she’d gotten it! The rest of her family was still catching up. Noticing her reaction, a pleased Elder looked to the oldest girl and smiled. “Your thoughts?”

All eyes fell on her as the conversation was shifted.

“Ah, well. Ermm… Ueh.” Her eyes darted to the Elder, who was patiently sitting there, letting her take all the time she wanted. “So, if… if we fight over the cup, then we might be able to show which one of us is the strongest, but that doesn’t mean we’ve understood what the cup is for or how to best use it. We’ve just shown who is gonna get the cup if it came down to us all wanting it.”

“If only the strongest one uses the cup, then it’s not the best for everyone. He got the cup because he was only paying attention to himself, not what everyone else needed, but the cup can’t be used unless it’s full. It took a few of us earlier today just to draw water up from the well, so filling the cup isn’t very easy. Who has the cup isn’t as important as if the cup is full. It has meaning because all of us can now benefit from it?” She was rambling near the end, and the certainty of her words fell away like a landslide.

With hope in her eyes, she drilled her gaze into the Elder, who reached into his sleeve and pulled out the leaf from earlier, placing it on her head. “I award you one leaf of smartness.”

Her hopeful glint turned to a glum glare, but the child who had given the leaf-hat before was a bundle of smiles—just happy to see that same leaf reused for something. The child who had spoken could say nothing when she saw the happy, little face, so she just wore the abyss-dratted leaf-hat.

The Elder then picked up a small stone and carved ‘Elder’ into the poor-quality cup. The children ogled the craft as they could not yet write. He turned it around and showed them the result. “This is my cup. My name’s on it. However, it’s an empty cup. I can leave it out in the open, and it will be fine since nobody wants it!”

He placed it down and got an unexpected number of frowns in return. The Elder, not quite following the reaction, meekly mumbled, “…What?”

The oldest boy broke the awkward silence, “I would want it.”

A few eyes rolled, and the oldest girl began to snap at him, “Well, of course you would, you always want–”

“No, no. Not because I’m the strongest.” He was fidgeting and waving his hands to rebuke her words. “If… if I had this cup, now I would wonder what makes it full.”

The oldest was visibly becoming more uncomfortable, his presence shrinking. “I feel full after I’ve eaten, laughed a lot, and when I go home after a day where we get to play like this. Where we get to… talk like this…”

The Elder perked up as concern struck him. Oh, he was an old fool!

Chapter Five

Of course, the oldest was muscling his way through life! Everyone in his previous peer group was already off on the flats, and he had nobody his own age to talk to. Only the noisy children and the oldest girl counted as company, the latter of which most certainly bossed him around.

“I want this cup because it means the Elder comes to tell us stories. It means I laugh. Nobody else ever tells me why I shouldn’t do something, only that I can’t.”

The youth’s discomfort only seemed to grow. “I have to listen. I have to do what I’m told. But nobody tells me why, and I have this feeling that turns in my stomach when I think about asking… so then I don’t. I remember…”

Feeling small, his head kept down as unthinking fingers went up to a scar on the nape of his neck, which looked like it had been made by a thin and flexible striking tool. The Elder could deduce the source of the injury and that his boy wasn’t quite done speaking. Given the turn of the conversation, he didn’t want the budding boy to stop either. The youngest was about to interrupt but was halted by a single glance of the immobile Elder. The oldest lad had been trapped in a shell, and the old man wasn’t about to allow for a circumstance that would hamper his son’s progress in opening up.

“I’m not smart like,” the oldest boy’s head raised, and he looked at the oldest girl, “you.”

To everyone’s surprise, he then handed over the best cup, and the oldest girl took it with some apprehension. This kind of sensitivity was not normal for the burly lad. A stolen glance at the Elder had her holding her tongue. The Elder was calmly seated, waiting with a monk's poise to let this boy develop. His fingers were laced, and the children had picked up that little gesture was something the Elder did when he was waiting for more.

“I want the cup because it means we’re together, and I have memories of us as a group. I love the memories… They’re my dream stories. They keep me warm when the sun goes down and the rest of the family comes home.” His tone turned morose. “Nobody in my family wants to spend time with me. They’re all always so tired. I get told off more often than not.”

The Elder nodded and found the right moment to give the boy strength. “My dear boy, you have something far more powerful than your arms.”

Uncertain of himself, the oldest boy sat up more, his embarrassment continuing to stifle him as his eyes fell on the Elder. The others were horribly curious and kept stealing glances, and their Elder didn’t leave them in suspense for long. “You have an amazing willingness and adaptability to learn, young one, even when the topic seems against you. You gave up an item that had great value to you. You have acted upon the lesson without fully grasping it, perhaps even without realizing that you had done so. Perhaps your greatest strength isn’t coming up with something, but you have an amazing ability to follow a plan to its end.”

A hand motion for a nearby leaf caused a train of tiny hands to deliver it into the old man’s grip. The broad, green foliage was then ceremoniously placed on the youngster’s head. “By sharing what you care about, you have shown that might isn’t always what’s right but also what the full meaning of the cup entails. Being around others fills you with meaning.”

He moved his hands around to motion at the other children. “They are the water in your cup.”

The oldest boy was confused. The oldest girl, however, went red in the face and tried to hide it behind the best quality cup. Their Elder let them think on it, as the remaining children were already developing terrible little ways to tease the oldest boy about this for moons upon moons to come. Picking up on their mischief, the Elder popped the nearest of them on the top of the head with a cup in quick succession. *Thunk, thunk, thunk*!

It didn’t hurt, but it got their attention. “There will be no discouraging someone to share freely. Do not punish the behavior you wish to see. You always want your friends able to express themselves.” He felt he lost the thread of conversation and softly sighed, wrapping it up.

“Understanding and caring for another allows you the insight of seeing where they’re hurting. That is what’s right. If might helps you accomplish that for everyone, good. If might prevents everyone from accomplishing that, bad. If might is used to hurt everyone at the cost of only one person having the benefit… then Elder will be very upset and will cover you in mill powder.”

The children blanched at the mention. The Elder never hurt them, but if they came home covered in anything related to the mill, their behinds would be red and bruised from the beating they were going to get. Never were they allowed near the mill. There was only one, and it was far too important a structure for the village. It was never good to even be playing around there. The punishment was severe, and being the talk of the town afterward was worse. A fury of nods quickly followed as the original topic was completely lost at the sudden thoughts of avoiding mill powder.

“Help me up.” The Elder raised his arms; the small gathering of children did what they could. For being such a frail, old man, it still took all of them to help him stand up. “Ahh, well done. Well done.”

He softly stretched his arms above his head while the sproutlings groaned about how heavy he was. The Elder dismissed this and gave the oldest boy a hug. While horribly embarrassed, the draw of an adult father figure giving him attention was too big a need to deny.

“They’re going to rely on you, my child,” the Elder whispered in his ear. “Take good care of them.”

The oldest boy nodded as the light in his eyes brightened. He got it now. It hadn’t been about a cup; it had been about him. He was the strong one, and how he used that strength was what mattered. The Elder let him go and brushed a hand over his head. “Good. Now. I’ll take questions.”

He stated it firmly, needing to turn around the somber feeling he had. Nobody expected the oldest to suddenly be vulnerable, and the footing was uncertain. Still, he felt pride. They made leaps each time they had a good chance to talk, develop, and express freely. They were clever kids, given the opportunity to be. Their minds desperately craved the information they were being so adamantly denied in the village.

Salt was a place of work, not one of inner growth. At least, it would have been, had the Elder not been there to make a royal mess of it all. A hand rose from the youngest girl.

“Yes?” The Elder quickly addressed it, attention fully turning to her.

“Why can’t we have names?”

She asked it so simply, but that was a question he had hoped wouldn’t come to pass. However, trying to play that one down while already feeling so out of place with the group was going to be dismal. A thought occurred… had she waited for this exact kind of opportunity to ask that question? A situation where it would be poor for him not to answer it? He studied her face, squinting in inspection as he leaned forward. Sure enough, her face remained as flat and emotionless as a practiced thief trying to swindle you. Clever girl.

Seeing as the Elder very much did appear reluctant, the sproutlings were all silent and attentive. They loved making him pause and being told things he wasn’t supposed to spill. The oddness faded and attention was instead spent on his answer. More than one set of eyes were curious about why they had to be called ‘sproutling’ instead of an easy name like Elder. Or why Elder Switch had two whole names. The old man, of course, caved. “Oh, very well.”

The youngest girl quietly hissed, “Yesss,” in a dramatic victory pose, and the Elder surrendered his explanation, “This is a complicated one. There are some adults who don’t fully understand this, so until you have a proper understanding… don’t spread what I’m about to tell you around. If you explain it poorly, you’re likely going to hurt people.”

The kids caught on and listened with rapt focus, trying to stay ahead of the Elder as he stuck a finger up and began walking. Pacing, rather, but they all smiled as he was clearly about to devolve into a full speech and completely fail to pay attention to where he was walking. The last time he did this, he’d walked off a rock on the split hill and dropped straight down into the salt-stream mid-sentence. They had laughed for weeks.

“I’ll start with the obvious. ‘Hibi’ is short for hibiscus. It is the main type of flower she gathers. This is part of her profession, thus why she is named as such. ‘For’ is responsible for the Forge—on the rare occasion he actually gets to use it for something, poor fellow. He’s got such a gift with copper and bronze, but they need him on the flats.”

He sighed, looked up, and realized that while the children were still hovering the Orchard was already a good distance behind him. His hands moved even if his mouth didn’t. It was normal for him to talk with his hands, an old philosopher trait. The children often whispered behind his back on how animated he could get. He knew this and didn’t mind. “A name is an identity, and identities are dangerous and powerful. Once something has an identity, it is difficult to think of it as something else.”

“Chair.” He paused to observe their expressions. “You all thought of what you consider a chair, and for all of you, it was likely roughly the same image. When you’re given a name, that name comes with such an identity—an identity that is both liberating and confining. While it may become easy to refer to you, it has also taken away possibility.”

“Frankly, that bothers me. Most people are simply not flexible enough with their minds to see things any other way, not once they’ve been told something is ‘just the way it is’. A wall is always a wall. The possibility that it could be otherwise does not elude them so much as the thought cannot occur, or at least, that’s my view. In this village, when you receive a name, you also receive the task that you’re going to be doing.”

“Essentially, for the rest of your life.” He paused and heaved a great sigh. “It won’t change, even if you’re called to the salt flats, unless people start calling you Elder. What you get is what you’re stuck with. So, it takes until almost adulthood for names to be chosen for someone. To my great dislike, it has nothing to do with what you’re good at nor what you love to do in life. It’s a designation. A limit. A calling you can’t escape.”

Chapter Six

The Elder appeared both sad and angry at the same time, causing the children to move away and give him some distance. When he noticed the change in elbow room, he stopped pacing and forced his face back to a gentle smile. “You’re not at fault, my dears. It’s how the Fringe works. The rules here are ancient.”

The oldest girl raised her hand. “Is that why you haven’t given us names?”

The old man said with a little grumble, then he sighed and nodded. “I am an Elder. What I say is what goes, once I’ve said it. So, I must be very careful. ‘Sproutling’ is a word for something that is growing. To sprout is to come from the ground and meet the sun, the beginning of growth.”

“You’re named as such for that exact reason. When you’re given a name, your growth stops. In this village, your identity is dependent on what you do. When you have a name, you’ll become so busy that even if you want to do something else, your obligations to the village will keep you in that place.” His hands made white-knuckled fists as he kept himself in check. “I don’t like this tradition. I would give you…”

The Elder looked at the blue sky as if he were distracted by something. “Unique, beautiful names. Names that matched you not just for who you are but all the potential of what you could be. I see such promise in all of you. Such bright splendor!”

The children held their collective breath. They were dying to know what their names were in the Elder’s mind. That’s why, when the Elder turned to look at them, he felt his heart sink deep. He could not tell them. Well… only by village rules, and he wasn’t exactly one to follow them himself all of the time. Pensive sadness turned into a contemplative, sly fox beard-stroke that slowly grew as fingers groomed down the hanging length further and further. The oldest girl was almost giddy as she saw a plan forming just by watching the details move on the Elder’s face.

The old fool was a great actor but a horrible liar. His face gave everything away. “Well, sproutlings… I believe that, while the village may assign you a set name, tomorrow is a day of rest. If we so happen to take a long stroll out of the Fringe…”

He mused cautiously, knowing full well that he would take them into a dangerous forest—a dense birch thicket that was only considered to not be part of the Fringe since a year’s cycle or so ago, when someone had made a bothersome land claim with appropriate documentation. The Elder knew it was risky, and he was fairly certain the children knew it too… but nothing was wrong with extra hope. So he laid his cards on the table, expecting the clever bunch to come to the conclusion that while they could go, they wouldn't.

“I could tell you then!” the Elder declared with pep in his voice as he took the gamble. While yes, the glares were… sour, he held firm. Eventually, his children relented. They clearly wanted to know right now, but at least now, the Elder had set a condition. The little wheels could be seen turning behind their lustrous green eyes. Little schemers, the lot of them.

“In the morning,” the oldest girl demanded, her emerald eyes speaking volumes along with the strong forward lean of her hunting posture. She was setting a time since someone was clearly trying to wiggle out of it. Her determined gaze made it clear she was going to hound him, and this time, there was no escape. The oldest girl had a good bead on the Elder’s habits, and she knew that if he got the opportunity to sleep in… then by the Celestials above, he was going to take it. If he did sleep in, they wouldn’t be able to wake him up even if they drew on his face with spare charcoal.

Then before any activity, he would clean at the stream. They knew he usually went late just to avoid the majority of the village, and it took forever. To the great, jaw-grinding impatience of the kids, he was just so slow about everything. To be fair, his popping bones sounded as if they hurt, so they felt bad about trying to rush him. They had once snuck about like clumsy cats, peeking in on him washing and found out why he tended to avoid washing with people around.

The sight that met them was… unpleasant—beyond just the fact that he was a wrinkly, old man. A carpet of scars swirled across the grandfather’s back and upper body, like he’d been slashed by a hundred tiny knives in a twisting pattern that had sheared off thin, repeated lines of his skin. It looked healed now, but at least one of them had lost their breakfast.

Since they’d been breaking the rules when they made this discovery, they had a don’t-tell pact and never brought it up. That would have given away their mischief, which absolutely opposed the Elder’s wishes to wash without witness. After he’d cleaned, they found the Elder would generally sneak off to the apiary before attending his tasks for the day. When this secret was learned, the children had been incensed. How dare he scamper off to do something else when he could be telling them stories!

They would give him endless bother for this in the cleverest fashion their group could contrive, as anything cheaply put together, he’d disassemble without any effort. They’d learned over the many years that tricks and poorly put together plans were a path that led straight to failure. Finding patterns and uncovering hidden details from the most minute scraps of information was a skill the Elder had in spades.

So far, it was an ability they could not replicate. As soon as he was aware of one part of their trap, the Elder was already halfway done puzzling out the solution to the entire thing. By the end of the next few strides, he had the entire operation well-grasped and was ready to circumvent it. If their ideas weren’t well-discussed, practiced, ironclad… then they had no hope of success. The Elder’s perception had served only to make them even more deviously clever, which the oldest girl was convinced had all been part of that ancient philosopher’s plan.

She recalled that in the beginning, he had them talk themselves into contradictory circles where their own boasts would be turned against them. That’s where the seed of competition had been planted. They were going to get this old man, and they’d do it without breaking any of the rules!

But somehow, time and time again, he’d foiled them with the most mundane of actions. For instance, pretending to not notice something only to—by seeming accident—lean down and pick up the exact, most crucial part of their plan… and have one of their own walk right into it to expose the scheme for what it was.

Currently, a hush stifled the group as the Elder and the eldest girl stared at each other. The intense challenge continued far longer than most children could handle, a splitting silence that was becoming awkward from its duration. Even now, as the fidgeting began, the Elder said nothing about his bluff being called.

The old man heard a long, squealing growl and wondered what it was from. Then he noticed the children holding in laughter as the boisterous growl erupting from his stomach killed the delicate balance of tension. Ah. He was hungry. Yes, that made sense. The Elder gave his stomach a pat.

“Enough for today, fetch your baskets from the orchard and deliver them. Communal mealtime will be soon, and I expect that I will need to fill up in order to handle the evening talk.” The children remained quiet. They knew they’d been told to not make a ruckus during longhouse-dinner today, and they didn’t want to talk to Elder Switch either. That old bat didn’t look before she swung, and they all knew it.

Some of the sproutlings looked suspicious, and the Elder thought something was odd. He decided now would be a good time to take stock of his surroundings, and it appeared they were on a hill near the stream. That was odd. Wasn’t that the rock he’d stepped off a few moons ago the last time they went on a…? “You rascals!”

They had corralled him while he’d been distracted with teaching them about village identity! Half of them must have not been paying attention at all and had instead been purely preventing themselves from serene giggle fits as they’d led him to the same slippery location where he’d taken a tumble before.

At least this time, his lesson had stopped gently, rather than abruptly. Not to mention the part where he’d been soaking wet. The chorus of plan-foiled laughter careened away from him as they took off to do what they were told, most of them waving as he had no hope of catching up to them even if he gave chase. He couldn’t outrun them, and the snotty, little troublemakers knew it.

“Tomorrow morning!” the eldest girl called out as she sped away.

The old fool had to rub the bridge of his nose. “Oh, old man… you’ve taught them too much. Look at those lovely little minds go.”

He sighed and turned to walk home. “I’m awfully proud of them.”

Holding his hands behind his back, he raised a brow and checked to make sure none of the children were following him. It was time for a detour! The beekeeper kept a fresh pot of honey-infused stew bubbling specifically because she knew he was likely to drop by after washing but before tending to his tasks for the day. He had a great weakness for sweet things. Easy meals that circumvented the trek to the longhouse were beyond enticing, thus he did so regularly. The Elder hummed an old tune as he thought about the conversations today and the inevitable nonsense he was going to have to endure in the evening with Elder Switch.

That old toad was trying something, and he’d have to find an appropriately sized stick to stab into whatever new malarkey she might be concocting. There was gossip that she was going on and on about changing the currency of the village from salt to gold.

“Hmmm.” Shifting the currency was a terrible idea for the peace of the Fringe. After acquiring a nice big bowl of lunch to take home, he discarded that line of thinking and rubbed his thumbs together into his back once he’d set the meal down on his desk. His mind wandered, as it often did. “I wonder if I have notes on identity.”

He talked to the walls as he broke down the base components of how identity formed outside of the Fringe in both function and linguistics. Once comfortable with the rough verbal outline, he swiftly picked up a fresh vellum and flattened it over a second small desk. There was time before he really needed to make an appearance and enjoying spurts of enthusiastic energy like this was a rarity. So, perhaps, just a little bit of writing? Just a little.

It took him very little time to grind some fresh ink while he munched. Dipping a quill in the well, he couldn’t keep the crafter’s joy from his face as he began to scribe and mumble to himself. “What creates the identity of a thing? Does it begin with the application of intent and will? Consistent application solidifies aspects which, in turn, become recognizable. When enough aspects are recognizable, then their terminology can be shared. Shared identity creates consistency.”

“Consistency creates order. A set order allows identity to be recognized more easily. A thing is what it is, simply because we’ve all agreed that’s what it is. It’s the same value that we’ve agreed it is, not something else.” The Elder looked over the starting notes of his secretly enjoyed activity, nodded, and lost track of time as the scribbles continued. Celestials above, he loved academia.

Chapter Seven

A coordinated hive of activity and gossip. Those were the only words that could be used to describe the bustling longhouse. Actually, perhaps a chicken coop—one where a fox was running around causing havoc. The lengthy center table was prepared for a minor feast, with enough room to seat the majority of important people who were called upon to speak.

The head of the table was occupied by a sneering, old woman currently whittling a fresh tree branch. She checked the flexibility of the switch by holding it up to her eye, snapping it gently before continuing her ‘work’. The opposing end of the table sat empty. The seat had been vacant for the entire duration of the meal—which was nearing its end—and a certain old toad’s patience was wearing thin. There were matters of grave importance to be discussed and agreed upon in her favor, and she was being stood up!

The longhouse was lined with tables which had one side pressed against the walls. This provided room for children—and people who did not wish to get in the middle of things—to sit and have their meal. This was a gentle way to cover for their pride; not having a seat at the long table meant you would not be heard even if you did wish to speak. On top of the already stuffed space, an extra wide table had been hauled in and pressed between two others so the visiting trader could arrange his wares.

That the merchant, Boro, had arrived a moon sooner than expected had been a saving grace to keep people occupied. As much as it was an additional disturbance for the poorly tempered crone, she held her salty tongue. While the village had some larger matters to discuss on trade, individual villagers were neither barred nor prohibited from using their personal stock of goods to barter, measure, and exchange for whatever Boro may have brought.

A considerable amount of the afternoon had been spent with at least a dozen people setting up a tool known as a ‘scale’. It measured the weight of a person’s salt or other goods; though the precise calibration required was a considerable undertaking in a place that wasn’t known for the most level of floors.

The time-consuming task spawned a not-so-friendly recurring joke since the nearby area of work was named the flats—seamstresses quipped that the trader wasn’t the sort of man who got his ‘feet’ wet after a day of hard work. An array of goods, clothes, trinkets, glassware, and other items were on proud display as the absolute peacock of a merchant shimmied his rump through the constant mess of questions and quibbles.

Boro was prancing, proud to show off all sorts of illustrious knick-knacks, toys, and cooking implements with a bard’s flair. There had nearly been a riot during the sale of a cast iron cooking pot that came with its own sing-song story. The entire circus had put a significant delay on the evening's events, and it all served to work on Elder Switch’s frayed nerves. The first snap of her newly carved switch was as crisp as ever.

“Where is that blundering old fool? You! Boy!” Her voice snarled as she looked for a victim. The fresh switch snapped, and ended up pointing at the youngest sproutling. “Fetch!”

The youngest hadn’t been paying full attention and looked around to see if it was really him that had been addressed. Maybe he’d be lucky, and it was someone else th–

*Switch*! Accompanied by a pointed gaze in his direction, another snap of the rod made the sproutling’s heart drop into his stomach.

“Wh-wh…?” he stammered out under the buzzing burden of ambient noise.

“You heard me, boy! Fetch the old idiot!” Small gears slowly turned in his head. He jumped right up and sped out of the longhouse. A *tsk* could have been heard behind him had he bothered listening to it. Instead, his arms went into the air. He was free! Free from the longhouse, its noisy people, and stuffy air; he normally was not allowed to escape this early. The cranky Elder had given him a convenient way out—and to find one of his favorite people, no less!

The youth was skipping by the time he arrived at the A-frame home. Then he leaned his face right into the window and took a deep breath, preparing for some sanctioned noisemaking. Clearly, making very loud sound was the best way to get someone’s attention when it was otherwise mouse-silent between sonorous snores.

The burst of noise never made it past his lips. Instead, a frown settled on the youth as he, somewhat deflated, decided to clamber through the sabotaged window instead of releasing a sonic attack. Who needs doors? His impact crunched forgotten nutshells and *popping* sounds came from underfoot as he hopped down. The home was dark, save for the moonlight beaming through the window and numerous scattered holes in the walls. He found the Elder seated and face down on a table covered in vellum, spilled ink, and a few broken quills. The young boy nudged the Elder in the arm.

“Elder. Elder, they’re waiting for you.” The boy jumped back with a stumble as the Elder jarred awake and bolted upright with a deep nasal inhale. A nasty *crack* in his back followed.

“Hhhmmm? Who is… oh… oww…” The Elder’s clenched hand pressed to the small of his back. Eyes squeezed shut and his grimace was plain to see even with the lack of light illuminating his face. The old man sucked in a breath between his teeth and let a slow exhale release from his bulbous nose. “I’ve got this. I’m good.”

When the pain of age had faded, he wondered where all his sun had gone. Thinking that would be an excellent thing to ask, he turned in his wooden chair but didn’t get past the young boy sputtering out a stifled snort as the Elder’s ink-marked face came into full view. Finger marks dotted his long beard and cheeks; obvious rubs to the forehead were deeply smeared. When the Elder looked down at his hands, he could see there were several dark patches.

Given there wasn’t too much of a mess on his hands, the majority of it must have lined his face with the sublime skills of a toddler’s art project. His writing digits were more smudged than the rest, along with the entire underside of his hand that followed to his wrist down from the pinky. The grogginess of slumber lifted swiftly enough. Physically, he might have been a wreck, but his mind remained sharp as he took stock.

Luckily for him, the old man’s intellect tended to do the heavy lifting. “I take it I’m late for the meal and the village talk?” he weakly asked with a partial eyebrow lifted, hands hopelessly trying to wipe dried ink off on his stained robe. It was to no avail. The deep smudge was stuck to his hands until he bathed, and given he was likely already late, comfort would have to wait. “Always with the ink…”

The quick nods from the youngest were indication enough that he was correct. Packing the vellum and scroll-binding them in haste, he stepped with ragged swiftness from his premises. *Oh-whoo*. Trying his best to ignore the dizziness of getting up too fast, his hand solidly pressed to the left side of an aching hip. That’s what he got for falling asleep while writing. Again.

Even with his favorite pillow under his butt, it wasn’t quite enough to work in comfort. He stumbled on in the direction of the longhouse, and he would have made it too if the *thok… thok* of an axe falling to split wood had not reached his ears. That was odd… Everyone should have been in or near the longhouse, as work didn’t go into the night for safety’s sake.

Stealing a glance behind him, he saw the young man trailing on his heels. A sour expression hung solidly on the youth’s face as he leered directly at the longhouse. No words needed to be said for him to express just how much he didn’t want to go back there. The Elder vocally made a decision as he turned on his foot. “We’re taking a detour!”

The young man brightened at the chance for more time not spent near stick-lady. It barely took two minutes for them to move around all the A-frame homes and arrive at an open space that held soaring stacks of chopped wood. The chopped lumber was stored and ordered in very precise and specific measures, each pile holding an even amount.

“Choppy?” the Elder called the inquiry as a very large, puffy-faced man came into view. The lumbering man didn’t react, still just neatly arranging the next logs to be turned into firewood. Choppy’s almond-shaped eyes were sunk in, and the other villagers tended to give him some space, as he ‘wasn’t all there’ and the man didn’t communicate well.

Sure, his face was flat and the lad had tiny ears in comparison to the rest of the villagers, but the old Elder held firm that when it came to handling the firewood, there was simply no one better. Since Choppy could not hear very well, the Elder beckoned the youngest to his side with a motion and nudged the boy behind his robe so no rogue splinters could fling his way. After getting the youngling out of harm’s way, he simply sat on one of the larger logs, awaiting attention.

Choppy, being distracted, tired, and hungry was surprised when he turned from his work to see the Elder mysteriously sitting there. A crooked but genuine smile broke out on Choppy’s elated face, and the Elder rose to open his arms wide in welcome as he got up. Choppy didn’t hesitate to melt into the hug, still smiling as he tried to blurt out words to say seven things at once. All that came out was garbled nonsense.

The Elder patted him on the back, listening regardless but didn’t release the hold. He was of the firm belief that it was the child who determined the length of the hug, as you just never knew how deeply they needed one. Sure enough, Choppy was in no mood to let go after having been avoided by the majority of people for yet another day.

“It’s alright, my boy, it’s alright. Look!” he said as he pointed to a large stack of neatly carved firewood nearby. “That one is new! So big! Good! I’m proud of you, my boy.”

The warmth of a parent radiated from the Elder’s hold as he praised the very much adult-sized child’s work. The youth behind the Elder had shrunk away, his face contorted as he held the sides of his robe.

“Elder…” the youth whined out, not finding this particularly comfortable. The Elder, unlike the youth, felt no such pity. Choppy was genuinely doing his best for the village, and the old man again assured the man-child he was remembering that fact. The Elder lightly tugged on his upper back.

“Come eat. I can hear your stomach growling from my house. How about a nice big bowl of stew in the longhouse? Hmm?” Choppy received another supportive pat to the shoulder and began to move. Finding the opportunity, the old man hooked his arm around Choppy’s to pull him along. The lumberjack was elated to be included, and while the mostly coherent noises he made didn’t follow his actions, a strong step forward from the Elder made the two children fall right in tow.

For about… two steps. Until the youngest was also holding to the Elder by his sleeve on the opposing side, not remotely interested in being left out. The Elder blanched as he approached the longhouse, shaking his head at the sounds spilling out into the night. It appeared that Switch had blown her top.

“I don’t care if he’s not here! A delinquent Elder like him is not necessary for this village, and if he’s going to shirk his–” The rusty-hinge squeak of the main door interrupted the words, and the old hag’s eyes snapped to him. Everyone present could swear that the temporary reprieve was only so she could inhale her breath faster. They all knew that she was about to begin an entirely new outpouring of derogatory commentary. Some adults even had their hands over their children’s ears in preparation of the onslaught.

“Apologies, all. It appears someone neglected to fetch our dear woodcutter.” While his words were soothing, the glare the Elder gave the congregation was anything but an apology. His silent displeasure that the community would leave Choppy by himself to hunger filled the room. That this Elder was displeased as well only slathered additional guilt butter on the already burnt-toast emotions of the people present.

“Choppy has been cutting so much firewood without end that there is now an entire additional cord of it in his workspace! So, for the foreseeable future, everyone is to take double their ordinary amount.”

His words set his proverbial foot down, and rather than walk all the way to the opposite end of the table, he chose to settle for somewhere near the middle so the children on either side of him didn’t have to leave. This also gave people a way out of needing to retreat due to embarrassment.

“I believe that calls for a congratulatory double portion in an extra big bowl! Along with a nice pat to Choppy’s back when you pass! After all, thanks to him, you’ll all be warmer. I expect your appreciation to be loud enough for even me to hear it when you do so!” He slid into the seat and was more surprised to see all the silenced glances directed at him rather than the muttered acceptance of what he’d asked of them.

“Why is everyone staring? I said all of that out loud, correct?” The befuddled question hung in the air only to be answered by a shrill retort.

“You! Are! Filthy!” The accompanying sharp, wooden snap to the table set everyone abuzz once more.

The ink-marked Elder calmly laced his fingers, sat upright, and turned his face in the direction of the head of the table to lever his retort. His voice was filled with absolute sass as he spoke, “Indeed, Elder. Some of us do work that actually helps the village, and that tends to leave a mark at times.”

A breathy, communal ‘Oooh’ rang out. It seemed the main entertainment and debate of the evening had begun. Passersby interrupted the deep, furious breathing of Elder Switch with their soft voices, patting Choppy on the shoulder to leave some words of kindness and a crunchy piece of bread that had originally been a scrap they didn’t finish.

Choppy cared for none of that, beyond happy to have more of this tasty, crunchy, delicious thing while inhaling huge spoonfuls of a stew that was a thick mixture of vegetables, poultry, and fish. Bowls were provided to the Elder and the youth as well, but per his instruction, one of the larger bowls had been used for Choppy, who had been alone all day with his work.

Elder Switch’s ire was not something that was doused by a meager distraction, and she chose to negate his quip in favor of going on the attack. “You are late. You are filthy. Your face is smudged, and your robe is unsightly. How did you even get brown, green, and black on you all in the same day?”

She hurled the irritation at him and didn’t give him a moment to sass a clever retort. “You have had the entire village waiting on you, and you ignored us in favor of having your head in the clouds! At least now, we can finally come to a proper agreement on things that should have been decided the last time the merchant was here.”

“Things which were only held up because you could not be reasonable!” Her accusatory, gnarled finger stabbed at him through the air. Elder Switch looked like her eyes were going to pop out of their sockets from how large they had become. The spittle from her mouth had those nearby recoil to avoid an impromptu shower, though more from fear of sudden rod-lash than some paltry saliva. “Then… then! You get here long after the meal is at its best, and you bring two worthless saplings to the grand table to sit with everyone of import?”

The patient Elder slipped in a quick and determined response, “I sure did.”

“No! Children do not get to sit at the long table.” Stick swishing, the Elder needed a moment to catch her breath. The screech of her voice caused a now very discomforted youth to feel stiff, legs already shifting half-off the bench in preparation to make himself scarce and run.

The ink-stained Elder laid a shielding hand on the sproutling’s upper back, giving a calm and steady reply against the shouting crone who was being painfully haughty, “I placed him at the table, and that gives him full right to sit here.”

Sure enough, an Elder’s word that one was allowed did very much provide precedence for them to take a seat at the long table. The youth was not required to leave, as per the rules.

“Not him,” Elder Switch snapped. “The other one.”

Switch believed she was cleverly quipping as she moved the goalposts of the argument to suit her needs. The patient Elder merely copied the previous movement and laid his hand on the back of a very voracious and distracted eater, still shoveling food into his endless tunnel of a mouth.

“No, no. Choppy has a name and is therefore considered a full adult. Pay attention, Switchy, you’re starting to slip in your old age.” The not-so-covert snort that went around the room was neither silent nor hidden. The majority of the villagers did cover their mouths, pretending not to notice the slight as Switch went red.

They could feel Elder Switch’s eyes going bloodshot as the calm, simpering, and very much relishing-the-sass Elder began chomping away at a very needed dinner. The similarities to how the Elder and Choppy were eating brought a mercurial glint to Switch’s eyes. “Well, at least it seems that you eat like your family.”

The quip was mean, drawing a connection from how filthy he appeared to how messy the adjacent children were eating in similar food-scarfing fashion. The youth was eating fast, but that was more to get as much food in his tummy as possible before being dismissed from the big table on top of keeping his head down. People tended not to bother you as much when you had your head down.

Repeatedly knocking on his chest to get a big clump of fish swallowed down, the Elder nodded with a hiccup to Switch’s words. “Indeed, I do!”

His spoon waved around, the motion indicating everyone in the longhouse. “What a beautiful family it is. Filled with strong people, good sproutlings, proud adults, and one excellent set of meal makers. Who made this delicacy, and may I please have another?”

*Mmm*. “Yummy!” He scanned around while lifting his now empty bowl. The Elder was scraping the sauce out with his spoon and eagerly swapped the bowls when one of the Mill workers came to trade it out. “Thank you, my sweet dear.”

“You’re welcome, Elder,” muttered a big man—built from nothing but muscle—who nodded, blushed just a little, and silently had a better day. Then he returned to his table near the cooking pit, where he was teased and prodded by the others who worked in the Mill. That shining pink blush was just so precious on him.

Chapter Eight

Elder Switch was seething. Her vision snapped to various members of the village, each of whom felt their laughter die when their chortling was noticed by her strained, twitching eyes. Thankfully, Boro could still be seen fiddling about in the back, providing a necessary distraction. Forced to change topics, the room hastily returned to exchanging gentle pleasantries.

Using Boro’s chatter as cover, people averted their eyes from the dissent-seeking pair of ancient, judgmental orbs, conveniently finding something else to quibble about. The merchant verbally danced his way through deals like a sommelier at the wine market. The trader occasionally sipped from a very costly looking, dwarven-made tankard as business once again slid his way. Ah, the volatile ups and downs of a local market.

Switch wasn’t keeping her temper as easily as her academic opposition. Her fingers were clenched on her switch, knuckles tensing white from sheer grip. She was not losing hold of this village! She was not. The Elder felt horrendously displeased that she wasn’t the main focus of the evening, and her words impatiently stabbed to the heart of the matter, “Since you’re so jovial, Elder, we can get right into the discussion on the new trading agreement.”

Boro perked up and excused himself from his current barter with the finesse of a practiced wedding crasher; his moment to shine had arrived. The ink-stained Elder drank some much-needed water after being halfway through inhaling his second bowl. He gently set the cup down with a relieved *aaahh*.

He nodded his agreement, using his already stained robe to wipe his mouth clean. The robe needed a solid wash as it was, so what was a little more paint to the canvas?

“Concerning altering the currency of the Salt village from its namesake of, well, salt to Gold. Is that correct?” he queried rhetorically, continuing to speak before Switch could intervene with a well-practiced speech announcing the virtues of the metallic currency. No doubt she would refrain from mentioning the myriad of personal benefits she would accrue. The unyielding words the Elder spoke were uttered with absolute finality. “I am completely opposed and have no intention of changing my mind.”

A gagged sputter erupted from the back of the room as Boro promptly choked on his drink. So surprised to hear this unexpected non-starter to a negotiation that the potent alcohol had climbed back up and evacuated through his nose. So rattling was the burning sensation that he wiped his face with a luxury handkerchief. He otherwise never dirtied such a valuable showpiece.

Elder Switch was mortified, furious beyond her ability to convey. A scowl of disdain formed on her face, and she managed to voice a cracking whisper, “What did you just say?”

The people of the village for whom this somewhat mattered—and attended because they’d lost some sleep over the topic—exposed a strong sense of relief via deep sigh. The evening was now clearly going to wrap up, no immediate, sweeping changes were going to assail them overnight, and they didn’t have to worry about learning some arbitrary new way to count and measure their hard work.

Boro embodied horror. His expression mimicked a living painting of panic as he shot the patient Elder a scathing look that could only be insultingly translated as ‘the audacity of this dog’.

Luckily for the trader, he caught himself. Smoothing away his unsightly expression before anyone spun to see it… anyone save Switch, who had a full and unobstructed direct line of sight to him and whose raging, demanding eyes mandated immediate action. The action in question was demanded from him in particular, as he could quickly feel the blaming weight of ‘the scapegoat’ land upon his shoulders.

Boro swallowed and thanked the people nearby for their assistance during his accidental moment of inhaling when he should have swallowed. Presenting a firm and considerably less graceful step, he soldiered his way behind the merchandise table and threw delicate covers off a finely carved box. Since this ornate item had been purposefully covered the whole time, the murmuring of the curious crowd quickly picked up as the nosiest among them pushed to the front, eager to see this hidden-away treasure.

Many already guessed there had been some sort of container tucked away, and their curiosity demanded sating. With a quick appraiser’s glance, Boro accounted that the inked Elder was preening his long, thin beard with the help of the youth next to him. They were having a great time swatting at the dangling hair to beat the crumbs out.

Picking up the box, the trader perched upon his table of wares, becoming prominently visible as he cleared his throat. He said nothing while awaiting permission to continue. Speaking to the village as a whole was a… delicate prospect. If one was not allowed by an Elder to proceed, it very much meant you were talking over them. That tended to make a lot of good customers incredibly angry. Elder Switch, hopeful that the trader had some sort of plan prepared, chimed her usual shrill tone, “Speak, trader.”

Boro performed a flourished bow and paced right into a practiced recital, “Blessed thanks for your permission, honored Elder. As you know, I was meant to be here after another moon had passed and so did not expect to be present for this eve’s discussions. I humbly express my appreciation for being gifted your grace to attend such a lavish meal.”

He held the box up and conspiratorially winked at the crowd—like he was about to let them in on a secret. “When I was last allowed to attend your banquet, I was provided payment in secret by several members of the community to acquire a suitable gift for their beloved Elder.”

Boro paused to let the crowd simmer with gossip. Who had chipped in? Who hadn’t? Why had the most knowledgeable gossipers of the town not whispered about this? This should have been top seamstress material! A few women leaned over tables to grab hapless men by the front of the robes, finding a probable answer to where some valuable salt had gone missing or other equivalent reasons that suddenly had an outlet to sate questionable home finances.

Switch settled and felt her heart rate dampen as she sunk back into her chair. Both hands sought comfort, tweezing the instrument of pain in her gnarled grip. Yes. Good.

The trader had something prepared after all, and from the sound of it, she was going to be bestowed the first of many promised gifts. She would delight in making a scene of it in front of the entire village, lording it over the inferior, ink-blotch Elder as the well-deserved prize it was. Her incomplete toothy smile dreamily spread. Her satisfaction was aimed at some of the previous Elders who had stepped down and might be on to her ploy.

A minority regarded her with respect, but most met her expression with revulsion.

Yes, my people, my conquests. Soon, I’ll show you what you can all do for me, what I will expect from now on, Elder Switch’s prideful thoughts swelled with anticipation. She was no royal, but right now, she felt like a spring princess preparing to be coronated. Ah, the joys of being the true leader of a village.

She was still lost in her dreams while Boro carried the eye-catching case past the side of the long table in her direction. Her eyes confidently closed with a self-assured smile as she leaned her head back, resting it upon the top of her chair.

*Click*.

The audible snap of several latches being undone was music to her ears as the people in the longhouse went silent. Dazzled children were among the first voices of drawn-out, breathless wonder to be heard. “Wo~oaa~aaa…”

The anticipatory ‘oo~oo~oh’ cascaded with rough unity as the soft sounds of clothing being presented filled the longhouse. Boro’s voice rang with a salesman’s pitch, “After well over six seasons of steady work, the Fringe would like to extend this rich gift to its grand Elder, made in conjoined effort with nearby villages and the proud funding of generous souls. I present to you all, a product to be sold in the future by yours truly. A genuine Lazuli robe!”

Clapping hands rang out, and Elder Switch finally opened her eyes with the full expectation that her first act as Grand Matron was to accept this praise. Instead, her heart turned solid, an ice-block of hateful frost. Her blood chilled, lips stiffened, and jaw froze. She found no words could escape her mouth as she saw a calf-length, luxurious, heavy robe of mixed dark blues contrasted with gently reflecting shiny white trim.

Rope patterns twisted in a helix along the circumference of the sleeves, matching the pattern that passed down the front hem and followed the bottom contour all the way around. Near the neck, a white gold brooch was ready to pin the collar designs of the helix together and finish an otherwise broken pattern. The luster of the cloth was rich and resilient, not a single blemish, loose strand, or miss-knit to be found. This was obvious, as even the seamstress gossip train held their tongues as their eyes wandered over genuine art.

Switch’s unaccepting eyes wordlessly denied reality. All watched as the Elder known for remaining collected rose from his seat. He was looking around at everyone in touched confusion, failing at finding appropriate words. Switch could see his face melting, overcome with emotion and disbelief. He covered his fallen jaw and parted mouth with a trembling hand, eyes watering at this gesture.

He could scarcely contain the tears as they streamed down his cheeks. The old man was moved; he could find patterns where others saw nothing, yet hadn’t seen this coming in the least. Mill-workers helped the Elder get his current, filthy robe off his inner gray gi as he remained speechless, unable to properly cope with this gesture. His weak sniffling forced back attempts at a smile, expression trembling to a frown and back again.

Keeping face as an Elder for the village was required, yet he could barely control himself due to the surprise that had been sprung on him. The robe was striking, and it slid over his other clothing without resistance. Boro assisted in fitting the robe and synching it up with the finely woven helix pattern belt, explaining how to use the brooch to hold everything in place. The merchant announced the details over the supportive murmurs as they got the cloth fitted, bottom hem brushing the Elder’s ankles.

“The majority is made from wind-attributed Beast-alpaca, that mountain animal afflicted with a coat of clouds. The lining, pattern, and hem are something a little sturdier. You’ll notice the thread appears extra thick and a little shiny.” When the Elder inspected the exotic threads, he found they were dense and thin. A seamstress hounding the cloth for details explained that the thickened appearance was an indication of the amount woven rather than innate finery.

Boro filled the Elder in before his questions could be voiced, “These come from a Beast-spider.”

There were a few glances between people as the merchant kept on lauding to bolster future sales. They didn’t know that last word, but the mention of ‘Beast’ had unsettled them. The Elder used his gi beneath the Lapis-blue robe to dab his face clean of tears and hurriedly filled the villagers in as damage control.

“Fear not. It is a harmless creature.” While the Elder’s mention set the crowd at ease, his admonishing gaze pierced straight into Boro. Wordlessly conveying ‘Spiders? Really?’ The trader felt reprimanded—as intended—from that intense, parental leer.

The Elder’s true reaction did not go unnoticed by the more perceptive adults. A normal spider wasn’t a creature one wished to encounter in the wild, and he was lucky that there were almost none in the Fringe. The region crawled with their natural predators. Even the fish and bird they had for stew tonight would happily snack on any spider it found. Suffering a cold shiver, the Elder recalled some of the massive desert variants that would lurk in your shadow and follow along with you during travel. It had resulted in the development of some sinister rumors, and he welcomed none of those recollections.

Boro, being an intelligent man, caught the intended message and mimicked the Elder’s response immediately, “Oh, yes. Harmless. Try touching the hem of the robe! You can feel the quality directly, and as I only sell the final product, you needn’t worry about the details.”

He waved the last part off with a playful, dismissive gesture. Like it wasn’t a big deal. In truth, he was twisting away from the worst cringe of his life. The worth of that robe exceeded the net value of a full third of his inventory, and here he was just… giving it away for the sake of ‘the plan’.

It wasn’t the first time this robe had been used for this exact purpose, but each time it physically pained him to settle it on the shoulders of another. He was doing his utmost to save face, but every time he had to part with this prized object, he could feel the devouring greed within him utterly take control and shout envy with acid fervor. Did nobody know just how valuable color was outside of the Fringe?

This Elder clearly seemed to. Salt and Lapis were head-to-head in competition over regional exports, and the prices were low until the inner-realms market adapted. As of last season, Salt was no longer the victor in that contest. Being a skilled merchant, he would soon cut his losses and have this prized robe back. A dark, small voice in the back of his head piped up, ‘Abyss to the rules!’

His contained fury built, and just then he had the misfortune to lock eyes with a still dumbstruck Elder at the head of the long table. Switch reclaimed her senses upon recognizing the alteration—snapping from the subtle shift in the trader’s happy business smile to predatory sneer. Boro was elated when an exact match of his expression was returned to him. Aaaah, there we go. There the truth is.

The tiny voice deep inside him relished the dreadful demeanor of a person pushed over the brink, freshly broken, someone ready to pursue value and personal gain at the cost of anything else, whatever the sacrificial cost might be. The trader watched as his fabled prized possession danced around the room with a living bag of meat inside of it. Using its fleshy arms to shake hands and say kind words to other meat in even cheaper packaging.

Boro shook his head and held it on the side as the headache struck. His forehead was on fire. While there was no deep pain, he had to get this under control before that aggressive raider perspective did more than just sit at the forefront of green-colored thoughts. These were customers. He was a merchant. There would be smiles, business, and sales. He got himself out of his mindset by clasping his hands together with a *pap*.

“Who is ready for some discounts?” His thoughts wandered over to a few items in his inventory which could be left behind. He knew he’d get everything back later. Even with the distraction, his merchant gaze locked to the only colored robe other than his own in the longhouse. Boro flinched at the sight that awaited him.

The Elder was teasing a strong-looking lad, a little smile on his face as he whispered… When suddenly, the strongman took the Elder firmly by the front of that lustrous robe. In an instant, the strongman had pinned the Elder to the wall with a foundation-shaking *thud*. To Boro’s surprise, the Elder did not retaliate. Rather, he just looked to the side and chanted in a sing-song fashion, “Oh, Hib~iiis~cus.”

The muscled man went red in the face. Swiftly releasing the Elder, he embarrassingly brushed freshly fallen dust from the front and shoulders of the rich robe. A rather tall and thin blonde bounced over. Flowers decorated her hair, and a well-fitted, if simple, robe stretched around her inviting features as she flounced into close proximity.

She was a sight, and it didn’t surprise Boro in the least that someone who looked like they worked a forge felt infatuation for a girl exemplifying the smoothness of a finished ingot. To the trader’s relief, the ‘Elder’s robe’ was unscathed. Praise to its quality, no doubt.

The Elder tapped the forge handler on the shoulder and held his bulging arm firm as the big man was tugged down to whisper-level. Boro couldn’t make out the first few words that they exchanged but could roughly make out ‘Being honest… feelings… the path to accepting yourself’. Apparently, that was the last word that was going to be said on the topic. The grinning Elder waddled off to leave the two to their budding romance.

As the trader returned to his wares, the Elder clapped his hands together and announced a celebration dance. They would have an impromptu bonfire! This got a healthy cheer, and the parade of villagers who had all eaten plenty left the building with the subtle stride of falling boulders.

The day of rest was tomorrow, so there was no reason to not indulge. While festivities began outside, Elder Switch rolled up to the merchant table as the personification of a pissy thundercloud. The merchant remained seated with his hands steepled in a finger-pyramid. Given that his customers fled like swine to be slaughtered at the approach of Switch, he could speak freely, utterly ignoring the conventions and rules of the Fringe in doing so, of course. He spoke without being invited to do so, was curt, and entirely lost the suave, appealing tone his words normally contained.

“The vellum is ready to be signed, and the conversion to gold can be finalized. I have brought the requested currency in my hooded cart. She is filled with any… needs your village may have from this point forward.” Lifting the document from his hanging satchel, he unfurled the vellum over the table. Switch took the nearby quill and began signing it without a word. The depths of her hatred were present in her every stroke. The offered quills even snapped twice before she was halfway finished. Her brisk lines were sharp and hard-edged.

Boro was a step ahead and provided replacement quills without a word. In a moment of coy bitterness, he decided to enjoy poking the hornet's nest. “This document must be signed by all the Elders of the village in order to be valid.”

Her retort was salty, “The document is signed by all… surviving Elders of the village.”

Switch didn’t raise her head to meet his provocation, and her words chilled even him. She finished and rolled the vellum back up to bind it. “Seeing as it takes a few moons for this document to reach its intended destination, I am as certain as gold this will be true by the time that happens.”

The laughter that erupted from the trader was raw and unfiltered, “*Ah, ahah, aaah*. Now I finally understand what Hakan sees in you. Of course. You are correct, Grand Matron.”

His greedy hands readily accepted the signed vellum, seating it in a prime position inside his favorite satchel. “I shall go inform your men that they may come to collect payment and begin their work.”

The sour Elder kept silent a moment. A pruned glare settled on the man as she gave a single, accepting nod. To Boro’s great delight, she spoke bitterly as he began packing his unsold wares, “I look forward to finally being at peace.”

His fingers took a moment to trace over the incredibly ornate, now empty box that had once contained his robe. It left a void within him. Boro felt that he had grasped a sensation the raiders had learned many moons ago. His acidic voice spat out a word, finally buying what Hakan had been trying to sell him all these seasons. The traitor’s voice was as dark as his new outlook on the value of other people’s lives.

“Soon.”

Chapter Nine

The bonfire dance was a total success. Excess wood that had been stuffing the storage site was retrieved from the mound with drunken enthusiasm. Of course, neatly chopped logs spilled out when a few zealous drunks pulled from the bottom of the pile instead of the top. Ignoring the fact that the stack would need to be arranged properly the next day, the villagers simply knew that a continuous feed made for quite the blaze.

“Oh no!” Most of the villagers were happy; Choppy wailed in panic and ran over to properly re-stack all the fallen wood. His well-organized towers!

Pots were improvised as drumming instruments, and an ad hoc tune was brought to life accompanied by offbeat laughter. The villagers just didn’t know any better tunes or actual music. What they came up with wasn’t fantastic or noteworthy, but the extra noise added to the good spirits people were already in.

The event provided an excellent excuse for some conveniently misplaced alcohol to resurge into availability, and it filled cups faster than even gossip could spread. The Elder gleefully fetched the cup with his status carved in on it but lost it due to being tackled by a horde of children that cried in defiance. They wrestled him en masse in an attempt to deny him the chance to get a sip of booze.

“No head-pain juice! Drinking that means sleeping late! You promised!” The old man couldn’t quite remember what promise they were on about until he weakly laid face first in the grass. After both the kids and his cup were gone, of course. Face streaked with dirt, he was now one cup short of having enough cups to enjoy a drink with.

“Oh. Right. The forest.” It was an unimpressive set of words that he mumbled into the dirt. Hit with the clarity of recollection, some help from an adult or two allowed the Elder to get back on his feet. Furious robe swatting ensued in an attempt to get the dirt and dry grass clumps off.

To an insulted seamstress’s surprise, it took nearly no effort to get the robe clean again. She began fuming and threw her knitting needles on to the ground. Such a high-quality robe didn’t allow the grass to stick to it, and if the ground had caused stains, they couldn’t be seen in the bonfire light. How could she hope to compete with such work?

The Elder sighed in defeat. His zealous horde of kids was not going to let this go, so he decided right there to finish the rounds and provide cordial ‘goodnights'. When he’d finally made it back into his home, his back was complaining and his spine was more difficult to ignore than a displeased murder of crows.

Setting the door panel back in place, he could nary describe the relief that being alone and laying down brought him. Prized and precious relaxation welcomed him as he flopped back into the floofy folds of his blankets and pillows.

Heavens did he enjoy being comfortable. His calm return to peace was interrupted by the appearance of several small heads in his window. The Elder nearly jumped out of his skin as a small finger pointed at him, and a hidden face whispered a message, “First light!”

The owner of the voice scampered off after passing along the notification from what must have been the oldest girl. A tired smile settled over his features, and the old man felt everything grow heavy just before he slipped into the darkness. Undisturbed by the ongoing sound and light of the festivities, exhaustion quickly won out.

Time for the best part of the day.

Peaceful, soft breathing. Rest was achieved, and the Elder secretly hoped he wouldn’t have any bad dreams… as he began to snooze.

Hakan

In the raider camp, Hakan’s smile spread across her face with all the anticipation of a sadistic genie. She impatiently eyed the path of a much smaller trading caravan returning late in the depths of night. It was against custom for a trader to travel at night; after all… there were many dangers abound, such as raiders who could ambush you at any time!

The blade-clad torturer mockingly copied Boro’s finger steeple as she watched the process of his attempted dismount from the cart, hungrily lusting for the large vellum that he proudly flipped from his favorite little bag. How did that huge thing even fit in such a small satchel? That just didn’t make sense! He was twirling the document around with great enthusiasm, precious prize obviously attained.

“You deny me the enjoyment of my favorite activity when you provide such splendid results, Boro. How could you! I’m almost disappointed.” Hakan’s lusty words allowed her a flash of pleasure as the gaudy man flinched.

Boro merely dropped the vellum into her open hand. “Signed and without ever bothering to read the contents.”

Hakan blushed pink and shivered from raw delight! “I adore this little plan our overlord put together. These backwater nobodies never even consider reading the fine print.”

Her cheer was stifled when she unrolled the document and began to read, noting the lack of signatures. Hakan’s eyes flared as hot as fresh-forged knives to the trader, who was a calm and collected bundle of confidence while he fondled his mustache. “Only… one?”

“Irrelevant without survivors. All that matters is that there is a signature the rest of the Fringe recognizes as an established Elder,” Boro sneered. The merchant’s countenance was slipping again, and he was visibly thinking that nobody would miss the walking meat in that village if it went missing.

Hakan gasped, hands on her lips at the realization that he’d converted. “You let it in! Oh, Boro! I almost want to ask what caused you to see the edge of the blade.”

She didn't care for a response, instead looking back down to the vellum. She rolled the prize up, the signed land acquisition deed more than enough to satisfy her superiors. Enough for her to enjoy a personal journey of indulgence, most certainly. Hakan flagged down a messenger with the barest effort, handing over the important, bound document. “See that this reaches my Mistress.”

Her words didn’t specifically state that failure meant a slow death by flaying. It was well known that these small pieces of vellum held the weight of a thousand blades, and the saluting messenger gave it the appropriate care before leaving at speed.

Boro cleared his throat, and a dangerous amount of attention quickly fell on him. “My end of the contract is completed. I’ll collect my reward and be on my way.”

He gave a slight bow and turned to walk straight for his caravan… but Hakan halted him with a question. “Oh, Boro, one thing before you go?”

The raid leader smiled as the words fell from her lips. She spent an inordinate amount of attention on the details of one of her knives, a knife that hadn’t been in her grip just a moment prior. Pausing in his stride to quasi-glance over his shoulder, Boro waited for her question.

Hakan hissed her message, “Die.”

“That’s not a question…?” Boro had many concerns—some of them superficial, some of them self-serving. The concern that currently held his attention was the set of arrows protruding from his back. They had whizzed from the brush and stuck him deep with a meaty *thwack*.

The sensation of his knees collapsing to the ground was somehow more painful than the arrows. Agony raced across his back, and he finally felt the wounds burn. His tear-filled eyes asked why; they were wide open—shocked. Boro’s jaw dropped and remained unmoving as the creeping poison numbed his tongue, extremities, and vitals.

This poison was truly nasty stuff, and Hakan delighted in the front row seat to savor what her new venom did to people. She even approached and clasped Boro’s paling face with both hands, studying the man’s death in exquisite detail.

Hakan’s voice was a husky whisper as her fingers traced over his swiftly chilling skin as his breathing turned to gurgles. “How I ache that you can’t scream for me. You must want to ask me a thousand questions! Did I have you shot because you’re of no further use? Did I have you killed because a trader that knows the lust can no longer be trusted to work with my reapers?”

“Perhaps you were put down because all your goods and wealth are finally in a singular location, or… just maybe… did I have you slain for the sheer joy of seeing what this new venom does to a person?” Her voice lowered, moderating to the barest whisper; her words were meant only for the suffering man.

*Shinn*! The iron bubbling of his own freshly cut throat bleeding messily over the ground was the last sound Boro heard before his life came to an ignoble end, and Hakan was the only one to hear her words.

“It’s actually just because I wanted to kill you.” The pink flush of enjoyment grew on Hakan’s features as she gasped and squeezed the corpse between her shaking fingers. This feeling was the single most thrilling fulfillment in existence, and she lived for it. Without further fuss, she stood. Mechanically dropping the lump, the executioner eased back into her cold, fluid, raid leader demeanor.

“Raid the dead man’s goods. He has no further need for them.” A messenger jogged up to the bloodied commander and saluted. The sadistic leader barely spared the short-winded girl a glance. It appeared the boys had become too frightful to deliver any news to her. Good. That set a far more natural hierarchy which she strongly valued over this irritating, contrived system of ranks. “Report.”

The messenger spared no moment as the leader was short with her. “The village has begun a bonfire and is currently in the midst of celebrations. There’s more activity than we planned for the night raid, and with that massive torch in the middle of their settlement, they’ll see us coming before we’re close enough to properly mount an assault. They’re drinking and wildly roaming the village. Corralling them would be a pain, and it gives the prey we seek ample chance to run.”

Hakan bit her gloved thumb with a *tsk*, mulling it over as she restructured her slaughter plan. “We strike at first light. All that alcohol will make them slower to act, and their poorly timed festivities will drain them. Our targets shall be considerably less aware than we were otherwise expecting. Trap them in their homes, and burn the entire thing down if they don’t have suitable recruits that fit my tastes. Even then, kill those that resist and don’t leave survivors. I want a messy and dirty slaughter; it will serve as yet another ash site for the mistress’s wishes.”

The messenger was giving her a worried look but didn’t comment. Hakan grit her jaw as she didn’t want to address this. “Yes, yes, the direct superiors won’t be pleased that we’re wrecking a potential source of income and profit. However, they're really not the main echelon I’m here to please. Not with clerics on our heels.”

She hissed out the concern, “Speaking of…”

The aspect of sadism turned her full body to face the messenger, expecting a follow-up report. The scout girl was nervous and clearly hoping not to be asked this but now was quite stuck. The messenger’s lips mushed shut as the grip on the inside of her gloves tightened. Leaving the raid leader waiting was a good way to regret any further living, so her lesser fear relented to a greater one. “They are coming our way. We have no word from the distraction group.”

Hakan frowned hard on hearing that news. “None at all? Nothing about the cultivators?”

The messenger paled, her reply a crippled mess that lacked any confidence. “The best guess we have is that the special clerics are responsible, far ahead of expectations. Some of the men are worried that the big line of smoke coming up from the village is going to give them a direct target to aim for.”

The girl stepped back as Hakan waved her off, irritated and not in the mood for more. “Bah. We need not worry. Morning will come, we’ll snag the recruits, clean up by burning all in our wake, and leave for the main encampment right away. We’ll be gone long before those cursed clerics find our reaped crops, so long as it’s not the abyss-blasted Choir. The Phalanx Sentinels are slow, the Inquisitor Branch languishes, and there’s no chance it’s an order of paladins.”

The stern movement of Hakan’s hand dismissed the conversation along with the presence of those around her that didn’t already have a task. The coy raid leader was terrible with orders she was required to follow and even worse with unwelcome pressure from superiors other than her mistress.

Being cooped up so long on the edge of a forest just waiting for instructions was not her forte. It made her hands itch, and that made the craving for potion prevalent. This assignment was looking less and less savory as she tried to find what was wrong in all of this.

“The other team is the distraction?” she spoke her bothered thoughts out loud, squeezing her gloves. “We have likely been lied to in the older reports. The supposed distractions are not in place. Nothing at all is interrupting the path of the clerics.”

The fresh report was likely true, and the annoyances were headed right for them. “Other team is the distraction my shiny rear.”

They were being thrown to the wolves as the real distraction team. They’d been assured that they were going to be fine. Her teeth grit as the thought that it was her behavior and indoctrination of troops to her beliefs that caused this. What else would it be? It was not a secret she failed to play well with others—or even wanted to. So, if the upper rank and file desired to play little games with her…

“Fine.” She’d play little games with them, too. The vellum was on its way, and she’d take enjoyment in defying worthless orders in the process. That annoying scrap of leather was all that mattered to the direct echelon above her, but Hakan’s lusts didn’t pay attention to that layer. Not anymore. Not after today. After today… it was her and her band against the world, and she was going to spread her influence far and wide.

She’d abandon this nuisance called the Fringe and march right into dukedoms and bishoprics. The raid leader envisioned snatching them all away under the banner of her bloody dagger.

Wasn’t there a castle in a grove that bordered the Fringe? Something for later, as she mulled over her short-term plan. Some new recruits, a party to her tastes, and she was all ready to go. Attack from the east via the trade route, preventing stragglers since the west just led to the seemingly endless flats, the local portion of which supported the production zone for the village. There was nowhere to run from there, as it led from the Fringe into the Unknown.

If things did take a turn for the worst, she had standing orders in place to part from the village in waves. The first wave would soak up incoming arrows and serve as a distraction for the second wave, which was to assist and charge until the arrival of the third wave. Her personal selections for the third wave, however, included no such orders. The third wave was entirely designed to take all the goods and glory and retreat from the field of battle, leaving the others to buy time or struggle to catch back up.

They’d take as many prizes as the wagons would carry! She’d had cages prepared and constructed, and they’d make a lovely box to carry her living treasures in, all packaged and ready for her to play with, to convert into properly raised adults. This new batch of children would be the first of many personally trained servants to carry her banner into future fields. That’s why it was important to get them young, while they were pliable.

Anyone already certain of themselves would require breaking, and that just led to mutinies, betrayals, backstabbing, and other unpleasantry she no longer had the interest or time for. She’d outgrown the practice of making torture a sport, and now was the time for bigger, better, and bloodier raiders. When Hakan had fresh guards posted, she decided to take a few hours to catch up on rest before her big day. Dreaming of glory to come.

The advent of Hakan.

Chapter Ten

Crickets chirped in the dark when the kids snuck in through the Elder’s window. They each hopped on to the floor, in turn shushing the next one as their feet crunched on the popping shells they’d thrown a day before.

The ruckus was anything but stealthy, and the Elder was long awake without moving a muscle or flinching an eyelid. He hadn’t decided what scheme to pull on them yet, but at the same time, he really didn’t want to get up. Any chance they’d forget mid-way and let him sleep? A firm nudge in his shoulder proved otherwise, his hopes shattered like the pleasant dreams he’d been having.

“Elder,” a young voice impatiently whispered.

“Elder,” it sharply repeated.

The old man just rolled over in his bed, away from the poking. *Mmmmjjmm* “No~o~o.”

The half-asleep response drawled out in a haze to the attempt to wake him. An unamused voice piped right up at normal volume, “Who has the pail of cold water we got from the well?”

The oldest girl very plainly asked as the mousy voice—still outside—chimed up nonchalant conspiratorial banter, “I’ve got it!”

The old man found this exact moment the perfect time to yawn wide and stretch with dramatic flair. What was so awfully cozy? It was soft and smooth. Rubbing his hands down aching sides, he was reminded of the Lazuli robe he currently donned. Oh dear. He’d let it air in the wind for some time while he did the usual morning routine. “Mmmsproutlings.”

He exhaled the word more than spoke it. “I distinctly recall first light being mentioned. It’s dark.”

Without missing a beat, the oldest girl clamped her hand firmly on his shoulder; he was, after all, still very much laying down. “No. First light is when we leave. Didn’t you get my message?”

The old fool did recall a youngster pointing at him, but the contents of the late-night whispered conversation had been… vague. It was far too early to pull one over on him, but given there were… he counted breaths.

Five. No, six of the children here? The chances of him having a peaceful day were nil. Especially since they were going through with this awful plan that involved effort, being up, and walking. Oh, he didn’t want to think about it anymore.

With a supported push, he sat up. A nagging pull involuntarily tugged at his lower jaw, eyes closing as a yawn loudly stated its presence. With a grunt and a rise, he long-stretched his arms above him. “Do I even have time to wash and eat?”

He asked flatly and as matter-of-factly, his face full of a matching expression. The female group leader chimed her confident voice up again—clearly she had put the other rascals up to this, “Pail of water all ready, and we’ve all got sacks stuffed with leftovers, and the occasional stick and rock. Because we liked them.”

The Elder stood at attention with hands on his hips. “You’re taking innocent sticks and rocks out that far? How irresponsible! What if something happens to them? What if they’re lost or chip? No no no, none of that. I want all sticks and rocks on my table for safekeeping. They’ll be here when you get back, and you can pick them up after.”

He scoffed and redid his belt so it was tied in a way he was pleased with, already moving the door while not being snippy about the excess bag-weight. He had tried phrasing it in a way that would make them leave the unwanted encumbrances behind.

Sure enough, the kids didn’t like the idea of losing their favorite rocks on a long trek and did as they were told while the Elder took off at full stride towards the stream. The old fool frequently considered this trek the most difficult part of the morning as the incline got steep on occasions, but today, it was made with determination.

The stream ran from the salt flats and surged inland, carving through the landscape in several locations. The awkward path of the water made a clean divide where a small hill should have been. It was exactly such a miniature cliff that was the slippery slope the kids kept trying to lead him across, so he avoided hills when he could. Taking the flattest and easiest route—even if that took the extra minute—got him there with minimal strain. Unfortunately, the stream wasn’t deep enough on the flat side, so each morning, he had to wade inward a little deeper than he liked for a proper depth.

It took some doing with his body in the state it was, but nothing some strongly applied willpower couldn’t push him through on. As an additional bonus, the cliff sides served as decent sight blockers, and it let him wash in peace. As expected, the zippy, little squirrels effortlessly caught up to him.

The pail was handed over, and the Elder yawned wide again, rubbing his eyes to glance in the direction of the apiary. Apparently, he was spotted doing so, as the eldest girl had her arms crossed and cleared her throat at him. Before he could question her, she just pointed at the bag of food currently at her feet. Why carry what you could put down, and why let the Elder make an excuse to wiggle away?

“We’ll wait around here, Elder. In case you accidentally wander off.” Her voice was ironclad, confident in this plan of theirs.

Resigning, he undid his Lazuli robe and gray gi where he stood and tossed the clothing over without folding them up. Old scars on him were plain to see, and they looked incredibly unpleasant up close. The oldest boy took the robe, but his eyes were locked on the injuries while his face contorted in phantom pain. The Elder was only wearing his pants, but even then, they could deduce some of the injuries went further down his sides and likely spread across the legs.

The children were speechless from seeing those scars up close for the first time, so the Elder broke that uncomfortable silence, “Let the robes air, maybe beat them with a stick a few times to make the fabric breathe. I don’t know how well that robe handles much of anything yet.”

The Elder was eerily thin, and his arm strained just from picking up the pail. While the old man didn’t make a sound, the children gained a glimpse of insight on why everything physical seemed so difficult for the older people in town. With a body like that, the Elder looked so frail that even the youngest boy could test the old man’s salt—and win.

This wasn't enough to force them to reconsider this whole venture when their worry met the iron will of the oldest girl. She was holding firm, so they did as well. It was just the six of them, less than she’d hoped, but the usual crew was here. No. Make that five; the third girl ducked out and was going home without as much as saying bye. Not up for more of this, which wasn’t uncommon.

She did leave her sack, though, so more snacks for the trip. That left the oldest girl, the oldest boy, the youngest girl, the youngest boy, and the mousy-voiced boy. Good enough, they were the core group anyway.

They all heard the humming from their Elder as he waded deep into the stream where the depth of the water was significantly more noticeable. They could never discern what kind of song the humming was; they just didn’t know it.

It was one of those things that came from outside of the village, and their curiosity craved answers. A few meaningful glances later, and all but the oldest boy who was taking care of the robes crouched and stalked closer to the song. They thought they were doing well!

However, as soon as the first face came around the bend, the humming had already stopped. The youngest girl took a step back, eliciting glares from the rest of the crew. When she turned around her caught expression very clearly declared. “We’re abyssed.”

“I so look forward to hearing what reason you all might have to sneak up on an old man bathing. Especially when it was specifically asked that old man wasn’t to be bothered.” The Elder’s voice was passive and flat, but it made all the children squeeze their eyes shut in defeat and copy the ‘got caught’ expression. An old sigh was easily heard.

“I suppose it no longer matters; I can’t keep my secret spot hidden for much longer. I just about can no longer reach it anymore. Is everyone present?” His voice sounded defeated, a wet cough breaking up the way he was speaking.

“No,” the oldest girl replied in defeat. There was no point in trying to hide anymore as the old voice continued.

“Fetch whoever is missing, forget the bags, and leave your robes on the bank. What I’m showing you is under the water.” Confused but interested, the scampering happened fast as the aged voice recovered. The oldest boy was involved in a hurry and just followed suit with robes and bags in tow. The group carefully stepped around the bend, since there was only so much bank to keep stable footing on while the stream sharply cut one of the hills in half. They found the Elder breathing steadily, deeply, and with repeated practice.

He interrupted himself when he saw the small ones, “Alright, ask.”

His already tired voice got right to the point as he needed to use both his hands to lift the pail and drink. Warm salt water was great for bathing but not for drinking. Questioning gazes did the rounds, but they fell on the oldest girl, the de-facto voice for this little band. She gave in, unable to lie to herself that she did, in fact, have several questions.

“You hum this song that we don’t know, and we wanted to hear more. But that’s not the question I want to ask anymore.” She steadied herself for the big one. “Are you… alright?”

Even a child could tell that he was having difficulty just breathing. He was out of breath, looked like he was about to fall apart, and was using both hands to lift a simple pail. The aged man pressed his thumbs into the inner rim of the small bucket to set it down.

“…No, my dear. I’m not.” He wasn’t looking at them; rather, he was steadily squinting into the water of the pail.

“The song is a lullaby that I used to… sing,” he trailed off, mouth still moving to make the soundless words, “a long time ago.”

With a stern breath, he put the container down and began wading into the water, stopping before the dangerous drop off approached as he wasn’t going to finish his answer about the song. He pointed up to the ridge and asked a flat question, “Does anyone recognize where we are?”

Small eyes glanced, and the mousy voice chirped to life. “It’s where you fell.”

The Elder nodded. “I always marvel at your memory.”

Warmth fueled his smile as he saw the small boy crawl out of his shell from the praise. “When I fell that first time you all managed to trick me, the current swept me away. It pulled me under and under, and when I came up, I was in a cavern. I could breathe, and it wasn’t dark. What does that tell you?”

The oldest boy was pumped up with energy and wonder. “Secret Cave!”

Excitement replaced trepidation in the group, but the oldest girl narrowed her eyes. “How is a cavern not dark?”

The Elder peered into the hidden depths of the stream, searching for an answer. “I don’t know, and I believe it’s time to pass that torch on. Perhaps one of you will figure it out. Perhaps the children after you. Consider it a trade for the bad news I’m about to give you.”

The oldest girl had a strong guess what this was going to be about and seared the wound early. “You can’t make it to the forest, and you can’t give us our names.”

Hearts dropped all around. The attention was on the conversation between their leader and their Elder, who continued the chat, “I’m terribly sorry, my dears. I cannot make it to the forest. I expect I would make it about halfway, if my memory serves me right, as I just can’t see how far it actually is. Your names, however. Well…”

The Elder raised his head up and smiled at his children as he stabbed his thumb at the water below him. “Nobody listens to what they can’t hear. So… if I happen to be talking to myself while in an isolated corner where I can’t be overheard… perhaps the Fringe won’t be listening.”

Chapter Eleven

Ideas bloomed in the sproutling’s thoughts. The plan was straightforward: make it to the cave, get the secrets, get home before morning meals. The old man just watched them with a pleasant joy as they put things together. He’d given them pieces of the puzzle, and even without being exceptionally prompted, he could tell they were solving the conundrum. They had wants just like any of the adults; using those to teach them sharp thinking was just good sense.

“Can we make it?” the oldest boy asked as he stole a look at the deep water. It looked awful dark even as the first rays of sunlight struck it.

The old man nodded with certainty. “You lot? Certainly. Myself? Maybe a few more times before I can’t hold my breath long enough.”

Their Elder did some stretches. “Here’s what happens. Once you’re deep enough, the water is going to pull you. Specifically, it’s going to pull you down, and you’re going to get caught in a force of water that feels like you’re falling sideways. That stream spits you out into a cave. You’re going to feel like you’re going down, then up; then you’re going to hit the ground while water is rushing past you in a hurry. Steady yourself there. If you go further, you’re back in the stream, and it will spit you back out over there.”

He pointed further to the next hill, the salt stream cutting that one in half as well. “It’s only a tiny bank of space you’ll have to move on—a wall to the left, crawlspace to the right. Crawl to the light, and you’ll be in the cave.”

A detail came to mind that he swiftly threw in, “Oh, don’t eat the stuff that glows. Tried that. Couldn’t tell what was real for a week. Do not recommend.”

His voice trailed off and waited for follow up questions. The mousy voice called, “So… we just hold our breath?”

“Just hold your breath. There’s no swimming against that current once you’re that deep, so take a big one and keep your hands over your mouth once you lose your swimming direction. I would say it takes about… hmm. Maybe half a minute? To…”

He’d lost them. They had no idea what a minute was. “This long, I’ll count in seconds.”

He raised both his palms and moved his fingers one at a time until he’d moved every digit on both his hands three times. “Twenty to twenty-five fingers is normal, twenty if the pull is fast. However, so you’re not surprised in the future, I’ve known it to take thirty. Thirty seconds is half a minute. A ‘finger’, if referenced directly, is one minute, and a ‘hand’ is five minutes because that’s how many fingers you have.”

The younger ones were afraid but couldn’t stop the older ones who had eyes full of lust for adventure. The Elder noted their hesitation. “I’ll go first. Ditch your robe. Just go in your pants. Extra cloth and weight really don’t help.”

He motioned at a spot near the pail for all the things to be dumped and dove right on into the darkness with a splash. The children could see him swim straight down for the first few lengths of a person, and then with a sudden movement, the Elder was pulled to the side and vanished into the black.

The youngest girl shuddered and was about to voice her concern as the oldest boy loudly plunged into the depths. Her words didn’t ever reach her tongue as the oldest girl followed the Elder. She turned in borderline panic to the younger boy, but he was filled with determination and taking deep, steadied breaths. He swallowed a big one and joined the other three. Now she was alone with the mousy boy.

“Maybe we… should not…” she almost whimpered the words as daring teeth were flashed back at her in a sizable grin. Oh no. He was going to go as well. No, she didn’t want to be alone. The mousy boy took her hand and squeezed it.

“Together?” His expression one of confidence and excited wonder. Her hesitant hand squeezed in return. Fear melted away as something akin to butterflies in her stomach bloomed. She wasn’t so afraid if she wasn’t alone.

“Y-yes. Together.” In unison, they began taking deep breaths, and with a jump, they were gone in the stream as they swam to follow. The first gasp of air the youngest girl heaved as she broke the cavern’s surface was met by a strong grip on her arm. It pulled her to safety as she sputtered. Hearing another set of gasps right behind her, she saw the boy too was snatched to safety. Holding their breath had been mostly successful, but at least two of them were hacking up watery coughs.

Support was ready for them. After a solid few breaths in the dim dark, they began crawling in the perhaps two-and-a-half-foot tall space in clear direction of some faint light. Once inside what looked to be a tall dome, they all pushed their backs to the wall, breathing deep and looking to one another with proud smiles. They’d all made it. Every last one of them. A round of chuckles went around the circle as the Elder managed a few words, “I would like to welcome you all to my little secret place.”

The Elder raised his hands, motioning at the luminous, domed space. “It’s safe to touch that odd glowing moss, but again, don’t eat it.”

Another series of half-laughs and chuckles did the rounds in memoriam to the courage it had taken to get here. The euphoria cut to pure silence as the Elder declared five names, “Lunella, Grimaldus, Tychus, Wuxius, and Astrea.”

Everyone fell silent when the dome began to shudder, worriedly looking all around them as the walls thrummed and tremored. After what sounded like the thudding hooves of a stampeding herd passed above, the dome fell quiet.

“Well,” the Elder’s voice rose with apprehension, “it doesn’t seem like the sky is falling on our heads. I’d say we’re clear.”

The oldest girl snapped her head sharply at the flouting Elder as he’d spoken with such nonchalance. Her emerald eyes stabbed him with greater force than her words, but that was one of the traits that made her such a delight. “You said all of that and just hoped the Fringe was going to let you get away with it?”

“Yes, Lunella. I just believed.” He sounded certain. In reality, he’d absolutely rolled the dice on that one and would never tell them so.

The previously tense and miffed girl gasped as her hands went over her mouth. Was that her name? She adored it and was now trying to keep it together as her swiftly overwhelming emotions bubbled and fluttered. She hadn’t expected to actually get a name for several seasons. This had been her gamble, and it paid off wonderfully!

The old man crossed his legs and swatted at wet pants; blasted cloth always got unpleasantly cold when he lingered here long. He’d bear with it. Pressing back against the wall, he saw her heartfelt reaction and extended his warmth with a delighted expression. “Do you like it?”

Lunella nodded through her crushing emotions; it was beautiful. The mousy boy chirped up and nodded as well but was thinking about something else with some concern.

“They all sound so strong. Does… does the Fringe have enough room for that many strong names?”

The Elder *humphed* at the notion, arms crossing. “The Fringe can come complain if it’s dissatisfied at this point.”

The retaliatory look in his eyes softened as it fell back on the poorly illuminated children. “I won’t be around for many more seasons. I have many fond memories of this village. It has some great places and sights, but they’re not what I love about it. The biggest secret I have is that what I love the most is all of you.”

The kids felt fuzzy at the mention. “The joy you bring this old man with your clever little tricks and energetic playing around is a life of fulfillment I cannot describe. Watching you all grow has kept my heart beating. I might be a touch lazy, but waking up to find what trouble you’re going to get into that day is a hoot. Your lives are what gave this old man the will to keep seeing just one more day.”

He rubbed the sides of his arms to warm up a touch. “So, I thought, and I thought. If I was going to give the few minds who I treasure most in this world anything, it was going to be the best names I could grant. The lengths I wouldn’t go to see you all healthy, safe, and in good spirits…” He paused to let out another rebellious *hmmpf*!

“Oh, the heavens would have to descend to rob me of my last breath before I would stop trying!” His hand softly laid on the head of the mousy boy next to him.

“Yes, Tychus. Your names are strong. They are filled with a purpose for you to choose and a depth of meaning that will likely take your entire life to uncover. With your names, I’ve granted you something special, something only the five of you have in the Fringe—a reason to live that you can choose. That’s all I want you to do when I pass. Just live the way you want.”

Tychus went wide-eyed. That had been the toughest sounding name! Why did he get it? He was small and unblossomed, an absolute acorn.

“Tychus?” He tasted the name.

“That’s you,” the Elder affirmed with a pat on his head, “and Astrea is next to you.”

Tychus tensed as the girl next to him needed immediate support. Having been holding his hand this whole time, Astrea was firmly crushing his grip, equally unable to keep her emotions in check. For her, this was less because it was a social implication and more because she now felt solidly included. The weight of the designation pressed invisible on her sternum, and the pressure made a cool shiver crackle over her skin. She was going to get through it. They were all here together, and that meant the world to her. Having Tychus’ hand to crush admittedly also helped with coping a little.

The oldest and youngest boys were nervously exchanging glances, voices trapped in their throats. The Elder motioned at the youngest first to dismiss their uncertainty. “Grimaldus.”

Then the oldest. “Wuxius.”

“Do you like them?” The boys still had no words as the Elder returned palms to his knees, an eyebrow raising. The old man honestly wasn’t sure. They weren't making a sound, and that made it terribly difficult for him to get any details.

“They love it,” Lunella replied as she was wiping wet cheeks with the back of her hand.”

The boys then agreed in a hurry.

“Oh, eh… Yes! I just don’t know what to say,” chirped Grimaldus.

“I just feel really heavy.” Wuxius was nodding in firm agreement as he found his voice. “I just… It’s so solid. I don’t know what it means. The name just sounds like it’s filled with more than I can get a hold of.”

That statement was echoed by the others as well, and the Elder filled in, “Well, that’s part of the point, isn’t it? You’ll grow up with this, you’ll shape it, people will recognize your name based on what you’ve done and what you say. However, unlike a simple meaning, I’ve given you complicated ones.”

His hands drew visualizations of his words in the air. “Another secret for you. Certain things in life may look complicated, but really, they’re made from a large number of small things that are simple. Coming together, small things look like a big mess, as we’re only used to seeing the whole. When you have a good grasp of the small things, the big one will suddenly make sense too.”

“I’ve given you this weighty, unknown thing that you’re probably not sure what it is or how to carry. However, little by little, you’ll discover details that paint a bigger picture, and when you finally have all the pieces, you’ll find the truth hidden in a small hole in the ground surrounded by people you love.” The Elder’s voice faltered, and he cleared his throat. He tried not to dwell on how cold and hazy he was getting. The chilled Elder did the usual handclap to clear himself of his thoughts and rubbed them together.

“Well, I’m freezing and starting to shiver; shall we go home and go eat?” His facsimile of a smile didn’t get the expected reaction; the sproutlings had grown and were holding back sobs.

They had been so happy about their names a few moments ago; why the somber air? He had to relent and looked to Lunella since she was going to be the one to speak regardless. Sure enough, her tone was bleak as she asked with displeasure. “How long do you have?”

If it hadn’t already been chilly, the old man would certainly have lost feeling in his fingers after this. They had assessed that the clock was ticking down, and he supposed it was better to give them time to come to terms with however long he had left. He maintained eye contact with Lunella and gave the dreaded knowledge with a clenched heart, “Maybe a season.”

The kids winced and bit their tongues at this. He wasn’t sugar-coating the pain and just hit them with bleak truth. The anchor of knowing was an additional weight they didn’t want to carry, and it made them feel terrible. They didn’t want him to leave either, but that abyss-cursed serene expression on his face told them he was content with the impending end.

Seeing them muck about had been a joy. These children were an alternate reality of a life he’d never been blessed with. What had been closest to this contentment had been ripped from him as a young adult. This world was cruel that way. Cruel and unrelenting in the wake of the eternal unknown. It was normal to fear and shy away from what you didn’t understand. He grasped this well as he found his voice.

“I’ll begin my final lessons shortly. I suppose as a preamble, I’d like you to keep hold of this. It’s a bit of knowledge that I hold very close.” He cleared his throat again, but it throttled in significant need of some fresh air. “You’re going to make mistakes, and that’s okay. You’re going to fall, and that’s okay. Get up. You’re going to question yourself and wonder if you’re doing things right. That’s good. Keep asking! When you make a choice to go forwards, don’t waver. Only one choice is worth making, and that’s the one you should live by.”

The Elder leaned in, hands strong on his knees, emphasis carried on the provided wisdom. “Everything is either a choice you can live with or a choice you cannot. There is no reason to second guess; merely pour all your effort and being into the world you wish to see around you.”

His back fell against the wall, eager to end it as he felt finished with the conversation. “I would have felt such regret if I didn’t grant your names. Though, one day you will find that the best names are the ones you’ve chosen and made for yourself. Regardless of how long I have, if you fall and stumble, I’ll come for you. I’ll always come for you.”

With a push to the floor, he was up and ready to go. “Now, let’s go get warm. All of you first.”

Chapter Twelve

The Elder knew something was off as soon as he resurfaced. A smell in the air… it was wrong. His first breath of what should have been crisp air instead filled his tongue with the flavor of smoke. His hearing picked the muffled cries alongside the crackling *whips* of wildfire. Something was burning, falling… breaking.

The crashing tear of wooden supports caused a puffy *scrumph* as the unstable home collapsing on itself hit the ground and oppressed the senses. It also ended several muffled cries. This experience turned what should have been a peaceful morning gaggle of hungover groans into tortured screams.

The Elder had been the last to come back up through the stream, yet could not locate a trace of his young group through smoke so thick it forced his eyes to swell. The children had gone ahead of him, so the expectation was for them to be present when he resurfaced. A high-pitched screech cut through the rumbling, ambient mess of fire-wrought sound. No. He knew that voice! “Lunella!”

With significant effort, he dragged his old bones from the stream and on to the dry bank, worming his way from the water with all the elegance of a landed fish. His lungs burned; nasty smoke clogging the thick air made it all the worse. It reminded him of times he’d rather never recall.

It seemed that as much as he’d run away from conflict, strife with its endless reach had grasped him again. Life would not let him go silently into the night; it was here for the pound of flesh it was owed—or rather, from the rebellious voices that were dragged further and further into the distance, those of his children! The surrounding blares of activity made it a nightmare to determine who was where.

Accented, foreign screams echoed from the apiary as the crashing buzz of a destroyed hive split the air. A panic-fueled cry screamed out, “Bees! Bees!”

It wasn’t any adult voice the Elder recognized, so that confirmed outside forces were at play. Total, howling disarray and fear sirened from uphill, so the Elder moved as fast as his feet would take him—which was admittedly rather pathetic and frustrating. He was useless like this! That his heart rate caused his hands to shake was nothing new, and old mantras chimed with military repetition in his mind.

Keep steady.

Keep moving.

Stay alive.

His shambled pace brought him back to the pile of robes the children had ditched. Creeping, wet cold still clung to his skin, and the cold-sickness was going to get his claws into him before his age did if he didn’t bundle up. So, on went the robes, while a sack was repurposed as an anti-smoke face mask—a trick picked up in a desert long ago. He looked ridiculous and couldn’t begin to care as his mind laid the foundations for action.

The Elder couldn’t assess the threat. The amount of smoke meant the majority of the village was on fire, so this was a raid. His priorities in this battle boiled down to survival and retrieval of the children. That second objective was going to be difficult in his current state if there was so much as a toothpick-armed weasel in his way. He’d told the kids to stay alive. With hope, they would cling to those words. That’s all he wanted them to do.

Stay alive.

Just stay alive.

Anxiety was squashed under absolute need as he throttled his worry and self-doubt by the throat. A season to live? No, old man! A day was fine! One day was more than fine, so long as he could see the safety of the children! The *clang* of metal clashing with metal put a hearty and swift dent in the chances of that plan. Thieves were bad; thieves with weapons were worse.

However, there wasn’t a sword in the village? The *clangs* repeatedly rang from the wood storage direction, but there wasn’t a… realization struck him like a brick. “Choppy’s axe!”

The Elder then crumpled inwards like a potato sack as a pain spread from his stomach. A slung rock had struck him at speed and taken the wind right out of him, forcing an unexpected *ooof*! The earthy slam to the ground wasn’t so bad, but it sure felt like it was. He remained there, unmoving. A crass voice called through the dense, smoky haze that hung low. “Hah, got another one! That’s two hands for me in the lead!”

The Elder held his stomach with both hands but couldn’t move, just gasping in air that came difficultly at a soundless wheeze. “Looks like that one’s not moving. I’m calling it dead, and a point for me!”

The same crass voice then gained excitement as it spotted moving prey. “Are those runners?”

“Yes, they are! Let’s get ‘em!” After a murderous laugh, the thudding impact of several boots promptly vacated the location. The vibration was so heavy that the Elder could feel it through the ground he laid immobile on. This pattern of footfalls felt incredibly similar to the… to the thrumming they’d experienced while in the cavern!

“Abyss!” It took at least a full minute for his breath to even out, and he was forced to hear the community around him burn to ash. The syrupy coughing of people choking to death filled nearby homes, only to be silenced as the buildings burned and collapsed down on top of them. Anyone who wasn’t trying to run had attempted to hole up, and neither choice ended happily.

The Elder barely got to his hands and knees as a pained whimper cried from the logging section. It sounded like Choppy was in severe pain; pain that he couldn’t understand. Infantile whimpers and sobbing, bubbling cries told the old man there was liquid in the boy’s lungs. The familiar sensation of strained muscle twisted in the Elder’s legs as he got up and forced himself to move on.

While he was certain an arrow whistled past his head at a certain point, he winced and ignored it. The old man found the woodchopper on his back with a face stained by pained tears. The Elder fell to his knees to support the lad, momentarily skidding to a halt. “I’m here, Choppy. I’m here.”

Firmly taking his calloused hands, the old man attempted to console his boy by being up close and personal. He could see the damage, and he knew the end was coming for this lad. A deep cut from the right shoulder raked down into the lung, but it hadn’t been shallow where it vitally mattered. There was going to be no recovering from an injury like this, not even if the big man found immediate attention. The remainder of the woodcutter’s short life was going to be agony.

The Elder knew Choppy wouldn’t bleed to death from this wound; he’d choke on his own blood first—a fate he wasn’t about to let the boy suffer. Choppy’s good arm held the Elder firm as needing, glossy eyes cried for help as the boy stammered begging words, “*Gllrblpain*. Pain. *Glpain*. Hate pain. Pain.”

This good boy had used his wood logging axe to fend off the invaders. A swift glance in either direction showed not one but two split melon heads. For all the harsh times the village had given this big lad, he’d always been amazing with his aim. From the angle, the axe must have gotten stuck in a spine. It seemed to be protruding from the slain raider, but the Elder had no time for that now. He slid forward and detested that he knew what to do.

A familiar, practiced grasp firmly took hold of the suffering boy’s head, and the old man pushed a knee forward to press down on that wide chest. This was the kind of injury that left a man to suffer for as long as possible while still being fatal—purest suffering until the final gurgling took the agony to a crescendo, finally coming to an undeserved end.

“I know, my boy. I’m going to take the pain away, Choppy. I’m going to make it stop hurting now.” The old man needed to suck in a breath, tearfully ignoring the bite of the smoke. “Hold me tight, my son. Hold me tight.”

The Elder’s voice was trembling, and his jaw was clenched shut. His eyes burned, and wet streaks lined down his cheeks. He had to do this for a prized child once more. His breath quickened, and his dry mouth swallowed to cope. The good boy did what he was told to do and clung tight. The psychological harm the Elder did to himself that next moment was unspeakable, as he shattered the happy illusion he’d built for himself over these many, many years.

The physical exertion was just… a simple…

*Snap*.

Chapter Thirteen

“Alright, recruit. Once again, from the start.” Armored fingers drummed with delicate impatience on the extended table in the salt village longhouse. This entire mess of a report had more holes in it than his favorite cheese, and Head Cleric Tarrean had not been able to acquire said cheese for far too long. He shook his head and forced himself to refocus. The bags under his eyes were reminiscent of crescent purple moons, and still, he couldn’t take the liberty to rest; duty demanded the task be seen through.

His faith would carry him, as it always did, but this whole endeavor had been a repeated set of annoyingly convenient events. Bothersomely convenient. He went over how he just knew his superiors would be reacting:

‘Where are the raiders, Tarrean?’

‘Oh, I don’t know! We have this intercepted vellum with a surprisingly detailed troop placement plan. Well, now we’ve arrived at the abandoned settlement, Tarrean. Where are the wanted men?’

‘It appears that they’re just taking their sweet time walking right over to us without a care in the world! Sure, we’re already occupying defensive emplacements and are the wolf waiting for lost lambs to walk into our open mouth. Those raiders never saw it coming!’

‘Why, Tarrean, where are we supposed to go from here. The map isn’t very clear.’

‘Recruit, if you look in the distance, doesn’t that look like an awfully large funnel of smoke rising into the sky?’

‘Why, yes. Yes, Head Cleric, we should rush to that position post-haste!’

‘Tarrean, are we certain these are the raiders we thought they were? The last group seemed exhausted and in retreat.’

‘Well, recruit, there’s an awfully large number of buildings on fire, people screaming, and sharp, metal objects being stuck rather deeply into what seem to be awfully innocent people.’

Head Cleric Tarrean snarled and slammed his armored fist on the table, startling the man giving him a report into silence. Whoops. He hadn’t heard a word the man had been saying. To top it all off, this mess was in the celestial-rejected Fringe. As if the history of this place wasn’t enough of a nightmare for the Church!

Tarrean almost wished he could have just a sip of wine again, but his vows prevented him from such pleasures. The bridge of his nose received another squeeze, the shining metal of the gauntlet not injuring the cultivator in the slightest. A circular *go on* motion of his hands restarted the report. Acolytes and a Keeper were seated around the Head Cleric, pouring over stacked documents. Their gear was far simpler than his, though most of them had a weary expression that matched his own.

A new day was already starting to rise from the horizon, and silence laid on the wreckage that used to be the prominent village of Salt. Beams of sunlight funneled through the gaping holes in the longhouse walls, and a collective grunt heralded eyes being squeezed together to cope with the sudden brightness.

The next recruit in tow cleared his throat; ready to give a near-exact replica of the report with differences based entirely on the viewpoint of where he was at the time. Acolyte Tibbins fingered through the vellum to find the beginning of his report, and everyone worked to hold in a sigh as it began.

“As mentioned in the other reports, we found the settlement under raid rather than under siege. A poorly organized force arrayed itself against us and flung itself on our spears. The consensus I agree with—the intention was for a series of waves to greet us and that the utter lack of coordination altered that to a loose stream of individuals charging into a defensive line. Our casualties were minimal, and according to Acolyte Jiivra’s more knowledgeable report on the matter, entirely due to an uncommon venom coating the arrows our squad was attacked with.”

“We caught the effects too late since the poison was crystal clear and just made the arrowheads look shiny, which caused affected troops to not pay attention. The majority of the village was on fire before our arrival, and it seems that the idea was to pillage and burn.” Acolyte Tibbins drank some water from a recovered local cup and retraced his fingers to where he was on the report.

“Losses for the village are… borderline total.” The young adult motioned a thumb behind him to the still figures lining makeshift resting spaces along the wall.

“Recovered individuals of note are two old people. The catatonic woman hasn’t spoken and was found seated in frozen horror at the head of this very table. As of yet, we have not found an explanation for why the longhouse is one of the few buildings not burned to the ground. From the stains on the floor, we can easily put together that people were executed here, but the old lady appeared to have been spared. From the complete inability to communicate, we are guessing that she was made to watch the ordeal.”

“This also led us to think that we could not locate the leaders of the raiding force because they were simply not part of the main assault and escaped during the confusion while our forces were tied down with consecutive attacks. Cowardly, to be sure, but there was no doubt of that. We did find carriage tracks, but any more effort on our considerably exhausted forces was essentially impossible. No chase was given.”

He flipped a page, took a breath, and continued speaking, “The other individual of note was an old man in a dark blue robe. Keeper Irene found him still breathing next to the body of a deformed man that had a sizable gash in his chest and shoulder. It is the Keeper’s opinion that the man was spared due to being partially obscured and having the appearance of someone already dead. His breathing was found by accident when she was prying bodies apart for proper death count.”

“Based on the high quality of the cloth, we’ve concluded that this must be one of the Fringe Elders. So, per the plans of the ecclesiarch, he is likely who we need to speak with pertaining to the greater effort. He has as of yet not woken, and while basic aid has been provided, we have no idea what state he may be in when he wakes up. Acolyte,” the young adult’s eyes bulged, and he needed to take a strained breath as he saw his own name noted, “Tibbins is responsible for the wellbeing of the Elder until a positive outcome can be reached.”

A pleading look was in the Acolyte’s eyes, but his superiors were too laden with their own burdens to reconsider his plight. Defeated without any words, Tibbins continued, “Almost no bodies under burned and collapsed buildings could be recovered. The few we did find were indicative of having received crippling injuries rather than directly lethal ones.”

He swallowed and rasped out more of the report, “Being burned in their homes was intentional. Consensus is that the additional cries of help would distract us from pursuit. To my great regret… I must report that this was a fairly successful ploy, and no actual adults were recovered. However, we found no bodies nor remains of any children. With the depth of the discovered tracks, we are of the opinion that the children were taken rather than slaughtered.”

Vellum rustled as he’d gotten to the bottom of that section, needing to flip to the next page. “Temporary encampments are being erected, as our forces require rest. Morale is low from being so close to the scarred zone, though merchant intelligence indicates it has been locally renamed to the ‘Salt Flats’. Updated documentation shows that history past a few hundred years has been entirely forgotten or wildly misunderstood.”

“Is it still dormant?” the tired commander inquired, wanting that off his chest now, as he hadn’t heard this part of the report before.

The Acolyte calmed his worries. “Yes, Head Cleric, the scar is not expanding. The current state of the flats matches the scriptures.”

Relief washed over the group.

“Good. It would have been a horror if that dungeon woke up again. Can we safely conclude no deaths were on the scar itself?” A different, more wizened Acolyte nodded, older vellum embossed with golden text unfurled to compare with fresher notes.

“Yes, Head Cleric, that is correct. No casualties were incurred on the flats, so there is no chance of the calamity coming to pass.” The Acolyte received a stern nod from the commander, who chuffed in reply.

“Excellent. While that is good to assume, we must be certain. Establish a forward base rather than a temporary encampment. We cannot allow the possibility for these raiders to let misfortune come to pass due to their blithering ignorance! Tibbins, you’re in charge of making the Fringe Elder agree to let us stay here.”

“I don’t care how inane some of the requests may be; the rules are twisted in this place, and we need both verbal and written consent… as far as I’m aware. So, if he wants to ride a pony, fetch the blasted horse! Don’t come to me with requests for permission; just get it done. Bill it to Keeper Irene, have it added to the expenses tally. If it’s truly egregious you may ask or, better yet, decline. Still… make him happy with us.”

The hand of the fifth Acolyte down the bench rose. The Head Cleric snarled at being interrupted, “What is it, Mandell?”

The heavy accent of the Acolyte gave away his centralized heritage. “Sir, I don’t understand. Why would a purely celestial dungeon waking be a bad thing? The majority of us have major affinities that align! From initial reports, I thought this place would be ideal for cultivation in addition to our daily chants and prayer.”

Irene turned to give the Acolyte a leer, but couldn’t fault the young man for not knowing. Her tone was motherly, though cutting. “May I, sir?”

The request to her superior was waved off with a, “Do as you please.”

Irene’s chair *squealed* on the floor as she turned herself to face the recruit. “In ordinary circumstances, yes, you would be correct, Acolyte. Unfortunately, this dungeon doesn’t operate under the common behavior we generally expect from dungeons. It does not align with the reports we cross-referenced from the Adventurers’ Guild, and even the scriptures refer to what happened here in the past as ‘The Great Scarring’.”

“This is why we’ve been referring to the salt flats as ‘The Scar’. This particular dungeon is strange in several ways.” She lifted her gloved hand to keep count on her fingers. “The scriptures say that at least a hand’s worth of centuries ago, a celestial dungeon awakened here. Not developed slowly; not came from the heavens. It just… woke up, and *pop*… it was there.”

“Not only was no one ever able to locate the core, but clerics at the time couldn’t figure out if it even had one. Instead of building in layers, applying clever traps, or adding what we’ve come to expect as the usual gambit of monsters, those aspects simply never appeared. This dungeon only did two things, beyond absolutely ruining hosts of armies and emptying entire coffers of nations.”

All the Acolytes, while tired, had latched on to Irene’s words with rapt attention. “The first thing—and the only confirmable thing that this dungeon did—was flatten every bit of area it could spread to. On this flattened area, sporadic amounts of highly desirable resources would slowly accumulate as the tides came and went.”

“The tide—to this day—remains one of the great mysteries of the Fringe. There is no major body of water nearby, and the mapped rivers simply do not provide the amount of water that comes and goes as the scriptures describe. Over the next few days, we will be able to generate an updated account.”

“One of the rare Mages in those days described the phenomenon as watching a great beast breathe during slumber. As people died by the droves over the pursuit of scarce, rare resources, the dungeon grew—and grew in width only. It snaked across the landscape, and wherever its rising waters touched… the earth slowly flattened to a very specific depth. In certain places, it split like the roots of a tree. Up north, the pattern seems designed more like an infection rather than any cohesive pattern, while down south, there’s nothing but straight lines and right angles.”

A hand rose again, but she was just getting to the point and was sure she would answer the query before it was asked. “The second thing the dungeon did—something we’re still not certain about it actually being responsible for—is a phenomenon that we frequently see in celestial cultivators that don’t keep a proper balance.”

“Every warrior, every single one, who stepped foot on the salt flats… slowly lost their sanity and the ability to see reason. They began claiming the land and resources as theirs and seeing themselves as superior regardless of established hierarchy. They also gradually physically withered when they failed to be present on the landscape the scar ‘owned’.”

Irene pointedly motioned to the Elder in the blue robe. “Eventually, you end up looking like that. We actually have fairly detailed notes on the subject, which involves internal corruption problems. So, Acolyte Tibbins, please do take care to not let his corruption consume him before the Head Cleric has what he needs.”

Tibbins nodded with a salute. This part was following orders; he could do that. Mandell still looked confused; he didn’t feel his question had been answered. “While that is certainly unfortunate, why would that prevent this area from being a good source of Essence for us to cultivate with? Our prayer certainly provides, but why would already present celestial Essence not be beneficial?”

Irene had to think for a moment but was decently certain she had the answer. “It is very beneficial. Had there not been a hidden trap that caused people to lose their minds, I would agree with you.”

She squeezed the tips of her fingers together. “The issue comes from the interaction. By taking, we also give back. Any Essence we fail to refine fully returns to the dungeon. Unlike in a common dungeon, Essence density here is always low. A place where additional Essence suddenly depletes because of, say, the presence of a dozen cultivating clerics? Well, that may awaken a cycle we very much wish to avoid.”

“The scripture is also clear that the Core was never found. The scar is vast, and worst of all, the spread of Essence is incredibly even. So using the adventurer trick to follow the path where Essence density is thicker to locate the core is unfruitful.”

“Scripture says that the Mage in the area proclaimed the dungeon dormant rather than dead. Specifically, when its expansion fully ceased after years and years of the Church and the Guild deterring people from entry.”

“The region isn’t named ‘The Fringe’ due to some landscaping design. It is named such because this very scar brings someone to the fringe of sanity. Delusions of grandeur and grand heroism are recorded to have been declared by cultivators rapidly rising in rank. Their intent to do well and invoke the best for us all was devoured and overshadowed by this place. It is one of the well-kept secrets the Church does not want the populace to be aware of.”

“Could you imagine the rumors? That a celestial dungeon, a gift of the celestial above, drives people insane? Makes them commit great acts of violence in the name of what they consider to be right? The Church prizes and relies on its relationship of goodwill, its values of great virtue, to remain in the hearts and minds of the people. The Fringe is one of those secrets that has been obscured with misinformation to soothe the minds of those who don’t want to know. This place isn’t on the map because the Church does. Not. Want. It. To be on the map.”

She put her finger down hard on a fat book. “The scriptures complain for an entire volume of notes and complaints that not a single bastion or permanent stone building could be erected! If there was any semblance that something important was here, permanent structures would have given it all away. A full chapter is devoted to disgruntled scribes going on and on about how movement was constant and tensions were always high!”

“Not only did they need to keep themselves from venturing into the scar despite the glint of prizes clearly visible in the distance, but they had to keep everyone and everything else out as well. Why do you think we still haven’t seen a single monster? Eradication was widespread. As you must have clearly noticed just by glancing, the scar is utterly massive. The manpower and coordination that took made fully devoted scribes complain. Fully. Devoted. Scribes. Were… complaining.” She trailed off with a soft sigh.

“I have never seen a scribe complain about anything in my decades with the Church, and these are written accounts.” Her finger repeatedly pressed down hard on the volume. The importance of her words was not difficult to discern, even for the tired. Irene leaned forward in Mandell’s direction. “Do. Not. Cultivate. While. In. The. Scar. Near might be fine, but certainly not in. Is that understood, Acolyte? All of you, in fact?”

Mandell’s stand and snap to attention was textbook. His chair screeched back, and in an instant, he was in the official salute position. “Yes, Keeper, sir!”

The others gave mumbled responses. Irene let Mandell be at ease and return to his seat, handing the reporting back over. “Acolyte Tibbins, please continue.”

Tibbins had lost his place on his report vellum and scrambled to find his lines again. The reporting continued for another hour until a fresh recruit announced himself with the news that temporary camp was set up. The meeting was dispersed, and the priests went to rest as a guard rotation of the least exhausted was set up.

The camp was sizable. Four dozen clerics had been housed in tents with only a handful remaining in the longhouse as the construct was not considered structurally sound. As soon as the majority of them had acquired some much-needed rest, the real work would begin.

Chapter Fourteen

The Elder continued rising from the depths of the small coma he had been trapped within.

“You win this one as well, shiny sky orb.” The old man kept his eyes closed after stirring from slumber. He had opened them only to find a ceiling he didn’t often see. A spike of light sunk right into his sight, and the chorus of complaining voices was wholly unfamiliar. He sort of heard most of it but didn’t pay real attention—he wasn’t able to.

Illusions and ghosts played across his senses, and he instead vividly experienced the memories of past conversations as if hearing them for the first time. He knew all the words of the conversation; he heard the retorts and quips that would lead to some juicy gossip. The giggling of children came and went with the usual swiftness as they swirled across the floor, carried by a haze on an unseen wind. In short, reality fled from his mind.

The unwelcome was truth pushed aside, and the old man’s mind found nothing but shards with no idea how to put it all back together. Why bother? His imagined conversations of warm nights and welcoming stew were rudely interrupted by words and flashes that suggested that the village burned down. A pang of discomfort struck the inside of his head, and the old man found it best to relieve the pain by remaining still. Swiftly, long-past conversations and warmth returned with the obscuring certainty of steam. The haze lazily veiled over once more and was welcomed dearly.

“Losses of the village are borderline total.” A hollow distortion of the speaking voice reached him. The pang of discomfort returned with greater strength, and the misty haze blew apart as a strong gust sundered it. The laughter in his thoughts wavered, the emotions and ability to express repressed as grief found no foothold on the shattered glass shards in his unwilling mental state.

No, no, no. He didn’t want to be here. There was just nothing left.

“The children were taken rather than slaughtered.” These words rang like a gong through the empty halls of his mindscape, painting chaotic color over and over on unseen walls. Hope arrived on screaming wings. The Elder felt overwhelmed. Unreal, ghostly steps approached from the other side of his closed eyelids as again he sunk ever deeper into malaise. A fall ended when you hit the bottom, and for the Elder, that was in a space between madness and self-reflection. It was time to save his mind. It was time to give someone else the reins.

Dizziness struck even though his body was unmoving. The Elder’s view altered drastically as he meandered through an imagined hallway of memories. The scenes replayed in sudden flashes, and he fully experienced the images and accompanying scents and tastes. They bombarded against his mind with each additional step. Another step, and another, and one last one were taken before the familiar and comforting rasp of a whetstone reached his ears.

*Scrape*

A large flame was centered in this stable mental space. Moving towards the burning representation of his will to live, the old man that came into view near the fire had a considerably stronger back—a younger back. His back, from many years ago. The large fire licked at the dry, wood-shaped memories in the center, burning through everything with all the time in the world, sampling the flavors of ancient happenings soon to be forgotten.

Many more figures surrounded the fire, and they all appeared as younger, more youthful versions of him. All of ‘him’ was obstructed in a partial or complete, snowy haze that obscured their individual features. They were the reflections of his old self, the blurring corruption on them a representation of aspects long forgotten and traits willfully abandoned. He wasn’t those people anymore. Those identities. Not completely.

*Scrape*

The whetstone personality paused sharpening its weapon, prompting the Elder to step forth and join the circle. He seated himself on one of the many cut stumps as darkness and blackened doors surrounded him. He recognized the whispers coming from behind those chain-closed barriers. They contained all of his regrets. His many, many regrets. The doors strained and shook inwards, threatening to burst even as he watched.

“I didn’t expect that I would ever use this philosopher’s trick again,” his wordless voice spoke to nobody in particular. He was talking to himself, after all. There was no need to explain himself. This place was purely to accept that once again, he’d failed. The little crevice in the mind was the best imagined space he could construct to cope and convince himself to try again. You didn’t become a philosopher and not make tricks to protect yourself from infinite existentialism. When you come to the realization that you know nothing, your world has a tendency to fall apart. There had to be stability, even if it was fabricated.

“I can’t do this anymore.” The current perspective’s hands folded together and tearfully sighed, head dipping low in shame. It took willful effort to right himself again. He turned on his stump and faced the next empty seat to relinquish more than a mere question. “Can you?”

Slowly and with deliberate intent, a copy of his current appearance formed on the stump. An exact replica of his current voice replied in kind, “I believe I can. I can find the way.”

The original nodded and asked, “Where did I go wrong, old friend?”

The copy slowly stood, and the perspective shifted. Focus faded from the eyes of the original and instead saw from the eyes of the new copy. “Nowhere, Elder. You did everything right, and we all know well that you can make no mistakes and still lose. That’s not a weakness or a failure. That’s just life.”

The abandoned original remained seated on the stump. His time was over, and his mind needed to go elsewhere to move on. “What will you do?”

The new perspective folded his hands behind his back, adopting a slightly hunched posture to answer his own question from the version which had passed the torch. “What we chose to do. What we learned over all these years. That we hold to the ideal. That we make the decisions we will not regret. That we always, always hold promises to those dearest to us.”

He laid a hand on the Elder’s shoulder. “It has been a pleasure and a privilege to have been you, Elder. I loved the life you gave us, free of what we were used to doing.”

Another door sprung up and immediately revolted as regrets exploded to life behind it, only to be plastered against the darkness and fade into obscurity. “I am no longer an Elder, and I believe I am the first one that will accept the regret. Because in this breaking I’ve realized… grief is the price we pay for love.”

The Elder nodded at the new perspective and laid out his last question. He was fading, losing active consciousness as the new mentality gained it. “What will you do?”

The fresh outlook rolled his shoulders behind him. “I am going to get my children back if it’s the last thing I do. It is high time we break into the details of an old tidbit we weren't supposed to hear, old friend. We can pretend to not be aware of that conversation out there all we want, but those voices are openly talking about Essence. That means they are cultivators.”

The new perspective shared a knowing look with the version of himself that had paused using the whetstone. “It is high time we discover how they live so long and attain that time for ourselves.”

The whetstone version of himself smiled like a fox, turning the blade over to show regretful, carved words etched deeply into the other side: ‘This good man never goes to war again’. This version of him had his mind broken in a desert long ago. His doppelganger put the whetstone down, gave a small salute, and proudly closed his eyes. He fuzzed over and began to fade.

The new perspective was adapting, restructuring personality traits and priorities. Major components of the personality of that time were being rejected, obscured, denied. Similar to the personality present from the war, several others became blurry. A few vanished from the bonfire scene altogether as their values and beliefs were fed to the fire, never to be considered in a decision-making process again.

When the new perspective looked back down to the Elder, half of the old man was a sketchy imprint of what it had been. A younger, more vibrant personality had cleared up significantly. His haze near the beginning of the circle was almost fully cleared. It was both necessary and thrilling to possess the blind will to go always forward. “I retreat no more. I hide no further.”

“I’m going to need a new name.” With a powerful movement of the old man’s hand, ‘never’ was blotted out and erased from the blade. The new perspective turned and, with unwavering steps, strode away from the bonfire. His voice trembled, then gained an unyielding quality, the core trait from which the fiber of his being was now constructed. “Again. Again, we go to war. ”

Chapter Fifteen

The mental space collapsed into kaleidoscopic memories behind him, and every step forward pulled forth ideals, beliefs, and remembrances. This path he now walked was a recollection of all he’d done and was again willing to do. Memories knit together, and the new perspective opened his arms wide, walking straight ahead as he took his first step on the path of pain. No more gates to lock his agony behind. Blackened doors burst through their chains, and a deep breath was taken as he affirmed himself.

“I am neither Elder nor old.”

“I am the weight of all my experiences and the incarnate will of the path which I now walk.”

His hand snatched out and grasped a recent remembrance, slowing only to place the memory of Choppy’s death before him. The boy had never deserved that, and it hurt to keep it in mind. Sadness and a clutched heart squeezed the space of his surroundings. With the acceptance of impending suffering, he took a step into the memory to make it part of his being.

Crushing lamentation struck him immediately as he looked to the light, willing himself to leave the convenient lie his mind had constructed to protect his sanity. His real body convulsed, and his eyes snapped open. It was at least high noon by the time he came around, and aged fingers gripped the sheets as the first of many howls rang from his throat. His face was once again stained with tears as he immersed himself in loss.

Survivor’s guilt beat him without mercy as he worked his way through the fugue that entrapped him. One last time, the old was relinquished, and someone new was born to carry the torch. He had never ascribed to the idea that a person always remains that same person. People change, dramatically even, in times of crisis. He could never understand why others couldn’t grasp that this wasn't the slightest bit odd.

He’d seen it countless times after a war.

Great loss.

Great grief.

Great love.

It all changed people. How they thought and what ideals they held. Who they were, and how they saw the world. His physical outcry had several clerics by his side in an instant, ready to steady the uncontrollably weeping, old man.

Some had no idea what to do, and others ushered them out of the way as Keeper Irene waltzed her way through and violently waved the rest of the priests off. Her voice was brisk and cutting as she dismissed them. “Why are you all standing around gawking like a foolish bunch of art historians? Fetch me water and fresh cloth! This man is in severe shock and requires immediate tending. Where is Acolyte Tibbins? Isn’t this his duty?”

Irene had the old man supportively weeping into her neck while the majority of the thin figure slumped over her shoulder. She clearly had a great deal of experience handling uncontrollably weeping children. Her attentive hushing resounded with gentle care, soothing what in her eyes was just another big baby. She found there to be little difference between the very old and the very young, having had to take care of both.

“Tibbins!” Her words were as welcoming as they were grateful, the bony burden swiftly handed over to the Acolyte. He was soon holding the inconsolable Elder upright. As soon as Irene was free, she gave Tibbins a strong ‘it’s your problem now’ pat on the shoulder and walked off. Irene might have been good at this, but that didn’t mean she wanted to deal with it. She had scriptures to tend.

Nothing the Acolyte said or did appeared to have the remotest impact. Sure, he succeeded in making the old man drink down some water, but this was an ordeal the young Acolyte still needed to learn to deal with. It took several hours for the heaving to slow down. Only then did Tibbins again attempt to reason with the man, who he was currently convinced was completely out of his mind. Granted, he could not blame the behavior.

“My back hurts,” was the first set of cohesive mumbles he heard from the bleary-faced, old man.

“Sir, my name is Acolyte Tibbins. Do you remember yours?”

The old man pathetically groaned in response, “My back hurts.”

Tibbins had honestly run out of patience. The taxing hours had taken the goodwill right out of him with the unexpected and unwanted nursemaiding. Still, the man was his charge, so he used those strong cleric muscles of his to lift the aged old log with all the difficulty of bench-pressing a feather. Tired eyes squinted through the sunlight as the old man saw a long set of tents set up in a familiar order. “Ah. Clerics.”

He recognized the orderly campsite immediately. It was meant to be memorable, after all—the place you run to when you’re injured and trying to survive. Each was a higher quality than a common healer’s tent. The tent he was carried into, to his great chagrin after his most recent thought, was an abyssal common healing tent. Still, the cot he was laid on was significantly better than some sheets on the floor with bedding crammed under it. This was a resting place for the sick and had a much greater degree of comfort to facilitate that rest.

“Sir, do you remember your name?”

The old man blinked, taking hold of the words. Recent memories were filtered and parsed. He was a new man after his mental shift at his campfire, so he needed something new—something he could hold on to that was neither the ordinary nor similar to any previous unordinary name.

“Art…” the old man pushed a hand into his face, kneading skin together, “…Orian?”

He was grasping for ideas based on something vague a womanly voice had recently said. Art… historian? It was always healthy advice to listen to a good woman, and thus, he pulled his ideas from the recent experience and released his face. Expression clearing, he extended a hand in greeting to Tibbins. “Artorian. A true pleasure to meet you, cleric but truly unfortunate circumstances for it.”

A weak smile slowly built upon his aged features, his voice slowly blooming with confidence as it all came together. “Yes. It is decided. My name is… Artorian.”

Chapter Sixteen

Head Cleric Tarrean was pleasantly leafing through real paper once more in his personal tent. Smooth, crisp, light paper. None of this awful vellum for him! When he could get away with finery, he would. His polished, ornate armor was a testament to that. Just file such ostentatious tidbits away under some kind of basic need, and you’d find someone willing to cave and sign-off on the expense document.

After all, he was the Head Cleric of this expedition! He deserved this! It was his right to display his rank proudly, a beacon of righteousness for the Church. As a mighty D-rank seven, he was the most powerful cultivator of his entire expedition-wing. Then again, he had also been bestowed with two strong affinity channels rather than the pitiful singular one most people could count their blessings to have.

Tarrean took a moment to relish in his continued good fortune. This mission had been tailor-made for him, clearly with divine guidance. His prayer was going to be extra juicy during the noon session to thank the heavens for their abundance. Yes, it was good to be Head Cleric.

This was an easy mission in the ‘secret’ category that carried sizable prestige. He was putting the final scribbled touches on the mission report right now. The majority of the expedition would continue pursuit of the raiders under the watchful guidance of Jiivra. She was always seeking opportunities to prove herself, and this was a decidedly easy one to allow her.

A handful of hand-picked priests would remain behind with him, along with the wounded, to tend to the local situation and safeguard their excellent forward base prospect. In the old age, building was not allowed here.

Such times had passed, and he had such visionary plans. Stealing a swift glance at the entrance flap of his tent and finding it secured and closed, he retrieved a piece of vellum liberated from the exhausted raider group that had just walked into their weapons. A proper and fully signed, mundane deed of land ownership. The problem was, it was signed by someone with very angry hand-script, and that was suspect. If he could not obtain an exact copy from the present Elder, then this document—while prized—was a fake.

Rules were twisted in the Fringe. Mana signatures didn’t work here. It made for an exceptional mess in bureaucracy, a piece of land where one could not bind ownership with absolute certainty. He wondered if all locations near celestial dungeons had this problem but quickly shook that from his mind. Celestial and infernal dungeons were too dangerous. It was all too well known that they caused wars through their own, seemingly innocuous means. At least celestial ones did. He would not spare a thought on what a blasphemous infernal dungeon might do to a person.

Extermination was the duty of the day when that Essence type became involved. It bred necromancers, extremists, and… ugh, demon summoners. The Head Cleric felt a sour taste in his mouth, and he swiftly bundled the vellum. Back to his precious paper products! If the signature matched, he could outright claim ownership of a chunk of the Fringe. He would obviously do so under the protective wing of the Church, but he knew he was destined for grander things.

Tarrean snapped from his distraction, tapping his quill in the inkwell. Let’s see. He and the few injured would stay in camp. Tibbins had been assigned babysitting duty; he had to stay. Irene was a must as Keeper and needed to stay to keep a proper tally of all the goods they were going to find and claim in this village. Jiivra, unfortunately, was getting her chance to be the bigshot; so, squad lead it was. Therefore, that thankfully meant she wasn’t going to have a presence in the forward camp.

Did he need any of the others? He could do without Tibbins but had no interest in dawdling around a drooling, old fool. He supposed he could see to the healthcare of the injured, young priests. It would let them see his own magnanimous value, and their respect for him would rise if he personally attended to them. Yes, that was more than enough to hold down his small encampment.

By himself, he was more than a match for anything the Fringe might have in store for him. Without the common threat of beasts, his only real concern was raiders. Wouldn’t you know it, that’s exactly what the majority of his people were about to set out to take care of for him. His plans were falling into place perfectly!

Heavy supplies could be left behind as well; Jiivra always did like her fast attack tactics. She’d appreciate the mention in the report, at the very least. Yes… that would do. Scribbling down some details, the bump of a spear hitting the ground twice outside his tent flap reached his ears.

“Enter,” the Head Cleric called without looking up.

Tibbins entered the tent, saluted, and waited to be addressed. The Head Cleric drew some finishing lines and then laid down the quill. He addressed the young adult, wondering why he’d been bothered, “Acolyte Tibbins?”

“Sir! The Elder of the village is awake and mostly lucid. Perhaps not quite stable—but lucid.”

Tarrean clasped his hands together with a smile as he leaned back. “Excellent! You have managed to procure the needed documents from the Elder then?”

Tibbins squeezed his lips into a flat line. “There are a few problems, sir.”

“A few, Acolyte?” Tarrean’s mirth melted from his face like hot butter. He blinked at the younger man. “Not one, not two. A few?”

Tibbins nervously swallowed. “Perhaps… allow me to walk you through it, sir. It threw me for a loop when I heard it the first time.”

Tarrean remained calmly in his seat, ready to hear what was likely going to be the start of a longer than wanted day. Tibbins followed suit, seating himself on the other side of the Head Cleric’s desk. “When I tried to confirm if our man in blue was the Elder, he looked at me and asked, ‘Would you like me to fetch him for you?’”

That received the appropriate eyebrow raise from the Head Cleric, so Tibbins continued, “So he gets up and fetches this cup from the longhouse.”

The young man put the wood with the word ‘Elder’ carved into the poor excuse of a wooden cup on his superior’s desk. “He told me, ‘There you go. I’ve brought you the Elder,’ and proceeded to calmly shamble back off to the medical tent without a care in the world.”

Tarrean rubbed his temples, sighing deeply. “I… see. How… This might be the start to a set of a few more complicated problems. Did you get an answer as to who the woman was?”

At least this he was hoping to get a solid answer for.

“Yes, sir,” Tibbins replied, but he still had that incredibly flat-lipped expression. More uncertain news. “In his exact words, ‘She’s Nobody’.”

The Head Cleric now matched Tibbins’ thin lip-lined expression. He rumbled with a wholesome and yet demeaning monotone voice, eyes locked firmly on the Acolyte, “Tibbins.”

“I know, sir, I know. I do have good news,” the Acolyte quickly retorted, his hands waving frantically. Given that there was no response from his superior, he quickly filled the void, “When I asked if there’s anything he wanted, all he asked for was some water, a pillow or two, something to write on, and to be told about cultivation so he could indulge in a fantasy while he slept. I imagine he saw the clerics and thought of their Essence as something akin to mystical powers.”

“Possibly, he’s idolizing us. I don’t want to jeopardize a useful view like that, even if it is… deceitful.” Tibbins did a poor job concealing that he disliked being a liar and didn’t want to be one to a gentle old man in the last stages of his life. Tarrean—on the other hand—had a glint in his smile as it spread across his face.

“No, Acolyte, that’s alright. Indulge the man. Tell him everything, and then more and more until you’re out of things to say. A man that old has no chance of doing anything with the knowledge, much less spreading it about all alone in the Fringe. When you’re all out of things to say and the old fool still hungers for more to feed his nightly dreams… send him to me. I will do the hard part, Tibbins. I know you’re a gentle soul, not forged in war and fury like I was. Ex-adventurer, right?”

Tibbins nodded. “Yes, Sir. F-rank eight.”

The Acolyte’s expression turned somber. He never made the cut as an adventurer. He never made it to the D-ranks, solidly stuck in the upper Fs. The fishy rank. The failure rank. Tibbins then glimpsed a different path his future could take. “Would you tell me about your cultivation secrets along with the old man, sir?”

The Head Cleric, unfortunately, was ready to crush such a hope, yet found that incentives could be applied here. “I tell you what, Tibbins. You’re a good soul. You keep that old man interested enough to the point where he comes to ask me things, and I will overlook whatever he might tell you in return. How’s that?”

It wasn’t direct knowledge, and using the old man like a filter wasn’t ideal. It did get the required motivation for the Acolyte to stop slacking so much in his care of the Elder. Though he hadn’t mentioned it, the old man wore an utterly dour expression when he was referred to as ‘Elder’. He decided it was best to keep that to himself. “Yes, sir!”

Tarrean nodded and was about to dismiss him from the tent. “Good lad. Before you go, the old man, does he have a name?”

Tibbins nodded. “Artorian, sir.”

He saluted and left the tent as the Head Cleric pondered on the name in bewilderment. Artorian? What kind of a name was that? What region was that from, nay, what country or kingdom? A dukedom, perchance? Naming conventions and types changed depending on what corner of the world one was from, but this… was out there. He shook it off and decided he didn’t care. With the Acolyte motivated to take care of his charge, it meant one less thing on his plate and more time for… other pursuits.

Tibbins arrived at the medical tent with some pep in his step and heard some warm laughter from inside before he ever moved the flap. Ducking his head in before pushing through fully, he saw one of the wounded soldiers nearly hacking up a lung with a helpless smile on his face, strongly hitting his knee while the old man sat there with hands folded, plainly self-satisfied.

“What happened?” Tibbins’ voice was full of bewilderment.

“Oh, just a harmless joke,” Artorian answered with pleasant mirth, his eyes lazily moving to look at Tibbins. The particular method in which the old man had replied to the Acolyte made another snorting fit assail the laughing, injured priest.

The Acolyte composed himself, or tried to, as he felt the old man’s gaze. No, no that’s not what it felt like. Tibbins didn’t feel like he was being looked at; it felt like he was being looked through, as if there was an object behind him that the old man was inspecting instead. The gaze felt awfully familiar.

Had his charge possessed Essence, he would have thought his meridians might be under inspection, but the old man clearly wasn’t using Essence. It might be a good idea to have a proper look at him after Irene’s warning. “Right. Well, I’ve the go-ahead from the Head Cleric to indulge you and answer your questions concerning cultivation. I must warn you, I’m no expert. Give me a moment to look at your Center, and we’ll begin.”

The laughter behind Artorian sputtered to a halt as the peanut gallery noticed the ten-yard stare their technically-superior-officer was dropping into. “No, Tibbins! Don’t!”

Chapter Seventeen

Cleric Tibbins was confused but dismissed the warning. He was evaluating one old man, not something that was exactly hard to do. “It’s not dangerous unless he is far stronger than I am, and I have the Head Cleric’s permission. What’s he going to do with cultivation knowledge with his age and condition? It’ll make for a pleasant dream at best.”

Still, the wounded priest was shaking his head ‘no’ and crossed arms while waving it off… begging the Acolyte not to look at Artorian’s Center. Cleric Tibbins paid no heed, cycling Essence to his eyes.

“Artorian, please do sit still, so I can… so I can…” Tibbins was lost. He could barely comprehend what he was looking at. Corruption to be sure. So. Much. Corruption.

Unexpectedly, it wasn’t all one kind. It was an awful, hectic, chaotic mixture that churned and moved through the old man’s system with the combinations of a raging river, volcanic diffusion, howling storm, and holy light. This corruption didn’t sit still at all, and that made no sense. Corruption didn’t budge even if you wanted it to. Heavens above, the majority of the cultivation process relied on preventing corruption because it stifled and stymied progress. That the old man had so much of it was certainly no surprise. He was old and weak enough to fall dead on the spot.

“How are you alive?” Tibbins freaked out slightly as he processed the view.

“I warned you!” the quip snapped from behind Artorian, but the wounded commentator went ignored. Tibbins held his sickened head. Watching the display of living corruption tumble about inside the old man like a field that never stopped being plowed.

Artorian crossed his arms in defiance. “Young man, that is quite rude. Explain yourself.”

“I… I just.” Tibbins halted his Essence sight. He was the one that needed to sit on the medical bed.

He stole another glance at the injured priest behind the old man, who was also trying to sit more upright. “Hey don’t look at me, Acolyte. I’m an Initiate of lower rank than you. I can use a spiral, keep it going, and use Essence on my eyes. That’s all.”

“Okay. So.” Tibbins didn’t like this. He held his own hands and looked at them, then back up at the old man. “Do you by chance already know what Essence, Corruption, and a Chi spiral are?”

Artorian shook his head ‘no’. Tibbins held his chin. “Well, the Church has a skewed interpretation. I also have a strong feeling that, if I tell you that version, you wouldn't be too happy with it. Before I was an Acolyte, I was an adventurer for a short while. That really just means I didn’t make it past the probation period. I’m an F-rank. Right! I need to explain that, as well.”

“So, everything is made from Essence. Think of it as the smallest thing that everything else is put together from.” Tibbins motioned all around him. He had to pause, but the Elder gave him the ‘move on’ wrist motion.

“You understood that?” Tibbins quirked an inquisitive eyebrow.

“Young man, I’m aged, not dumb. I’d even occasionally call myself clever. Keep talking, and I will stop you when I get stuck on something. What you’ve told me so far, well, I already guessed. Just not with the terms you’re using.”

Tibbins raised his hands in defeat. “I’ll repeat what my instructor at the Guild told us. Though he only told us once. Everything begins as the purest energy, the stuff the universe creates other things out of. This energy either comes from or flows through—I’m not certain which it is—the heavens and the earth. When it does, the heavens and the earth turn that energy into the universal basic elements.”

The background Initiate filled in, “Rocks and stuff.”

Tibbins gave him a leer and resumed, “Essence is what this universal energy is called before it’s a particular ‘stuff’. Corruption is almost like Essence, but it’s more a side effect of the purest energy being turned into universal basic elements. We think…”

Tibbins staggered for a moment, trying to think of better examples. “The word you’re looking for is byproduct, my son.”

“Yes, that!” Tibbins snapped his fingers at the old man with a smile. The Acolyte continued, “Everything takes in Essence so long as it lives. Doing so makes something such as a plant larger, healthier, stronger, and in general, more powerful in comparison to its counterparts. Unfortunately, corruption is also taken in along with Essence. The more corruption you embody, the more likely you are to die of something when you accrue age. For people with high earth corruption, these are generally events like heart attacks.”

Artorian patiently didn’t respond and queried when the Acolyte paused, “Earth? As in from the ‘Heavens and the Earth’?”

The injured man behind the old man shook his head as Tibbins course-corrected. “No, no, the basic Essence types. There’s six! Even I know that one. Fire, earth, water, air, celestial, and infernal. Almost all people who are clerics have celestial affinity channels. By which I mean that celestial-type Essence is what we naturally draw in more of. Even I was told that affinity channels come in four official types.”

“Closed, Minor, Major, and Perfect. Perfect doesn’t often occur naturally. There’s also clogged and ripped, but they’re never something you want. Ripped, well. R.I.P. indeed,” Tibbins sadly stated.

Before he could continue, the injured man interrupted again, “Closed and clogged are considered the same for the purposes of Essence draw. Nothing of that type gets into your system. Clogging tends to happen during certain illnesses. As odd as it may seem, not having Essence is a very quick way to die, especially if you need a certain type and can’t draw it in. Though that’s only a problem when you start doing more with it and become dependent, I’m told.”

The injured man quieted after realizing that he’d hijacked the explanation. Tibbins was giving him another stern, castigating glare. “Is Mr. Broke-His-Leg quite done? A minor Essence channel means you draw in very little; a Major Essence channel means you draw in a sizable amount. While we’re talking passive draw so far, it becomes a very different story when someone begins active cultivation.”

Tibbins got a set of nods as a reply. “When it happened to me, I would say I’d describe it as being shown that I was drawing energy from a bucket full of water. Then that bucket was in a river. If I removed the bucket and just drew on the river water, much more came to me.”

It wasn’t too hard for them to distinguish passive from active differences if they considered the amount of water involved. “Essence forms together in complex ways. If two or more Essences come together to form something else, we call it a higher Essence or a compound Essence. It makes the more complicated stuff. Water and air make mist. Mist is a higher Essence. Fire and earth make lava, also a higher Essence. It becomes far more complicated than that—such as anytime celestial gets involved—or more than two Essences are at play. That’s not for right now.”

“People who actively use the energy of the heavens and the earth are known as cultivators. We take the raw energy of what’s around us and use it to reinforce ourselves, speeding up the process of natural growth. Instead of letting time do the work for me, I’m putting effort into accelerating the process. It can be… painful.” Tibbins winced at the thought of when he first began. Heavens, preparing for cultivation had hurt.

“Every cultivator has this required Essence-refining technique—which is a fancy way of saying we figured out a trick that lets us feel, control, see, and interact with Essence. The first part of the technique—after figuring out how to do all that—is to make what’s called a Chi spiral. This spiral is responsible for pulling in passive Essence at a much faster rate. More importantly, it helps store and refine while rejecting corruption.”

The background priest shuddered, pulling a blanket around himself for comfort. “Absorbing tainted Essence is terrible for a person since any amount of corruption limits the available space a cultivator has to work with for the Essence he pulls in. Lots of corruption means you can kiss your Essence-refining progress goodbye. Usually, corruption in the body is pasty, thick, and doesn’t look like it wants to move.”

“I don’t know what’s going on with you, but your corruption looks like a living storm. There is a thing that cultivators can do early on called Essence cycling, and we can move the energy around to enhance the ability of an organ. Usually, this means the eyes since doing that lets us see Essence and corruption in others. Fairly easy.” Tib made an unpleasant, circular motion at the old man’s stomach, then paused as Artorian moved to sit on his cot.

“I don’t hear a particularly big difference between ‘a heaven’ and ‘an earth’,” Artorian stated as he sat, having been told too much about his personal unpleasantry.

The cleric in Tibbins wanted to explode, but he kept his collected calm. “The earth is what we stand on. However, it refers to the planet we are on as a whole. The heavens are…”

He made hand motions to the sky as if presenting it to someone for the first time. “All of that, out there. The space for things beyond. Without putting a cleric spin on it.”

Artorian sassily agreed, “You’ve wonderful insight. I would take poorly to the religious rhetoric.”

Tibbins mockingly copied the sass, “Apologies, Artorian, but by the time someone is your age, you can tell who is and who is not religious—with no hope of turning that to the correct avenues.”

Artorian appreciated the understanding. The young adult was correct and so moved on to the next question, “So, Essence makes stuff, and that’s it?”

The Acolyte wavered. “Not… quite? This is a little more complicated.”

Artorian challenged with a roll of the shoulders, popping his neck. “Try me.”

Tibbins decided to fight and die on his hill. He was going to give the best explanation he could possibly make. “So, when Essence becomes a rock, the rock then starts giving off earth Essence. Not much, but it does. In that sense—what Essence makes—it then also makes more of. I don’t mean rocks make more rocks. I mean the basic element of earth makes rocks, and then the rocks provide the basic element of earth.”

“The more something of a particular Essence you have in an area, the more plentifully available Essence will be. So being in a volcano means you are surrounded by a constant assault of fire and earth Essence. Water cultivators tend to submerge to the neck in a body of water in order to draw in their appropriate Essence.” There were gentle motions of understanding. More of one means more of the other. Not difficult.

“A complication happens when higher Essences become involved. If you have both an earth and a celestial affinity, you can draw Essence through both of those. Unfortunately, it’s less important that you can and more that you have to do so.” Tibbins received some frowns but continued.

“Your body has spent its whole life depending on that combined Essence, and taking it in with improper balance leads to massive increases in corruption. So, we can’t just try and draw in energy from anywhere. It has to match us. Fire and water might require steam, but it might also be fire-brandy alcohol or a finer gas. Combinations complicate. Just ‘the right coupling’ isn’t good enough anymore for some people. That only gets worse as more parts become involved. Three is a nightmare. Four…” The fringe Elder grimly exhaled. He was starting to grasp the problem.

“Since you now already know that cultivators need Essence to survive at a certain point, this can become a big problem. If we spend any, we have to replenish it. Good news! Essence takes years and years to deplete on its own. Reaching the higher ranks of cultivation also makes this take longer. The progress aspect my Guild instructor droned on and on about out of spite was that more affinity channels mean faster progress and fewer bottlenecks. However, it also means higher chances of gaining corruption since you have a higher chance of drawing in something that isn’t great for you.”

Artorian quipped as he did before, just to keep the jumpy Cleric on his toes, “So, Essence always becomes the same thing?”

The Acolyte shook his head ‘no’. “Ah, so, I think there are two ways it can go? The first is that Essence will gather and over time and randomly make what its inherent properties would normally generate—something that matches. The second is that an identity is embedded into the basic energy, and that then makes a rock. When the pure energy of the universe dilutes to basic Essences, it gains an ‘identity’, though that also corrupts the Essence. Again, we filter out this corruption using our cultivation technique—the Chi spiral—to refine it back into a state of greater purity. Does that help?”

Artorian pensively brushed his hand along his long beard. He had entirely different ideas for what he was hearing but was quickly approaching the stage where he absolutely needed bed rest. “I have some ideas on things, but I won’t know for certain until I understand more. To begin, why were you all so shocked when you cycled this Essence to your eyes? I’m the only one here that doesn’t know. Second, how do you gain the basic awareness of Essence?”

Tibbins rubbed the back of his arm in severe discomfort. “You have… if I had to guess, four major types of corruption in you, and they are wreaking havoc. This also means that you likely have…”

He needed to steady himself, taking a deep breath. “Four major, naturally occurring affinity channels.”

Water spat past several beds in disbelief by the injured background priest. “Four? No wonder you mentioned you didn’t know how he was still alive! I thought it was just going to beat you with the nausea stick.”

Tibbins waved away the shouts and turned his attention to Artorian. “May I ask how old you are?”

The old man retorted, “Certainly, almost fifty.”

Well that made sense, they supposed. “Artorian, have you been told you look eighty, if not ninety?”

“By rude clerics, yes. Only very recently, though.” The old man laid himself down on the cot. “Saying it won’t make me feel any younger my boy. I quickly grow weary. For doing very little today, I am quite drained.”

Tibbins noted it down, including that he dodged the question. “You’re slated for significant bed rest, given your condition and corruption base. I hope that our knowledge has given you some thoughts for pleasant dreams. Per your second question, it involves looking inwards, feeling shifts that are not physical move within and then grasping them with your mind and will. However, you’re not willing the Essence to your desires; I would call it being convincing instead? There’s no dialogue to be had with Essence, so it’s not the easiest comparison.”

The Acolyte broached a difficult topic, “Most of us also went through a procedure that… I’m sorry, Artorian, won’t be available to you. There’s a way to pull corruption out of a person, but it risks pulling your life out as well. You’re in no condition to have even a sliver taken. It would just all be over, and the Guild would flay me for trying without direct supervision if we began something like that.”

“There are ways to also be given a cultivation technique, so you just know what to do. However, that’s limited to those with significant funds or Guild access. Even if you had the funds, we’re in the Fringe. None to be bought. Not that I’ve ever seen one for sale.”

A tired-looking Artorian nodded with languished effort. “Tell me of your spiral whilst I fall asleep.”

Tibbins sighed but obliged, “My spiral is a thread of Chi, essentially Essence that I shaped. It’s called a spiral because it spins and spins, separating Essence from corruption and letting ever more refined Essence remain in my Center. A Chi spiral in the body feels like it is beneath the heart, almost against the spine—near the center of the body. However, once you’re able to visualize your Center and step into that space, it looks more as if you’re in a big nothingness. Corruption is easy to see and difficult to work with.”

Tibbins was interrupted by the injured background priest, but the man wasn’t wrong, “You mean impossible to work with.”

Artorian still kept his eyes slightly open. “Mhmm. It just… spins?”

The Acolyte ignored the Initiate and kept up the explanation, “It spins in a very specific way and at the best speed I can manage while keeping the technique stable enough for it to do what it should. All the Essence is directed into my Center, where it is refined and then stored in my spiral. The most refined Essence I let seep into my body, which can more efficiently store the energy instead.”

Tibbins stole a glance, noting the old man was still awake. “The older you start cultivating, the less Essence your body is able to store. My spiral refines drawn-in Essence, preventing corruption from being absorbed. I do have some corruption the Guild couldn’t get out with the Beast Core. I threw it up too early, and some got left behind. That little bit of corruption is responsible for keeping me stuck in the F-rank—or failure-rank, as it’s called by many.”

Tibbins stopped, the old man was frowning. “What?”

Artorian lolled his head from left to right. “Prevented, not purged? You can’t push the existing corruption out using your spiral?”

Tibbins almost had a laugh, stopping himself. “No, no spirals can’t do that. That’s why it’s such a constant chore to keep on top of things with refining. Now, there are different kinds of techniques, and I’ve heard Royals have the best ones, methods that are a hundred times more potent—if not a thousand times—compared to the little Chi spiral I have going on. Our superior—the Head Cleric—is in the middle or late D-ranks, so he has managed to turn his spiral into a fractal.”

The old man was at risk of waking back up. Tibbins could tell by the visible reaction he’d gotten from throwing that information out. He soothingly slowed and continued, “A fractal is a more advanced and evolved version of the basic spiral. It can do everything I can do, just an unknown amount of times better in every respect.”

Tibbins started to get nervous, and ah, yes, there it was. More questions. Drat. He’d hoped the soothing segway would have gotten the Elder to slumber.

“How do I do that, my boy?” The thin line of ‘I don’t want to deal with this’ almost squeezed out of Tib’s lips.

“I…” He didn’t bother looking at anyone, momentarily very interested in the floor. “It’s not good for me to tell you this… but there is really no point in hiding it. Making a cultivation technique takes years even with a master helping you, and then you’d make progress only after the corruption has been stripped out of you. Nobody can do anything with that sloshing mess mucking around uncontrolled inside of their Center.”

“I have all the time in the world, my boy. Have some faith, cleric. Nothing but rest, a good lad to take care of me, some good souls for company and stories, and all the time I would want for this cultivation business.” Artorian chuckled gently. The nearly asleep, mumbling man retained his smile. “I’ll think of something. Before I close my eyes… what affinities do I have?”

Tibbins still wore his trademark thin line expression, disbelieving the very words he was about to say. “Fire, water, air, and… celestial.”

Yup. Still couldn’t believe it. The bestial snore that erupted from the resting figure let him know the old man had checked out. Tibbins couldn’t wait to make himself scarce. This was awful. He was giving an old man false hope and knowledge that was useless so his superior could gain something. This wasn’t how the Church should operate. He kicked an apple after crossing a small stream he’d slipped in. Soaked in salty Fringe water, he stared at the fallen fruit as some cogs turned in his head.

An unnatural influence struck him. Thinking a distraction would be good, he stomped to the orchard and pushed up his sleeves. If he was going to have a bad day, he was going to have a bad day with apple pie. He’d wanted to cook for weeks, and the sudden drive spurred him forwards. If there was one thing Tibs could do, it was cook!

Chapter Eighteen

Artorian would say he was having terrible dreams—except he was very much awake, and they weren't dreams. His perception dabbled in a deep void, boundless… yet confined.

The masses of… he was going to call it filth, twisted around in a sickening cascade of colored maelstroms. The hues outright refused to settle or get along with their counterparts. Only the brightest component seemed as if it was particularly distanced from the other three yet, in some way, fully inherent in all of them. It didn’t remain that way for long as all four ‘corruptions’ swirled about inside what must be his ‘Center’.

Artorian had been given beyond-adequate information in order to start constructing what was likely a more accurate tale than the loaded words his young priest had provided him. While finding the Essence may be impossible for the moment, he also had no need to focus on it. He had something far more wild and unruly to observe. Artorian likened it to a moving stomach ache, an itch behind the sternum that couldn’t be satisfied.

Whatever corruption was, it was part of him, and it made him think and feel in vastly different ways depending on which bit of it was on top. Even then, chunks of corruption vanished into holes otherwise invisible, spilling free from other directions that coincided with some of the common pains he felt travel around his organs. Discomfort was awfully easy to track. Having been provided a mental sketch of what to look for, Artorian was informed enough to construct the basic idea. It had taken him an hour of not-feeling—just lying and being—to follow the discomfort and pain.

He’d occasionally felt the empty void behind the sternum but never thought much of it until now. The wandering pain always stopped to gather below the heart and near the spine, but it diminished there so he’d previously considered it a minor boon and reprieve from suffering. He’d never have noticed that specific location if it hadn’t been pointed out or been concerned about its significance.

The mental gymnastics needed to understand how to inwardly self-reflect was not all that complicated. Especially given he had such solid proof that others were already doing it on a far more advanced scale. Since proof of concept had long since passed, what he was doing amounted to playing catch up, or at least, that’s what it would seem like he was doing to everyone else. Self-reflection was to quietly think about what you’ve done, why you did it, and if you liked the outcome so you could do something else next time if you didn’t.

Inward-reflection was like being in the building of self-reflection and going to the basement. It involved sinking into the mind rather than sitting at the table atop which one organized their ‘did stuff’ papers. At first, the vast emptiness seemed endlessly deep. A void of depression and bleak pulling sensations from the beyond haunted you there. It wasn’t uncommon for people to avoid it, but he had no such luxury. Within this mental vacancy, even a minor distraction resulted in a great cacophony, so strict was the sensitivity to the otherwise unnatural.

Artorian had certainly not found Essence, no. Corruption, on the other hand, made its presence known with all the subtlety of a drunk, opinionated significant other. Four of them in his case and all equally unwilling to compromise or back down in their thrashing outrage. Artorian didn’t try to interact with the corruption; he just watched. It took maybe a few minutes to understand why his heart hurt at random or parts of him ached. The majority of the massed corruption was quite literally in that part of his body at the same time he felt the unpleasantry. That gave him some good, correlating information to work with.

*Psst*.

“Hey,” the hushed, whispering voice of the Initiate that had constantly interrupted Tibbins peeped up, trying to remain quiet. “You awake?”

Opening a cautious eye, the academic squinted into the darkness. There was nothing to see but replied in whispered kind, “Hard to sleep after that lecture. I think you may have annoyed that Acolyte, my friend.”

Even without being able to see, the motion in the dark of a comment being waved away was telltale. “I’m Kota, and he should have known better. I’m an aspiring scholar and couldn't help myself. My stint in the ecclesiarch is temporary. I’m not going to be cleared for additional duty anyway. My cultivation is stuck. Spat the corruption-siphon out too soon, so I’ll never leave F-ranks. You mind a question?”

It was never a bad time for scholastic lore for Artorian. “Pull that bowstring and fire away.”

Kota bundled up in the dark. “Did the basis of how the Acolyte explained Essence and corruption seem… odd? Indicative of a stark viewpoint? I’m holding this ‘Guild’ in scrutiny. Tibbin’s explanation had been colored by a perspective that—all things being consistent—was either incomplete, inadequate, or wrong on a fundamental level.”

Artorian nodded in the dark, then verbally confirmed, “Indeed. Corruption by itself seemed to be vastly misunderstood if the explanation given was the general understanding of the ‘corruption stuff’. If everyone got rid of it right at the beginning and did all they could to keep it out and away from them, then efforts in understanding are not going to be too fruitful, are they?”

He had a different theory already in the works. “Based on the initial explanation, Essence is mutable, adaptable… changeable. Corruption, as described, is just a misunderstanding. Instead, would it be that which Essence was not? The immutable, the unchangeable. Both of these concepts have some identity already applied to them in order to give them these defining aspects.”

Kota responded with what he had in mind to try and help, “If it’s anything like ordinary refining, I imagined corruption as sand being shaken through several sieves with holes of decreasing sizes. Everything that falls through qualified as a particular grain that could be known and identified based on which sieve corruption could move through, while the ‘stuff’ originally added in the sieve was an unknown energy of a categorically higher purity. I have a water channel, and all my corruption is liquid. So, when Tib said it was supposed to be solid… that threw me.”

Necessity demanded Artorian return to the academy one of these days; his theorems on Essence needed recording. On one hand, you had ‘the stuff’ that was intended to change, intended to be worked with, intended to be given form either by inaction or the action of an outside will. On the other, you had ‘the stuff’ that refused all of that. The difference appeared to be the one type of stuff knew what it was and didn’t want to change, while the other didn’t and changed happily. The lynchpin there must have been the presence of identity. Luckily, he knew a thing or two about that topic.

“I think it may heavily have to do with what the energy thinks it is. There are some requirements to assigning identity if Tibbin’s example on rocks is to be believed. I’m of the current opinion corruption is merely that which could no longer change. Its properties are set, and all it wants is to settle and simply be, refusing all change from within or without. Anything it applied to would be forced to take their qualities rather than the other way around. I’ve got some proof of this.”

Kota shifted to sit up in his cot. “How are you putting this together so fast? He told you a scant few hours ago. You shouldn’t be able to even find your Center yet.”

Some pride fueled the academic. “My boy, this just happens to be something I’m exquisitely skilled at. I compose philosophy like a seasoned bard strums a lute. The Acolyte earlier told me enough basics for me to figure it out. I spent years of my life trying to pick the universe apart. I failed, only to have new building blocks fall into my lap, the missing pieces of an existential, cosmic puzzle. This topic is one of the things I live for, and I have scoured scrolls for the most esoteric of tidbits in search of my answers. For a boy who spent the majority of his life with his head in the clouds, this is child’s play. Here, I’ll explain what I mean.”

His pillow propped him up, and it was getting difficult to whisper. “There are several corruptions running rampant in me, and they’re easy to find. They cause my pain and grief. When the redder corruption stuff was in my stomach, I feel it burn. The various shades of blue strike my sinuses, and I have a sniffly, sneezy nose. When the flighty variant is abundant near my organs, I feel those agonizing air bubbles. Those are some of the individuals. Mixed masses remain in my wrists. My fingers uncontrollably tremble as result, and abyss, do my bones hurt. When it passes through my head, I have a migraine. Such seems to be the observable nature of corruption.”

Kota took the listed examples and found they matched things he’d heard. “Do you think the knowledge intentionally hidden, or do people simply not know due to inherent bias and rejection? Certainly, this stuff is terrible to have inside of you, and knowing about it honestly makes it worse.”

Artorian stifled a grumble, as that was true. What also did not help was that currently, he had no method of influencing or altering this sloshy, wild, childish, chaotic energy. A thought struck him. Acolyte-boy had said convincing, not ‘willing’. This was getting him nowhere at this point, and he shook himself from his looping thoughts.

*Hmm*.

“Probably, but let’s consider something else. Why would Essence need an identity at all? There’s nothing wrong with simply being. However, even if something is different, you cannot differentiate if you don’t also have terms that show this.”

The aspiring scholar extrapolated, “So, language is a necessary component?”

Artorian pondered that and swiftly reached agreement. “Let’s take the route that it is. If Essence is incapable of being by itself, there likely would be no earth to walk on or air to breathe.”

Kota shot a quick confirmation query, “‘Being’ as in existing independently?”

*Mhm*!

Artorian had long wondered why humans existed or where they come from, a common existential query. Could it simply be that Essence formed us over a long process of randomization, and once we were formed and intelligent, we began to do the rest? He considered the defining feature of a human to be its ability to self-reflect.

“Language requires creatures smart enough to make one, use one, define one. So, what then were things called or known as before the first language-users walked the dirt? Likely, such concepts didn’t even exist, unless there’s something other than a human with human-like ability to think, reason, and reflect. If not more-than-human.”

Kota cut him off there, “That’s speculation. Let’s stick with what we know.”

The old man grumbled a touch, but the young man had the right of it. He returned to their prior topic, “Essence is meant to induce change and means to be malleable. Why would a world give its creatures the toys of the universe to craft with? The cosmos is allowing identities to be shaped and reshaped until you have corruption, which is so fully certain of the exact thing it is that it refuses to be anything else.”

He considered a child, and a light blazed into being in his thoughts. “If the universe itself was still learning and trying to set identities… what better way than to let an entire species of sentient good boys and girls do it for you? If humans are good at anything, it most certainly is bickering and argument. Having other minds do your consistency checking for you is very helpful in setting a stable order. Abyss, it’s the entire point of peer-review when it comes to releasing scholarly articles!”

The Initiate liked that and continued in the same vein, “The immutable is likely that which the universe has decided it is content with. That which needs no further change. So, corruption is immutable or unchangeable because it is something the universe does not want changed further.”

“Possible!” Artorian was sleepy but excited. He half-woke some of the others nearby; that had been too loud. Dropping back to a whisper, “Let’s work with it as that and alter it if we run into a fact wall. Let’s hold to the theory that corruption is likely set this way, due to the base structure of pre-existing creation being reliant upon it!”

Kota pulled the blanket over him, curling back up now that his thoughts had settled and the question was answered. Even if it left him with several more. “Let me think on it and come discuss it later. I need sleep.”

Artorian’s hands quietly wrenched together as he dropped into his Center. This was certainly quite the experience. Not only did he know he was awake, but he also knew the rough location of where he was in his body. All of this was using a part of his mind he’d not properly used before, which made for a new and exciting experience. If everyone could do this, it meant the body came pre-equipped with the ability to do this particular kind of thing; otherwise, it would not be able to do it at all. Still… it was new to him and enjoyable.

Artorian observed for a while longer before the edges of this view began to dim. He’d fallen asleep while in his Center, but it didn’t appear to fully let him. Mentally pulling back, he returned to the perspective his eyes were used to seeing as the blurry tarp of a medical tent returned to his view. That was enough for now. The plan was simple, but it had some flaws.

Live.

Save the children.

To do that, he had to survive long enough to see that through and be powerful enough to get it done in the first place. First problem: at the current rate, he had a season to live.

Second problem: major affinity channels. He had four of the buggers, and it already sounded like just two made it quite complicated for any sort of progression. So, he had to find something that provided all four of his affinity channels with sustenance—at the same time—while rejecting already accrued immutable Essence. Not merely deterring new immutable aspects from entering but expelling what was already present.

Given what he’d seen of it so far, that wasn’t happening anytime soon, was it? He listlessly laid on his cot, pondering as the injured priests snored around him. His mind wandered over to them. From his understanding of the explanation, they all cleared their Centers and were now using Essence via a technique. He suspected this was a term that saw wide use over a variety of topics that didn’t have better descriptions.

Artorian did not have any such thing to work with as of yet. Just the swarming, soapy mass that fought itself like a clump of spiteful cats. Even now, he was aware of it roiling around near his liver, a newfound downside of additional awareness. As soon as he’d discovered his Center and the absolute mess within it, he’d found he could no longer ignore it. Nor could he make the flow of information cease. Center-awareness was a new sense loudly announcing the minute movements of where severe discomfort was going to strike next.

The young priests didn't appear to be having that issue, so it must be isolated to corruption. In his eyes, they too were all just children. In truth, he was just glad to have someone to talk with. Still, the youngsters had said some odd things. He’d get clarification on the terms later, but there was a mention he just couldn’t get out of his mind as it meandered.

Artorian mumbled the words out loud, “How are you alive?”

Chapter Nineteen

“Well I’d say I’m not clever, but I am hardy,” a feminine voice replied from the corner, one of the young clerics who had been injured in the fray.

Apologetic breath inhaled so his words could tumble out in a hush. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry, my dear. I didn’t mean to wake you. Just mumbling to myself.”

There was a moment of silence, but he could hear the woman sit up and hiss, sucking air through her teeth as she pushed through the pain of her injury. He didn’t need to see the cringe to feel it. “I can’t rest with these lumberjacks sawing through forests in their sleep.”

One of the boys snored deeply right in the middle of her mention. She didn’t seem the talkative type, but people don’t sit up and chime in if they didn’t want some company.

“I’m Artorian. Who might you be, my dear?” His sleepy question rasped in the back of his throat.

Her voice sank. “Don’t laugh.”

The aged words promised with sudden clarity, “I will not.”

A small peep winced in her throat, but it continued even as she slightly shrunk away. “Yvessa.”

Artorian rhetorically mumbled, “Why would someone laugh at such a lovely name?”

Yvessa peeped out the reply like it was practice, complete with a fully dejected sigh, “The boys keep telling me it means ‘ugly idiot’ in Elven.”

Artorian thought that wouldn’t do at all and came up with something on the spot. “Are you certain they speak Elven, my dear? That’s not what it means at all.”

With a shift, he rolled away from her, the side of his cheek pressing to a not-as-soft-as-he’d-like pillow. To Artorian’s lack of surprise, Yvessa’s voice brimmed with interest, “D-do you know what it means?”

Her pitch gained the same interested rise that his well-beloved younglings had when learning about something they were interested in. “Oh, I’m just an old fool, my dear. I would have said that it means ‘to bloom out of great drought’. If I spoke Elvish, perhaps I would also tell you that it’s reserved for people able to overcome great difficulty and trial, who not only come out successful—but better than they were. To bloom, as it were. Regardless of the sapped circumstances one found themselves in.”

He shrugged in his cot, lifting his hand to the air to let it drop on the axis of his wrist. “But what do I know?”

Yvessa flushed. She pushed back down under her covers, gritting her teeth to kill the sound of discomfort her injuries caused her. Her voice peeped from under the blanket. “That… that’s a nice thought… Thanks.”

“Do you consider yourself to be in a great drought?” he chimed out, ignoring a bear-like snore from the upper side of the medical tent.

Yvessa’s dull reply sounded somber, “Can that describe my life? It sort of does. I’m always at the end of my rope somewhere. How else would I get wrangled into this mess and end up in a place where there isn’t even a map? Nobody believes in me.”

“I do.” Artorian didn’t indulge her self-loathing. “Also, my dear, I look forward to seeing you bloom.”

She felt like she was missing something here, and scrutiny pulled her through. “You’re not… a cleric. Why are you in the camp? Civilians aren’t allowed to stay overnight in expedition camps.”

Artorian shrugged. “Well, since I believe in you, I suppose I’m nobody.”

Her ire gathered. She could almost feel the warmth of it fill her cheeks. The old man put effort into sitting up and turned to face her. “My dear, I believe in you because even though you’re injured, you’re alone, and it seems like you have no one to rely on… you’re still here in the medical tent, and you’re trying to live. So, something inside of you has decided that it doesn’t want to give up. That you don’t want to quit. That you don’t want to die. Even if you have little to live for, you’re giving yourself the chance to find something worthwhile enough to really hang your coat on.”

Artorian straightened as he spoke. “It’s clear you’re not with the Church because you’re a particularly devout believer, or you would have started reciting scripture already. You’re not here for them. You’re here for you. That you think the situation is to blame is unfortunate, but honestly, it is the wrong question to consider. The situation is irrelevant. What you do and how you choose to do it… is all that matters. Since you have chosen to pick yourself back up from the dirt and keep trying to live…”

The old man pointed at her, determined and certain. “I believe in you, and I believe you can do it. Because there is simply nothing—and I mean nothing—wrong with the idea that it’s alright for you to believe in yourself just for wanting to put one foot in front of the other for one more day. So, if you’re struggling, and you don’t believe what your body is telling you is true. Then, my dear, I will tell you I believe in you. Because I do, and you can do it. If ever you falter in that belief, by the heavens, you come bother me. I will remind you.”

His arms crossed in defiance. “Cultivation problem? Keep trying. Keep living. You can do it! Severe injury? Recover. Get up. Keep living. You can do it!”

This was the moment where it felt right to address a source of her instability. “Your name is delightful, and it is filled with wondrous meaning. Someone gives you a hard time about it? You punch them in the face, and you tell them how you feel about that. Every single time those big, dumb boys try to pry their claws into you, you just remember this one thing, young lady. What you do and how you choose to do it is all that matters.”

With dramatic flair he flung his blanket around himself like a cape, which made Yvessa snort with an unknowing, little, dumbfounded smile. “I…”

She didn’t have the words. Pride burst from her chest due to the encouragement. Only then did she notice her fingers had clamped into her pillow. She’d been glued to the words of support for her with the same necessity as the gift of cool water in a hot desert. “Are you sure it’s okay I come bother you?”

“Anytime,” mused a very confident and welcoming response. “Even in the middle of the night, where the stars are the only companions willing to let us be at peace.”

Another bear-esque snore tore through the tent as one of the priests rolled over. That elicited a small giggle from both of them. They hadn’t bothered to whisper their conversation, but it hadn’t woken anyone further. “Thank you, Elder.”

Artorian winced and felt a slimy crawl nestle up his spine. “Ut-tut-tut. Please don’t call me that.”

A chuckle left Yvessa, figuring he didn’t like to be reminded that he was old. Then her mind sparked, and she frowned. “Why did you mumble what you did? Before, I mean. The…”

She didn’t really want to say it. The old man remained firm, nodding with his eyes closed. From what she could tell, he’d accepted it, but that didn’t make it any more pleasant. “Are you a cultivator, my dear?”

“F-rank four. Like most of the other new people, we’ve only been cultivating for a few months.” She listed things off on her fingers. “In order. Beast Core, cheap Memory Stone for the basic spiral, learn how to pray and sing to draw in Essence, basic combat, and off into a squad for live training. I just didn’t think it would be out here. I overheard half the superiors say the mission is ‘special’, others that it’s a complete chore, and the last few that this whole thing is a complete waste of time and gold. I’m pretty torn about being here.”

Artorian had a decent grasp of her situation and explanation. A Beast Core seemed to be a name for a tool that extracted corruption. Given the name, it likely had some unpleasant side effects… ones he could not survive. A Memory Stone he was very familiar with. You just press the stone to your forehead, and the knowledge contained within would become yours, as if you’d gone through the events yourself. Expensive things. He’d seen them in the old days but had never touched one.

A spiral was the Essence technique for refining, although he was still stuck on why it needed to be a spiral and found this an excellent moment to ask. “Actually, do you happen to know why it needs to be a spiral?”

Yvessa was dumbstruck. “It… refines the… Essence stuff. I thought it was just because it worked. I heard once that even if you know how to move and shape Essence, it just does nothing if it doesn’t match some kind of stable pattern, or worse, it does something unexpected.”

“Oh, you mean… Well, it actually looks like a spiral.” Sparks of clarity had struck late. She drew something in the air, but Artorian squinted so hard that Yvessa figured he could not see it. Having found something to do, she stumbled her way out of the cot and hobbled over on one foot. Then drew it into the blanket fabric. “Like this.”

She mimicked the spiral that she had inside of her. It was a small, frail little thing, but it was great to have. “It spins in a direction, and the faster it spins, the better it is. However, keeping that up is tiring, and I’m terrible at close control like that. I’m good with my hands. Building houses and chopping wood all day? No problem. You need a precision cabinet? Can do. But so much of cultivating is being able to think of the right thing, imagine the particular movement, and then apply it with your head. It gives me incredible headaches. If I don’t have a specific set of steps outlined in front of me… I’m just stuck.”

Yvessa *tsked* her tongue. “There are clever people in the world. I’m not one of them. It took the Head Cleric a full month of support just for me to understand how to properly hold the spiral and keep it going as I slept. He repeated the word ‘aptitude’ so many times. I don’t know what it means, but I know he thinks I don’t have it. It’s… hard to believe in myself when everyone gives me such a rough time. All the time.”

Artorian scooted over so the young woman could sit. He was a little surprised that she did, but then again, Tychus had been like this too. His heart pained at the thought of the boy, and his jaw grit together as he momentarily held his chest and bent forwards. “Oh, the pains of being old.”

Yvessa frowned and watched but wouldn’t know how to help if she wasn’t told. A few moments later, Artorian was breathing deep and waved it off. “What’s holding your cultivation back, my dear?”

Yvessa looked conflicted—as this was a Church secret—but decided that it was better to get this off her chest. “Time, I think? See, the Church has a bunch of limitations for cultivators, and we ourselves have some limitations too. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but the majority of us are celestial-based. It’s dangerous to cultivate when the Essence isn’t abundant because you’ll draw in more corruption than anything else. All your time will go to spinning your spiral faster to prevent it from getting in while still getting some Essence out of it. We can only cultivate during main prayer, which happens shortly before high noon.”

“We all begin our chants while under the early-noon sunlight, and when we feel it brighten as our prayers receive attention, we can then actively pull Essence since there’s enough of it for us to do so. A little past the point where the sun stops being at the highest point it can be in the sky, the added brightness and cultivation time ends.” Her words bitterly drooped. “Even if we keep chanting. So, we have a very set slot of time where we can try to make any progress. Any tasks we might have must be completed beforehand, so we tend to be punished with tasks that take a lot of time. That badly bottlenecks us. Even if you’re like Jin, who is the Head Cleric’s favorite young priest. He always gets prime time for cultivating. Each daily chant only gathers so much Essence, which can only take us so far.”

“We’re limited by amount, and honestly, we need so, so much more. We’ve been told that when we reach higher ranks in the Church, we will be ‘blessed’ with knowledge on new chants that let us cultivate for longer and under more favorable conditions. If you exceed and get written permission, you can even get signed on to take a trip to a dungeon for one day.”

“One single day in a dungeon can mean weeks of progress for a cultivator. The Essence density in them is just… wow. You really feel the difference between being out here and in there. It’s such a rush.” Yvessa was breathing much heavier than Artorian was comfortable with, his hand cautiously pressing to her shoulder.

“My dear? Come back.”

“Huh?” She snapped out of it. “Oh. Sorry. I was only in a dungeon for two hours, but I get cravings now. They pulled our corruption out, gave us the technique, and in that dungeon, I jumped from F-rank-zero all the way to F-rank four. In two hours. Now I’m out here, and after months, I’m still at F-rank four. I’m close to five, but I don’t know the breakthrough details. All I know is ‘have enough Essence in your Center’ and you’ll reach a new rank, but to me, that’s a lie. There’s always something new I need to do in order to actually progress. If it’s not some new chant, then it’s to ‘make my Chi threads finer’.”

She mimed in mockery, then sighed with resignation. “I do what I’m told. Dishonorable discharge from the Church is ugly. They’re just rumors, but I heard that they strip you of the chants you know when you leave, if you were really bad. Especially in the Choir, which is our particular branch of the Church. Chants not only affect our growth but our overall fighting ability. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen a Choir war host in action, but every cultivator matches the chant of every other. Each voice added to the whole increases the power and ability of each person whose voice is involved, through some kind of celestial or aural sympathy.”

“Not having chants means you can’t draw celestial Essence anymore, and if that’s your only Affinity channel, you die slowly and painfully. Everything needs the correct Essence to live and keep living, and if it didn’t have it, then it just doesn’t.”

Artorian was looking at Yvessa with wide, twinkling eyes. She leaned away from him with concern, her voice hesitant. “…What?”

The old man settled back where he was, a broad smile on his face. “My dear, I believe you may have just saved my life.”

Chapter Twenty

Tibbins waited in front of the Head Cleric’s tent, ready with the report of the first week. What a week it had been. In fact, Tibbins was convinced that this was entirely the reason why he was being made to wait so long. The heavy cloth flap of the tent swung away, and Keeper Irene hurriedly passed him. The Acolyte snapped to a salute. He still firmly believed that the entire ‘saluting’ affair was awkward for one following the path of the priest, but as this expedition was classed under ‘military’, he had to abide by the rank and file rules.

“Enter.” Tarrean faced away from the opening, nimble fingers closing the last few buttons on the top of his uniform. It used to be odd to see him out of the ornate armor that was ever so boasted about, but it had received a prime spot against the tent wall, fully fitted on an armor rack meant for human-like display. The mood in the tent fell before Tarrean ever turned to face the Acolyte. “Tell me you have some… sane news, for a change?”

Tarrean cringed as he could feel the flat lipped reply plastered on the Acolyte’s face without glancing. There had been a week of this, but based on the old man’s condition, it likely would only last for a few weeks more. “No, sir.”

Finally, the Head Cleric turned and sat down on his comfy, new stool. He picked up the deteriorated mug with the word Elder on it, observing it as one would a polished skull. “Do you know what I saw yesterday, Tibbins?”

The Acolyte closed his eyes and drew a needed breath. “I have a suspicion of it, sir.”

“Take a seat, Acolyte.” Tarrean put the cup down and folded his hands.

“Yesterday, the camp was roused not to the morning routine but to the clamor of an old man running about with only his pants on, pulling fluff and feathers out from a pillow, throwing it into the air, and baying ‘it worked, it worked!’ Then he bent over backwards to madly cackle.”

“When one of the guards returned from hunting the raiders, he approached Artorian to assist. The guard was taken by the lapels as the old man beamed the biggest smile he’d ever seen and ecstatically exclaimed, ‘It fits inside. See? It fits inside! The fluff can compress. It can compress!’ while wildly waving the pillow around and stuffing the feathers back into the torn cloth… with what I can only describe as manic glee.”

He paused to let Tibbins sweat. “Well, yes, sir, but I’m sure it’s under control now.”

“Is it, Tibbins? Is it?” Tarrean spoke, voice volume rising. “Then certainly, you can explain what happened during prayer today?”

The Head Cleric’s leer bored into the Acolyte, who thought it was getting rather warm. “Well, it wasn’t so bad, sir. None were harmed. He merely walked up in the middle of our chant, and–”

*Bampf*. Tarrean filled in with a fist slam to the table. “Threw. Off. His. Robe.”

“He disrobed in the middle of our congregation. Prayer was halted because everyone was choking on their words. Not even mentioning that arms-up pose he did like he was about to hug the abyss-blessed sun!”

Tibbins quickly tried to salvage this. “He did seem… happy about the praising, sir.”

The Head Cleric just about threw his papers. “I’m sure he was, Acolyte! The smile was huge, and everyone for leagues saw those awful scars. I had to assure the congregation that I would personally tend to those egregious wounds. I was going to slam down brimstone scripture on that old fool’s head, but for reasons beyond my abyss-confounded control, my troops ‘like’ the man.”

Tarrean was fuming and squeezed the bridge of his nose. “They are sneaking him food. I know they are. I understand that. What I don’t understand is how he ended up with three dozen of our pillows! I went to the medical tent this morning, and an entire corner next to the only window flap—which might I mention is open against protocol—is covered port to stern in pillows.”

“Several containers of water stand nearby, and chairs from the longhouse have mysteriously made their way over to the medical tent. Which is now no longer the medical tent, as the majority of occupants have recovered and the herbal medicines moved. It is now the tent my troops go to on their time off!” Tarrean was strangling his arm bracer out of confounded vexation. “I see them entering with sour, downtrodden looks. I hear the laughter, and then they leave filled with merriment. I am dying to kick that old man out of the tent and out of my camp, but I can’t do so without losing face with my entire expedition squad. What do they do in there?”

Tibbins did his best to keep his tone neutral as the corners of his mouth lifted. He could not afford to laugh. Not here. Not now. “They… tell him what’s bothering them, sir.”

The Head Cleric looked like he was about to have an aneurism. “They can come to me! I am their superior!” Tarrean flopped down on to his seat, needing to rub his forehead.

“You are, sir. However, you are also busy all the time, and it’s well-known you dislike being disturbed. There’s also a punishment for entering your tent unannounced.”

“About the chairs and pillows…?” Tibbins got the ‘move on’ motion, and so he did. “You did say to get the man what he asked for, sir.”

Tarrean squeezed the bridge of his nose again, recalling that rather late and only because his subordinate had mentioned it. “Just… give me your report, Acolyte.”

Tibbins unfurled some vellum. “As of the return of the hunting party, Jiivra has provided her report.”

It didn’t take more than a glance at the painfully thin stack of vellums to know what the news was going to be. “While she found the tracks and the caravan belonging to it, it had been emptied and abandoned by a fishing outpost at the closest point one could reach a river. The raiders did away with the fishing crews and likely took all the boats. No raiders were captured. No goods or gold were recovered. Tracks were found, and they do include small-sized feet. We have confirmation the children from the village are alive. Since it seems unlikely they would be kept for ransom, we expect they are being kept for more… nefarious purposes. The boats went upriver.”

The Head Cleric stopped him. “Upriver?”

Tibbins nodded. “Yes, sir. We expect someone with some intelligence is part of the captured group. Jiivra found ripped apart flowers littering the bank of the river in a rather odd pattern. She described it as flowers being ripped apart and thrown on the bank, in ever-decreasing quantities. We think someone gathered flowers on the way and left them for any possible pursuers to find. Which, by itself, is odd. I don’t know why some of the captives were expecting that we would come. We never had a chance to interact with them, but it’s in the report.”

Tarrean rubbed the side of his head. “I believe it’s good for the captives to have faith. In who or what isn’t important until their rescue by the Church. Their devout thanks will fall on sanctified ear every noon.”

Tibbins said nothing; his superior was assured of the facts the Acolyte had stated, and he chose to continue his report, “We suffered no casualties, just more tired troops. They’re all resting and performing expected duties per your wishes on the growth of the forward base. Anything useful found in nearby wreckage goes to the effort. Otherwise, a logging camp is planned to be established near the closest forest.”

“We cannot find the logging site the village had, and the Elder does not know. The other old person that we found a week ago is still catatonic and neither moves nor speaks. She simply eats when directed, and we have some junior priests practicing hospice care on her. While usually the expedition group would ask for follow-up orders, the entire camp is suffering symptoms of severe exhaustion and mental fatigue.”

Tarrean sighed in defeat. “Leave it is then, though I don’t know to what or where. There’s nothing to do here, nowhere to shop, no money to gain or spend, and gambling is forbidden. I will set expected tasks to the minimal work required, and everyone may have the rest of the time as leave. I know the Fringe can be taxing, away from everything they know. One week, Acolyte.”

The superior exhaled the order and re-folded his hands. Seeing Tibbins was at the bottom of his list, he decided it was time to press the personal matter. “I take it our guest is uncooperative per my… request?”

Tibbins put the vellum down. “Artorian spends the majority of his time bedridden, sir. He has perhaps an hour or two per day where he can get up and move, and anytime I’ve seen him lately that isn’t during visiting hours, he is sickened or exhausted.”

The Acolyte stiffened as he relayed the next bit of news. “Any time that he does get up… well… he does strange things: putting mud and water in a cup and spending an entire hour stirring it only to pour it out and do it again; hitting the flat of his palm on still water just to watch the ripples; lying in the grass with only his pants on in various parts of the village at various times of the day and night; randomly stopping and standing there. You know he’s gone mentally as he looks off in the distance. Or he visits a home and breaks down in tears as he weeps for a lost villager.”

Tibbins closed his eyes and shook his head. “I assume he must have had a great amount of family here. We’ve caught him talking to himself on multiple occasions, and there’s an actual report of him crumpled at the village lumber storage site, sobbing that he was sorry. We don’t know for what or why. Nobody has the heart to ask him. He’s a man being eaten by his regrets.”

The Acolyte began to furl his vellum back up. “A priestess tried getting him to open up once, but he got up, had a fierce expression on his face, and just told her that, ‘He was going to do it, for them,’ with such strength of character that she lost her voice for a moment.”

Tibbins quietly kept to himself that the priestess had then sat down with him and had been the person to break down in tears while getting grief off her chest. That it was the Initiate being consoled and supported and had, as thanks, started the pillow smuggling operation. He doubted his superior wanted any words of that. “I do have one spot of good news per your specific request, sir.”

Tarrean raised an eyebrow. “Go on?”

Tibbins straightened himself, picking his words carefully, “He wants an item that is… a little too expensive to just write off. However, he mentioned he’d be willing to barter for it.”

Tarrean’s eyes began to hungrily glint, his posture warming up as he finally got something to work with. “Go on.”

“He said it might be too much, and it might be too late, however, if possible, he wants to buy or barter for a Memory Stone containing a simple cultivation technique.” Tibbins buried his face into his hands from frustration. “I’ve tried to talk him out of it. He’s nothing but corruption. It roils inside of him like nausea manifested. Looking at it makes me physically ill. I’ve already told him a Beast Core would just kill him, but he doesn’t relent. A cultivation technique is only going to give him hope, and then… then he’s going to expire when he tries to use it. All that corruption will be forced…”

Tibbins silenced himself at the sickening thoughts. Tarrean remained all business and mentally compared costs to benefits. “Those are expensive indeed, Acolyte. Bring him in. I’ll see if I can’t barter something of value with the man. I see no reason to deny him life’s last little pleasures or any hope he wants to gratuitously pay for. If Artorian believes that some knowledge of a cultivation spiral will make him feel better before the poor old man slumbers to his end, then, why, Tibbins… we ought to take care of him.”

Tibbins felt frozen solid to his chair. He so hated this side of his slick superior. Always looking out for number one. The Acolyte gabbed just to feel better, “He seems plenty happy spending his days with many of the recruits. Initiate Yvessa and several others who were injured in the tent at the time he was there may as well be called his personal attendants. Oddly enough, those same Initiates have gotten their hands on food we didn’t know was available in the village. Certain secrets are being shared with them, and they’re silently reaping the benefits.”

He mentioned it purely to dig something unpleasant into his superior’s kidney. “I’ll fetch him for you, sir. You’re far more skilled at negotiation than me.”

With a respectful salute, he left the Head Cleric to simmer. Tarrean spat, “Dismissed.”

Tibbins exclaimed with surprise as he left the tent flap, “Oh, Artorian!”

A broad smile warmly greeted the weary Acolyte. “Tibbins, my boy! I’ve been looking for you.”

Artorian’s smile grew even further. “I have news.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Tarrean heard a hug-in-progress and cringed. Likely because he was still envisioning the old man half-naked; that view was going to scar him.

“Artorian, great, you found me. I was looking for you as well. The Head Cleric has need of you. Could we speak after? I have tasks that I am in a hurry to complete,” Tibbins excused himself with as much smoothness as he could.

“Of course, young man. Take good care of yourself. You look a little pale. Get some sun; it’s wonderful for you. I guarantee it!” With a pat on the back, Artorian stepped back into the tent, fully clad in the wealthy lapis lazuli robe. For an old man on the verge of death, a man that should be falling over in a few weeks, he was awfully chipper and well-kept. His snowy hair had been trimmed, and his long beard cleaned up quite well, though it remained at a healthy length.

Tarrean carefully dissected the entirely different-looking Artorian. The bald, old man was clean. Well washed. Nails trim and even. This man wasn’t at all the crying wreck he’d seen a week ago. That made no sense… Artorian’s condition should have been deteriorating; instead, it seemed to have stabilized. Tarrean noticed that his gawking had not gone unnoticed and coughed into his hand to regain composure. He seated himself in a more refined position on his fancy stool.

“I usually declare when people can enter my tent, Artorian. Since you’re already here, please, do sit.” He spoke with forced kindness and an equally forced smile. The Head Cleric may have had his pride stepped on a little, but the land-ownership vellum was burning a hole in his pocket. The matter needed attending. “Before we get to business, how are you feeling?”

Artorian shook his head left to right, eyes gently closed. “Contrary to what my appearance may be, being up and about takes more out of me than I’d care to admit. The amount of time I can be out of bed is in decline, but that’s alright. I’m going to go ahead and address your silent query. Yes, I do look well. It’s for the sketches Yvessa and some of the boys are making of me. They’re caring kids, granting an old man a kindness. I expect I’ll be stuck in bed for quite a long time, and having a visual reminder of when I appeared healthy will be good for everyone.”

The old man mused to himself, “I won’t hold you to my ramblings, Head Cleric. Shall we bicker and barter? I’m convinced you’ve already heard what I’d like.”

Tarrean nodded and pulled some pieces of paper and vellum on to his desk. Artorian beamed a fox’s smile at him. “So… how large of a pillow can you get?”

The Head Cleric dropped the inkwell at being so startled. “A what?”

Artorian carefully tilted his head to the side. He repeated his words, pretending that the short man had simply not heard him, “A pillow. What did you think I was referring to?”

Tarrean scrambled to prevent anything else from falling, adding item after item on the desk in neat little rows. “The, eh, the Memory Stone. I thought.”

Artorian nodded in understanding at the mention. “Oh, that minor thing? I thought that would be a trifle for you. Initially, I thought it may have been difficult, but when I heard it was Maccreus Tarrean leading this expedition team, I chuckled at my own ignorance.”

Tarrean twitched. Where had this old man picked up his full name? Still, if it gave him some leverage over the nosy old-timer, he’d take it. Some part of him also felt soothed, his pride fluffing up like an attention-seeking kitten. “Ah, well. Of course!”

He felt off-balance, yet the matter appeared to be leaning in his favor. Tarrean decided to simply go with the tide and see where this landed. He regained his composure with this line of thinking and leaned in. “I doubt a large pillow would be particularly difficult to b–”

He stopped himself, realizing that he was about to fall into a pit trap. “How large?”

The Head Cleric’s eyes squinted at the wizened, sly, old man. “Oh, I was hoping for a… *hmm*… twelve-by-twelve?”

That was an average-sized pillow, and Tarrean didn’t see what the problem was. He’d been expecting something extravagant, but the old man must have been joking about. Yes, clearly, that’s what this was. This sly fox was trying to distract him from the huge cost of a Memory Stone. The cleric waved off the issue. “Just give the details to Tibbins. I’m sure a meager pillow is fine.”

Artorian brightly smirked. “I shall certainly do so.”

Tarrean sifted some pages, then lifted his porcelain cup, sipping at some water. “Now, about the stone. You mentioned you had something to barter with?”

The old man folded his hands over one another and nodded slightly. “Land.”

The Head Cleric felt like he got kicked in the sensitives as he choked on his water. Coughing into his sleeve, he had to look away to hide his expression. His greed. Artorian half-stood. “Head Cleric, are you quite alright? You appear ill! You’ve been coughing and dropping things since I entered the tent. Please do go and get looked at.”

The short man bit back fury; he was being played like a stringed instrument. “Yes. Yes, land will do for a stone.”

Artorian nodded and clapped his hands together. “Oh, good! I was thinking about it and came to the conclusion that you wouldn’t accept salt. I’ll speak with Tibbins about having something suitable drawn up.”

Tarrean waved him off dismissively. “No, that’s not necessary. We can take care of all of that right now. I simply need some signatures.”

Artorian appeared flummoxed and ponderously stated, “Some… what?”

“Signa… oh. Your name written out.” The old man’s ponderous expression bent into a frown as Tarrean finished speaking.

“A signature? For official documents? In the Fringe?” The old man was now giving the cleric a look as if he was insane. “Why would we ever use something so unreliable?”

Tarrean was suddenly having a crap day. That abyssal vellum was a fake? No. No, it couldn’t be. That would wreck this entire plan. He leaned behind him and fished it from a bag. “I would assume so. Isn’t this a signature from this village?”

He hastily laid out the land deed vellum for the village of Salt. Leaning rather close to it, Artorian read the document, lifting it and moving the vellum upwards as he read line after line until he came to the angrily clawed signature.

Switch.

It had been Switch. Artorian closed his eyes, hands cramping. Tremors from anger-created stress forced him to take deep breaths to steady himself. “I’m sorry, Head Cleric. This is not legitimate.”

With the tremble only worsening, he rolled the vellum back up and put it on the table. “To think that… someone would want to sell all of this… all the people. For some… for some…”

He couldn’t bear to finish the sentence, a new hatred for greed finding a place to fester and grow in his heart. To be fair, the mess of corruption still moving through his system may have had a hand in that. Tarrean visibly deflated. The entire, heavily planned investment had been foiled by a piece of abyss-cursed vellum. He said nothing about the old man’s shaking; his own hands were very much unsteady as he sipped from his water.

“How long was your expedition going to be, Master Cleric?” Artorian slipped in with a weak half-whisper.

Tarrean mumbled procedure back, too tired and unwilling to think about the next steps to really put thought into it, “Expeditions may last up to three years and three months before a forced return or writ of exoneration is required. Unfortunately, I only retain the full force for the duration of a season before they must return. That is in the event that the immediate threat has been handled. A five-cleric cadre is all that can maintain a stationed position for the full duration.”

The short man continued to deflate as he saw his dreams caving in. Artorian was the one who sat up with straight-backed composure. “Oh? How curious. A Fringe land transfer takes three full rotations of all seasons, which is about three years. It’s a shame that I’ll likely pass before then. Had you been here that full length of time, I would have been able to confer on to you the required name that would grant official land benefits in the Fringe. Of course, I’d sign any documents at that point if another country or some such was involved and needed their own version of proof.”

The heavenly light of hope filled the Head Cleric’s eyes as the old man threw him a lifeline. Then his dreams went a little sideways as he realized the other end of this bargain. “Do you believe you could live for three years?”

Artorian noisily hummed out a sonorous thought. *Hmm*. Ponderously running hand down his beard, Artorian listed the requirements, “With attentive care, solid bed rest, nutritious food, and pleasant stories about this cultivation stuff to keep my nightmares at bay… I believe three years is quite doable. Besides, I heard the Master Cleric was quite knowledgeable, and I would adore hearing some of your stories and experiences. My love for knowing things has always kept me alive. May I ask what you plan to do with the land?”

Artorian leaned forwards, pressing the matter. Tarrean, feeling crammed into quite the corner, decided to explain fully, “It’s… I would love to say it’s for a forward operating base for the Church. Unfortunately… that’s not true. It’s for my… son. He’s a good lad but thin and slow to cultivate. He lacks any shred of ambition, and the smallest, dumbest thing makes him happy. As his quite driven father, I must see that I can keep my boy in a safe corner of the world—at whatever cost I must pay to have that done… even my own pride.”

Artorian let free a long, relieved exhale. “Jin is a very good boy.”

“He is, if only…” The Head Cleric nodded in agreement. A dangerous, razor-sharp look stabbed straight into the old man. “How did you know Jin was my son?”

“Before or after you confirmed it for me?” Artorian chuckled. The fox’s smile came and swiftly went, along with his answer, “You’re a shrewd, zealous, and guarded man, Master Cleric. You’re harsh, distant, and keep a militaristic relationship with all but two people. For a person so devout in not showing favoritism, your boy receives an awful amount of care to always be at the forefront of cultivation during each chant and prayer. If someone would have blocked him from being able to have full attendance, they suddenly and inexplicably receive additional tasks.”

Artorian brushed himself off and rose. He slowly turned to leave. “I’m at about the end of what I can handle for a day. So, let me say it simply, Master Cleric.”

For an old man, he took an indomitable stance, rising straight with all the poise one expected of a military commander addressing a well-organized Legion. “I offer you this deal. Keep me alive for three years and indulge an old man his fancies. Then you’ll have your wish. Do we have an accord?”

Tarrean felt his heart stop for just a moment as the old man rose up. For that half a twinge of a second, he was reminded of being in the same room as a Vicar, a monster of influence. His voice was confident, but it betrayed him at that moment. “We have an accord.”

Artorian turned to leave, but before he opened the flap, the Head Cleric quick-fired a voiced worry, “Who was the second person?”

Stopping short, Artorian’s expression and attitude turned caustic. He didn’t turn to address the Head Cleric and merely spoke with controlled rage, “It would be ideal, Master Cleric… if the treatment of Keeper Irene was in proper standing of what she deserved. She works hard, and she…”

The tent flap fluttered, and Artorian left without finishing his thought… leaving Tarrean to pick up the shattered pieces of his pride.

Chapter Twenty-Two

“Good morning, old man! How are you feeling today?” Yvessa carried the steaming bowl into the ‘medical tent’, the flap pushed aside by her elbow. The full-raiment-wearing priestess nicked the bowl against the side of the improvised nightstand before setting it down to rest. A whining set of groans were the reply from a man-shaped lump swaddled in thick blankets on the cot.

Pillows surrounded Artorian on all sides like some elaborate funeral casket. A small gathering of fresh flowers sat in the window, the falling-apart wooden cup of his used as a stand-in for a vase. If nothing else, it held water well enough. Yvessa was glad that she didn’t need to use such an ugly thing and took care to always leave it alone. Wriggling movements came from the swaddle as she pulled up a chair and sat it next to his bedside.

“I am going to insist you eat the full bowl today,” she demanded. “Now that there’s no prying eyes and ears, you also better tell me why we needed to swaddle you up, you old codger. Don’t pretend to be asleep. I know you’ve been awake the whole time I’ve been here.”

A single eye opened on the old man that was doing his darndest to appear asleep. The weary eye looked around and closed again. Maybe, just maybe, she’d pretend he wasn’t awake yet. If he was quiet enough.

“Up with you!” Yvessa threw his covers off and snapped at the lazy, old man who never wanted to go along with anyone else’s wishes. “Delighting in being stubborn again? I suppose I’ll have to let you eat by yourself in that case.”

Artorian opened both eyes with a squint. Blast. His bluff got called.

With a long and drawn out stretch of arms above his head, he rumbled incoherent grunts and pushed away the cloth keeping him swaddled. Kicking it out and away, his arms trembled while gradually easing himself upright. There wasn't a hint of sleepiness in his voice, betraying that he had been awake for quite some time after all. “A pleasant day to you as well, my dear. Must you yell so brutishly at an old man in the morning?”

Yvessa lowered the wooden spoon, pointing it right at his nose. “I’ll show you how brutish I can be with this spoon if you don’t saddle up and behave, you big troublemaker. We have to be in full dress to come attend to you now, Mister Official Charge.”

*Pap*. She rapped the spoon on top of his head. “Ow!”

With pouty lips, Artorian rubbed the top of his head and sat up in the full and proper resting position against the wall of pillows. He had a lovely look outside as the sunlight bathed over him. “Ah, that’s much better.”

Yvessa’s spoon returned to the front of Artorian’s’ mouth, except this time, it was filled to the brim with finely cut venison. It was even lathered in sauce—Tibbins’ work, no doubt.

Another week had seamlessly gone by, and events in the camp had stabilized after the Head Cleric had gone on a noisy tirade where many things were thrown. Artorian had been referred to with numerous expletives. When the meeting was called, Tarrean attended in full regalia. With surprising clarity and poise, the Head Cleric announced a change of operational plans. Everyone was now excused from tasks when prayer time came, incentives for good performance were laid on the table, and a care project was announced for the old man.

Filed under hospice care practice, to smooth any issues with the accountants. The priests already knew the real reason and shelved the ones Tarrean provided away under political guise. Acolyte Tibbins had not thrown Artorian out when he entered the tent. Instead, he’d pretended to leaf through his pages as the old-timer listened in on the whole thing, the gossip was too juicy not to play with. Keeper Irene was considerably less miserable since she didn’t need to pretend not to be in a relationship with Tarrean, and Jin was afforded actual time with his father instead of a superior ecclesiarch. You could not hide something in plain sight after everyone knew about it.

“That’s quite good,” Artorian managed to say between inhaled bites, quickly blowing air in and out of his open mouth to cool the meat after he’d gotten it in too hastily. It was just so hot, and waving a hand at his face didn’t actually help.

Yvessa just blew on the spoon some before shoving the next portion into her charge’s mouth. “If you can talk, then you can explain. Quit being such a sneak.”

Artorian noisily swallowed, using a full-sized towel to dab at the edges of his mouth. “I was poking around in my corruption again.”

The fiery look she stabbed into him could have put the big, bright sky orb to shame. “You what?”

Artorian failed to repeat himself as the rapid-fire barrage from Yvessa hit him with such velocity that he couldn’t keep up or even grasp what she was saying.

“It’s fine, it’s fine!” He waved her words away as she continued to go off on him.

“No. It. Is. Not.”

“It is! You even helped swaddle me!”

“What does that have to do with anything, you fool!” Yvessa was fuming. Her anger bubbled as this infuriating, old man coolly smiled back at her. She squeezed the utensil and threateningly shook it at him.

“Not a spoon!” Some laughter erupted from the old man as he held both hands to his chest. “Very well, very well! Do you remember all those moons ago when I’d mentioned you saved my life?”

“You never explained that either.” The wooden utensil didn’t budge. Yvessa’s entire body language screamed that she was quite fed up with being left in the dark.

Artorian settled and parroted her words, “Everything needs Essence to live. For every open affinity channel, an influx of that particular kind of Essence is required. People were all surprised to see me alive, and you helped me puzzle out why! While I am not a cultivator and have no method for preventing or purging corruption from my body or my Center, I passively take in Essence.”

He waited a moment for her to consider her own words. “This, rather than make me stronger as it normally would, instead goes to keeping me sustained and alive. I am quite stuffed with the malaise. Therefore, if I was not already receiving all the right types of Essence… I would be dead. As you’ve likely heard, I don’t simply just have one open affinity channel.”

“Yes. Four,” she groaned out the words incredulously, still not believing it. The Head Cleric would rage about it for hours if he found out. He’d been lording his double affinity channel superiority over them since day one. The caretaker’s expression grew grim. “We also heard your corruption is… ugly. After one of the Initiates threw up from accidentally glancing in the direction of the medical tent with Essence sight, everyone outright avoids looking at your Center if at all possible.”

“So, to my continued annoyance, I don’t know what you’re up to either or why under the heaven-blessed sky you’re prodding at corruption of all things. How do you even… such filth. I just… ugh.” The shuddering young lady had to hold her stomach and turn away. Nausea struck her just thinking about it.

“I’ve had a particularly… eventful life, my dear. Unfortunately, I am so jaded to trudging around face deep in all sorts of unpleasant situations that I barely even notice that aspect. I instead notice the pain, where it is, what it does. I’ve puzzled together some interesting facts and interactions. If you’re at all able to acquire me some parchment, vellum, or something to scribble on, I would like to compile a treatise and send it up to the Skyspear Academy. I believe I owe them both for my madness in being able to handle this and recompense for the sheer vocabulary they left at my disposal.”

The priestess didn’t quite understand that but didn’t need to. “We can get you something to write on. Now, out with it!”

Artorian waved the white flag and started talking, “Since I am very much still alive, it means that whatever Essence I need, I am getting. So, even if I need four specific types, which I hear is demanding, something in my daily activities has been providing it. Not only do I believe that I’ve figured out what, but I may have a bead on why… though I lack some much-needed information to puzzle everything together.”

Yvessa’s face was fully deadpan. “Well?”

Artorian beamed and pointed at the sky. “I believe your scripture calls it the provision of Heavens.”

The woman knew that was the name of the chant to one of the prayers. “The above provides for me. I just have not puzzled together exactly what up there does it. However, it’s the only consistent source that has been in my life.”

“Old man… if you’re about to convert, I want the credit.” Yvessa pushed her finger hard into his chest. Her arms crossed, and a knee shortly followed to slide over the other as she leaned back.

Artorian burst out in a solid laugh. “Oh. Oho! No. No, my dear. I’m not being spiritual about this. I’m being quite literal.”

Yvessa was lost, and it showed in her frown.

“The stars, my dear. It’s the stars!” Artorian appeared truly content. He brimmed with confidence and enthusiasm. “It’s going to be an upward struggle these next few years, but I’ll make it. Even if I’m bound to this cot and can only wander out for a little bit… it’s enough, and I’ll make it.”

Yvessa was taken aback by the pure determination that filled Artorian’s posture. His body language was exuding that he fully and absolutely believed this. “Awful confident for someone the rest of us believe might fall over any day now. Please tell me you’ve got some reasoning for this.”

“Very well!” He chimed quite the enthusiastic tone in retort to her request, “It’s the corruption!”

Yvessa’s breath intake was tense and severely displeased, her response startling some passing Initiates outside as the wooden spoon snapped in her hand. “Ar. Tor. I. An!”

Chapter Twenty-Three

“Truly, I mean it! It’s the corruption. Allow me to explain.” Beginning his breakdown of the next topic, Artorian took another bite of his meal, “I’m deteriorating because I’m playing with corruption, and to be honest… it’s terrible for me. I don’t require a lecture or to be told not to do so. I’m very much aware that I am spending my vitality on tackling the issue. It’s honestly why my ability to roam dropped like a rock in a pond. Now, I will say one thing—worry not; I’ve not done this without some greater gain. My confidence doesn’t stem from confusion, rather from requirement.”

Artorian then trailed off, took a breath, and launched into full grandfather lecture mode. “When I am in my Center, corruption behaves differently. There is a notable feeling that can be discerned when I am actively engaging or observing it in comparison to when I am not. When it is not under observation, it’s just corruption. It’s annoying, it prevents cultivation, and it has a slew of terrible effects. All of this you know. As to what you don’t know, I asked to be swaddled because I found a method to isolate my various corruptions!”

To Yvessa’s silent lament, Artorian’s enthusiasm was intoxicating. She was absolutely enraptured by Artorian’s ramblings, and a spark of hope bloomed in Yvessa’s chest for the man. Her wavering attention snapped back to him as Artorian continued speaking, “After isolation, I then interact with each individually! I ‘touch’ it, so to say. See, corruption is a poorly applied word. I prefer ‘immutable’ instead, as that’s the main property of what it is. Corruption doesn’t accept change. The identity of what it is has become so strong, so certain of itself, so absolute in how it perceives itself.”

“Corruption, instead of being afflicted, forces its properties on whatever engages with it.” He paused to wiggle his hands in a so-so manner. “Pretty sure about that. As Essence is fed to corruption, the corruption spreads like a disease. This means corruption is—by itself—an aspect of change. Specifically, an aspect that makes all things it comes in contact with change in order to better suit the properties of that particular type of corruption!”

“When I touched water corruption, I was immediately whisked from my Center with a great dread. All activity was suspect, and I wished to do nothing. Nothing at all. I was lethargic to a fault, and rather than just feeling it with my body, this was an outlook forced upon my mind. I did this several times after recovering, just to ensure that this was a constant and not simply my mind playing tricks on me. Sure enough, similar veins of lethargy struck me.”

The old man had a few more bites of offered venison to stave off Yvessa’s wrath. “I asked to be swaddled since it would confine me. I requested this pillow fortress of entrapment since I could not be sure what sort of effects the other corruptions would have on my mind, but my dear… I found out.”

“Fire corruption makes me angry. Raging fury, wild clashes that make me abandon all rational thought. I lose myself to fury and curse all that comes to my mind. All is to be hated, and anything not aligned with single-minded focus burns away at the fringes of my thoughts.”

“Berserker–” Yvessa obviously wanted to chime in with something more, and her eyes were flashing with the fury he had just described.

Artorian quickly cut her off, “Air corruption made me… flighty. I’m ashamed to say my testing of that particular corruption has been responsible for my displays of… *ahem*… uncouth behavior. I simply didn’t feel any social pressure and did whatever I pleased in the moment, free as a leaf roaming on the wind. Everything was activity. Things require doing, need doing. Need doing now. Quickly. Swiftly. Impatiently. Only action. My attention span shattered upon all the things my mind jumped on to, all the things that it could do. I could lay in the grass! No, I could lay in that grass over there! No, I could be in the stream. Let’s run to it!”

Several calming breaths were needed for the old man to even out, but even so, he was smiling. “The celestial corruption, however. Oh… that… that’s a frightening thing. I became full of myself, an unstoppable force. I utterly believed that anything which might challenge that truth was wrong in the worst way possible. I was imbued with haughtiness. I was above anything and anyone else, a paragon of my kind. I was the tip of the spear that led the charge into the future, the bringer of all that is righteous!”

“My confidence exploded into arrogance at the cost of caring for anything else. In truth, it made me understand many of the clerics I have met in my life. Your Head Cleric was a textbook example once I understood the perspective forced by the corruption. I found, with startling clarity, that corruption doesn’t merely affect you physically. The identity of the corruption reflects on to you. Sometimes as slowly as a trickle, sometimes in a large amount. It’s much worse when actively engaging with it.”

“When your mind is present in that space, you are not afforded whatever natural protections you have. Now, I have no idea what infernal or earth corruption may do. However, I’m glad I was blessed to have neither of those. I am certain that if I had an earth affinity, I would have perished in my thirties… if not sooner.” Artorian took a breath and furrowed his brow, explaining himself slowly.

“If my assumptions hold true and consistent, then earth would not have ‘meshed’ with the other corruptions inside of me. This may be useless knowledge to you, dear Yvessa, however… corruption of different kinds seems to also have differing densities. Water corruption is the most prevalent within me, and I believe it is because I receive more of that Essence than any other.”

“At first, I thought that the water and fire corruptions were the main culprits for everything inside of me… how to say… *hmm*… moving around? Swirling a little, like sewage would? They are fully opposed, after all. One demands action while the other demands inaction. But I found that air corruption added to this conflict like someone cheering on barbarians in a bar fight. Then I wondered… what effect does celestial have to do with all of this?”

“In my example, is celestial perhaps the barkeep?” Artorian knew that he was blasting Yvessa with information that was mostly philosophy and conjecture at this point, but to her credit, she was trying to keep up. Though her expression was lackluster and her brows were furrowed, she did not interrupt. Perhaps she was treating this as a lesson straight out of academia?

“As I kept prodding at the various pustules of corruption and observing their interactions, I realized that it is not fire nor is it water starting the brouhaha.” Artorian waggled his finger. “Oh no, the reality is far less kind.”

“Celestial corruption is the main culprit. It infuses the others with itself, unlike the others who fail to exert their influence upon each other. What I have within me is not fire corruption; it’s celestial fire corruption. The core identity of fire is altered to be an empowered version of itself! Not merely rage and fury but both! Then! Then tempered with an unhealthy influx of pride!”

Artorian took a deep breath, shuddering lightly. Another bite of food helped him warm up enough to keep speaking. “It evolves into obsession. Mania clashing against celestial-infused water-corruption, which is not just mere lethargy but indifference and disinterest made manifest. Air corruption began as flightiness and a desire for activity but became volatile fickleness. A frivolous wanton whim that cannot see bounds, nor care for them if it did.”

Yvessa scraped the contents at the bottom of the bowl into a pile, giving Artorian a chance to breathe. He just looked so pleased to have someone to share his thoughts with. She made him get back to the point. “How does knowing about corruption help you? It’s still eating away at you. Corruption doesn’t just go away.”

“My dear, knowing is half the battle.” She saw his expression as she prepared the last spoonful. When her eyes met his, the spoon abruptly stopped its movement. His look was icy and cold—a look she had never seen on him before and hoped to never see again.

Yvessa stuttered out an icebreaker, “Oh… W-well. I must have been wrong then.”

The old man calmed down and patted her on the hand. “Not wrong, my dear. We all learn. Some of us just need to learn the hard way. *Mm*. Do thank Tibbins for me. Won’t you please?” He opened his mouth and ate the last spoonful.

The full-raiment priestess nodded that she would. “I have some more time before I must attend to duties and prayers. You said… you handled corruption ‘individually’. How did you separate that mess?”

Artorian wiped the provided towel across his face. “I suspect much the same way your spiral must separate Essence from corruption. I spun it! Given, I do have the benefit of clashing corruptions that refuse to settle. In fact, I’m fairly certain that if one does settle, I die.”

He nodded to himself, certain that he was correct. “To prevent extreme exposure to their effects, I had to believe certain aspects of me were immutable. A ‘fortress wall’ against the waves of influencing corruption, so to speak. It takes a lot of mental effort to continue, so it’s a temporary trait that I am cultivating. Oh! Oh-ho, not cultivating, but… pursuing. No need to worry.”

Artorian gave her another comforting pat, realizing his expression must have unsettled her. “I cannot influence my corruption directly or even begin to pressure them into anything that might alter them. This is my body, however, and I do have some Essence in it—or I would be dead. I thought about how a cultivator must interact with… friendlier aspects of themselves while in their Center. I came up with several ideas to try, and it cost me.”

“I found that direction, shape, and design are malleable things, so long as you have even a little Essence to work with. I presume that your spirals work by pulling down what is good for you and pushing away the thick, muddy chunks of corruption. For this reason, a spiral does nothing for me. I have almost no Essence to pull down—only corruption. So, I thought to myself, ‘Why is it required that Essence be collected in a spiral?’ I came to the conclusion that for what I need, it isn’t!”

Yvessa patted him on the shoulder and stood. “It is good that you are feeling better, but I really have duties and–”

“One more moment, please! I am nearly finished. Now, I believe that I require something entirely different and thus am designing various shapes and movement inside of my Center. Finding the Essence was actually rather easy once I knew what not to pay attention to. They are the motes of light that had been swallowed up by the corruption. While the corruption refused to follow my requests, will, or desire… the motes of light that broke free happily danced and moved in whatever fashion I directed them.”

Yvessa smiled and turned away, her smile turning into a sigh as Artorian continued, “Essence is oddly similar to a child in that respect. The Essence looked to me for guidance, and I think… I think that before I gave it direction, the Essence looked to my corruption for guidance! It seeks to change, to become, to adapt, and be part of a whole! It craves identity, function. So I, as the fifth—and most powerful—force inside my Center… directed a simple, absolute, unwavering desire into my Essence.”

“Spin.”

“You had them dance?” Yvessa was breathing deeply at this point, trying to be accommodating to Artorian but also needing to get going. “That’s nice. Well, be careful with–”

“The motes were convinced to follow this directive and are now doing so by themselves. Dancing… perhaps, but I would say it looked playful! The motes of light with my direct attention were at least twice as swift, and I noticed the force of its movement pushed corruption away from it.”

“I reached out at that point, finding pain in the attempt, and pulled another mote of light to the first. They merged from proximity and my will. I praised them for doing so, and the reaction was incredible! The feedback the mote of light received from me fed back in on itself! I thought the spinning movement had been swift before, ha! Now it is spinning with such intensity that the mote became a thread. I touched it, and I felt a wholeness that I’m… not certain how to describe.”

Yvessa leaned in and added some details to clarify Artorian’s confusion, “Celestials above… you started actually making a cultivation technique. Artorian… there is no way to tell you how important it is that you keep this information to yourself. At least until you are strong enough to fight your own battles.”

When she saw that Artorian was taking her seriously, she explained herself, “What you are describing, the motes of light? That was Essence, and what you describe as a ‘thread’ is called a Chi thread. It sounds like you discovered the first steps of creating a Chi spiral, and that’s both incredible and strange. Controlling a cultivation technique and using it naturally takes years of understanding and practice with a Memory Stone. I know that you’ve asked for one. I also know it’s not here. That means that you have an intrinsic understanding that many people would recruit or murder you for, and you are not strong enough to resist either option they will offer.”

Artorian responded after a few long moments of thought, “I understand… but let me clarify for you. What I am doing is visualization, my dear. I do not have an understanding that others do not. I simply have better tools for understanding what I can observe.”

“I see the shapes and movements I wish to happen and put those forth to the Essence. Since being in my Center is incredibly similar to being in my own mind, it was doable. I visualized myself with the shape of the idea in my hands, and I offered to hand it over to the Essence. The motes of light flocked to my promise of change, and as best I understand it, I gave them a choice to do something. They liked my idea and decided to do that instead of following the corruption. Then they formed a large ball, which is a sensation similar to… *hmm*… having overeaten is the best I can think of.”

“How, and more importantly, what shape are you following? What are you making your Essence do?” Yvessa was finally invested in the conversation, and she seemed to have forgotten about everything else that she may need to be doing.

Artorian smiled at her and decided to explain rather than simply tell her his reasoning. “Keeping the Essence flat, as if on a plane of water, was exceedingly easy, but I found that any change was effort. Making ripples on my flat surface nearly made me violently sick. I had to go and hit water for hours just to see what sort of effects I should be expecting with a liquid since the reactions of ‘stuff’ out there in the physical world and ‘Essence’ in my Center appear to be consistent.”

“So, what I did was make a circle rather than a spiral. I connected the end of the thread with its beginning and set it to spinning. The Essence then formed a loop that, while a little wild and unruly, reached enough velocity to rebuke the corruption that had been attempting to flood over the exact midpoint of my Center. Speaking of the midpoint, a question for you… is there supposed to be a hole there?” Artorian quizzed her, not sure how to phrase his question differently.

Yvessa was startled, and her reply was uncertain. She realized with a blush that she had gotten comfortable in her chair and was listening intently. “Let me look.”

She closed her eyes and delved inwards. Even given she had a considerably cleaner Center than the roiling maelstrom of the man next to her, it still required significant effort to find the hole even though that she was actively looking for it. “Huh. I never saw that before. Yes, there certainly is a hole there. That’s odd. I have no idea what that… *hmm*.”

The old man was pleased to have the confirmation, but Yvessa didn’t give him room to gloat. “You deviated from what I asked, old man. You never actually told me how you’re separating your corruption.”

Artorian wiggled his nose while thinking about her question; for some reason, it made him itch. “Then I shall. My Chi circle, as I suppose I’ll call it, is merely a proof of concept. My actual project is ongoing and far more complicated. Instead of ‘circles’, think of a tube that connects to itself. Spinning it too fast makes all corruption push away from it. However, you recall I mentioned that they had differing densities? The speed at which I spin a tube determines what kind of corruption is pushed away from it and what kind can’t escape once it is trapped inside. If I spin it at just the right speed, the inside of the tube may fill with, say, fire corruption.”

“That makes no sense at all,” she complained and would have done more if he hadn’t raised a hand to stop her.

“Hold on, I’ll get to the point eventually. No, if I spin the tube slightly faster, water-corruption fills it instead while the rest is rebuked. Unfortunately, this constant motion requires far more Essence than I currently have, and I don’t even want to talk about the leaks! Keeping any part of the tube uneven breaks the entire thing. So, as I said, it’s a work in progress, but… just maybe, I’ll turn it into something magnificent.”

The idea of a clearly defined goal made his expression shine, and his fingers mimed the shapes his mind was making. “I will make four tubes, each for a specific kind of corruption, and I shall trap it all. See, I discovered that while the amount is constant, the size is not set. Corruption can be compressed! More corruption than I thought possible can fit in a circular tube. It was as if two buckets of water managed to fit in one without spilling. I marvel at it.”

“I did ruin a perfectly good pillow that day.” His excitement turned somber at an unpleasant recollection. With a sigh, he pushed away from the softness-laden wall. Laying back down on the cot, he opened his robe to let more of the sunlight hit his chest as his caretaker ventured yet another question.

“So… how have you not choked on corruption? You should have long been out of Essence to work with.” The young priestess was once again packing up to leave but couldn’t contain her curiosity.

This, at least, Artorian could answer easily, though he knew that she may not like the answer. “Do you recall, my dear, how you mentioned that you could only cultivate at a very particular certain time of the day?”

Yvessa nodded, interested to hear where this was going. Artorian decided to simply put it out there, “My source of Essence doesn’t rely on such specifics. I am cultivating by sitting in the light of the sun—the sun always shines, or the light of the stars always reaches us. The sun does give me a better influx, however, starlight works just fine. Therefore, there is a constant source of something that is ever-present. I am not actively cultivating—still working that out—I’m merely letting my passive absorption work with some directed will.”

“I have not yet figured out how one pulls Essence. Yet, while I lay here, Essence slowly and steadily fills my Center. When I have a good handle on how much I need to keep alive, I will use the rest to play. So far, I have clearly been using more than I have to spare, and I shall work to remedy that.”

He motioned at himself to reflect on his poor state. “The results are visible. I am bedridden. My absorption doesn’t end, so long as I keep myself exposed to starlight. I’m going to try and tune myself to it like the strings of a harp. The heavens and the earth may provide Essence, but if the Essence of the earth is spoken for by countless cultivators, I will simply direct my efforts to less tapped sources. Since one would need all four of my affinity channels to not retain massive amounts of corruption from drawing from such a source, I imagined my intake would be sizable. I can’t say I’m holding it well, as it merely floats freely in my Center. Yet, I was certainly not wrong.”

Having eaten and spoken much, his energy was spent the same as if he’d run several laps around the village. His eyes sank to a half-lidded state, and his breaths turned shallow as the pleasantries of a full stomach pushed him to rest. That was fine with his caretaker; Yvessa had much to think about. Only monks who had nothing but dedication to the art of cultivation were generally so knowledgeable. All they did all day was cultivate and think about cultivation. The old man wasn’t that different, even if another purpose seemed to drive him. He had a burning need to live, and Yvessa couldn’t say he was doing it for his own sake.

The conversation had given her some ideas for her own cultivation, and even the small enlightenment she had gained would prove beneficial. She’d get him lots of things to write on and then read the results. Though she had warned him not to tell others about creating his own techniques, she was protected by the umbrella of the Church and was already planning to spread any useful information to a few people she liked before passing it on.

Nobody knew much about corruption, and since Artorian had mentioned the Skyspear Academy, her mind had put two and two together on how he’d figured so much out. Someone had been blessed with an education at some point in life. Not that this made any sense for what the old man was doing out here all alone in the Fringe, holding all that expensive knowledge. His mention of diverting his Essence into a circle had been unpleasant; moving Essence into new patterns hurt!

The time it had taken her to pull her first Chi thread alone… putting her spiral together had left Yvessa with headaches, stomach problems, and she didn’t want to think about the actual feelings of pain she went through from direct manipulation. Then there was this absolute nonsense about starlight. She’d nodded and smiled her way through but hadn’t truly believed what he had been saying. If he was talking about stars, why mention the sun? At least half of what he had been rambling on about was garbage, the ranting of a man on his deathbed. It would be difficult to separate out the wheat from the chaff if she did get notes from him.

Specifically, a sunlight cultivator was unheard of, a pipe dream, and she thought the old man must have been losing his train of thought and grasping at whatever hope he could find to keep going. She sighed and shook her head. She was late and had much to do; the nearby village of Lapis had agreed to a meeting.

The expedition had gotten contact with the traders in an attempt to once again get goods flowing in and out of the area. The designated trader for salt had gone missing, sort of. The cart found at the raider trail was identified as property of the prior trader, so killed in action was the actual writ on the official report. To her delight, new traders coming meant a variation of goods and a use for her silver. Finally. All in all, things were starting to look up for this on-paper-only expedition crew.

Time to give the requisite compliments to Tibbins. The special ingredient he’d added that helped induce sleep had been wonderful. Maybe the old fool would actually sleep for a change. His constant pretending was getting on her nerves! Yvessa muttered to herself as she strode back to her personal tent, “Thank you, Tibbins! A little rest for all of us, thanks to you.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

The changing of the season was the signal for great activity at the encampment. In particular, it was what people had been waiting for; the majority of the expedition force had served its due time and was to be released to go home.

A predictable and set pattern repeated itself almost daily in the camp. With proper structures and fortifications now built, the cleaned-up village resembled a remote cloister. Every high noon, everyone attended the prayer chant. This included their two hospice charges. With the threat of the raiders gone and no sign they would be returning any time soon, it was time for Tarrean to announce the cadre that would remain behind.

The selection could have been guessed, and some gambling did indeed make the rounds. Coppers and silvers exchanged hands between those who thought their line-up was correct. The rules for the new cloister had become ever laxer as Tarrean learned how to be a father first and Head Cleric second. At this point, when basic duty was done for the day, all Clerics could do as they pleased. Arbitrary tasks had simply been removed. The Acolytes and Initiates could, of course, expect the tedious tasks to return as soon as they rejoined the arms of the Choir.

To the expedition’s grumbles, there hadn’t been a single conversion in the Fringe. The Lapis village was equally as stubborn as their hands were blue. When the announcement of the cadre staying at this new cloister came, nobody was truly surprised. Gossip had become as valuable as currency, as tips on cultivation were often included in the daily gatherings.

Remaining behind was Tarrean, which people had expected ever since Tibbins let some things ‘slip’. Possibly as a punishment for his gossiping, Tibbins was to remain as well. The group at large was going to miss his cooking; Initiates swore up and down that he had food Essence rather than celestial. Jin was to stay, of course. The young lad had never been so adamant about something in his life. Returning to the Choir was to leave the family he’d come to love over the last season.

Tarrean may have been a prideful, haughty man, but he had an obvious soft spot for the wellbeing of his boy. Not even he had the heart to send his son away. This also meant Irene would remain; the reason she gave was that the Fringe let her study the scriptures in peace, that there was no better place for her than a cloister. The expedition force might have even believed that reason too, had an Initiate not seen Jin asleep in her lap on the edge of the salt flats.

This sparked a whole new round of gossip, as a surprising number of recruits hadn’t known she’d been in a relationship with the Head Cleric. The fifth member of the cadre had volunteered at the last moment, to the utmost grievance of all but one gambler. Yvessa would remain since someone was needed to attend to hospice care. With her cultivation stuck and stifled and the clear skill at handling what many of the other Initiates considered a chore, there were no complaints.

The surprise for the group came when Tarrean rose at the end of the daily prayer and promoted Jiivra as the new Head Cleric. Rounds of applause met the increase in station as several Initiates were lifted to Acolyte, creating a cascade of cheers each time another name was called. The Head Cleric had the paperwork all prepared, signed, and ready to hand out. When they reported back, many of them would be able to benefit from their new rank.

The rise in status was well-founded with the individual's accomplishments, requirement of cultivation standard, and more. Such glowing accommodations would be enough to give several Acolytes the opportunity for even greater advancement in the Choir. There would be a small celebration in the evening before the tent encampment was to be broken up the following morning, leaving only the wooden cloister, defenses, and several minor structures behind.

The festivities saw the resurrection of the Salt village’s bonfire pit, and after, it doubled to serve as one big cleanup pile. Before the sun dipped under the horizon, a guard called out that a merchant caravan had been spotted in the distance. The path taken by the caravan allowed the guard to determine that the merchant must have gone to Lapis, then come to their new cloister. While that in itself added to the celebration, certain deliveries were cause for concern. That very concern was what had the new Head Cleric knocking on a small door with all the mirth of an unamused lioness.

The zealous Battle Leader didn’t wait for a reply. As far as she was concerned, bedridden, old men weren’t supposed to answer the door even if they were awake.

“Come in,” Jiivra heard a tired and half-asleep voice mutter the words and realized that her entrance had cut off whatever else the old man was going to say. His surprised look was distant, though it focused as he observed her. “Good evening, Artorian. I trust you remember me?”

The tired Elder squinted at her, face neither fully awake nor aware. His words reflected that, being pensive and uncertain. “I’m familiar with your voice, my dear. I hear it in the mornings during drills. You take care to consider the well-being of your people rather than their readiness. Jiivra, If I’m correct?”

“Head Cleric Jiivra, now,” she corrected swiftly.

“Oh, congratulations, Head Cleric.” A slow smile flashed to her, the uncertainty removed from his face. “I don’t believe you’ve come to visit before. As I recall, you’re not too fond of me. May I take it this concerns more… official issues?”

Jiivra watched the old, well-bundled, and seated Elder regain his poise before she began. She set her heavy helmet down on the small table and leaned her war spear against the wall. It gave a gentle, metal *tink* as it bumped against an iron pot on the table. Jiivra remained professional and at attention, her voice holding a surprising amount of smooth depth. “I don’t dislike you personally, Artorian. However, I have a strong dislike of things that disturb the unity and order of the Church.”

“I have had to throw my weight around to keep these slacking recruits and Acolytes in place and on their toes ever since the rules became lax. It’s not good to let things skew from regulation, and I’m against such poor work ethic. As the new Head Cleric, I will train this expedition crew back into a respectable shape long before we reach the Choir. I will not arrive with some chatty, haphazard force.” Jiivra stopped as the tiny, persistent smile on the old man’s face unsettled her. “Something tells me you knew about my promotion.”

Artorian quietly nodded. “It may have come up in conversation. I also may have recommended you for the position when the topic came up. I have a nose for talent. Won’t you please sit with me, Head Cleric? I feel that we have much to discuss.”

His voice was passive and a little too smooth for the zealot’s liking, but she found no reason to distrust the man; in fact, she had to admit that she felt curious. A few deft, heavy steps sounded as she made her way to the pillow-covered chair next to the invalid’s bed. Well, mostly invalid. She saw him every now and then as she went about her day but never for more than a few minutes. Usually, though, this codger was up to something. “Talk, I can do. In fact, I’ll just get right to it. Did you by chance have Tibbins order a… pillow? I believe there was a mix up.”

Artorian’s smile grew thrice-fold, and Jiivra suppressed a sigh as his raucous laughter split the air in the small space. After taking a deep breath to firm up her self-control, Jiivra’s voice was able to remain steady. Yet, the undertone showed a lack of patience that would have been clear even to small animals. “Twelve… by twelve.”

She received some giggling nods in response as the old man was beset by helpless laughter, trying to catch his breath as he patted his chest. “I believe I can safely assume you meant this as some kind of prank on the Head Cleric?”

Artorian, having gotten a hold of himself, gently shook his head in the negative and explained, “I very distinctly made it clear that my requested item would be costly. It was brushed over, considered not to be a problem. In fact, I was ordered to just note it to Tibbins. I received no further retort. That I put down feet instead of inches, well…”

The sly, old man had a smile plastered on his face that simply would not budge. Tarrean’s fuming outburst could already be heard near the storage site where the caravan had been allowed to pull in and where twelve men had been required to unload the puffy beast. Jiivra’s words were cold, pushing on to other business. “Since that monstrosity is already paid for, and I am now responsible for explaining that expense to the Choir, I was hoping that we could come to an… agreeable compromise. You’ve put me in a very unpleasant spot, and that is even before we have the talk about this.”

From her belt pouch Jiivra retrieved a very finely wrapped, small object. Upon unfurling the Memory Stone, it gave off a minor radiance. Artorian locked his eyes on to the small rock, and his hands were already squeezing each other. He very dearly wanted to reach out and cradle it—all that beautiful knowledge, answers to the holes in his reasoning that he had not managed to figure out. It was indeed going to take years to figure this all out on his own, but if he had more access to the basics… he could do more. So much more.

“I am quite interested in what you have to say, Head Cleric. Please do begin.” His words had some haste in them, not wanting to tarry. A sharp nod from Jiivra was all he got before she folded the stone back up.

“As authority of the expedition force now lays in my hands, I am fully entitled to rescind offered gifts. Now, I have heard rumors of what caused Tarrean to make such a ludicrous deal with you. However, those details don’t concern me. I am an instrument of the Church, and the wellbeing of my Choir must come first.”

“That giant pillow is ridiculous, and I have no interest in carting it with me. The trader equally refuses to take it back after it was unloaded, and there’s no space for it anywhere except the middle of the cloister. That's an irritation but not my main focus. No, providing you the stone is what I’d like major compensation for.”

“To this effect, newly minted Acolyte Yvessa has provided me the full writ of various philosophical papers and thought on cultivation that you’d like to have delivered to the Skyspear Academy. While this is a kindness we will gladly do, I would like a personal copy as a donation to the Church. I don’t need to explain to you that this is valuable material, and as an aspiring Paladin, I must seek to grow the Church. I will, of course, remove your name from all future interactions so that you are not hunted down and squeezed for all the information you can provide.”

The Battle Leader paused to take a breath, planning to continue with some other ideas. She’d prepared an argument that would hopefully convince him to give up something far more valuable than some borderline useless cultivation technique. She never got the chance; Artorian instantly agreed, “I accept.”

“The Church I…” Jiivra brushed aside his objection and then began her attempt to convince him. Her brain took a moment to catch up with the information she’d been provided so calmly. “You… accept?”

Jiivra’s expression finally faltered from her previous stoic countenance, melting into surprise and cautious confusion. Her fighting sense told her this must be a trap; everything too easy was always a trap.

Artorian took over the new conversation, “No need to look so taken aback, my dear. You may have heard much about me, but I have in turn remembered who you are while you’ve spoken. This conversation was not what I expected. I honestly thought you would ask why I recommended you, but I will not press the issue. Yes, Head Cleric, the Church may have a copy of my findings on corruption and the little I’ve puzzled together to form my brand of cultivation. It would be far more beneficial for people to know more about this awful malady. After all, does the Church not provide for those who cannot easily provide for themselves? Hmm?”

Jiivra regained her stature at the glowing comment about her beliefs. “Yes, of course. Even the Choir, of which we are part, puts the wellbeing of the common folk before the hunting down evildoers. I was… under the impression that, while you may get along with certain individuals, the Church as a whole was the same as Skyspear Academy in your view.”

Artorian waved his hand left to right to say it was not. “I hold firm to certain beliefs. That your group is part of the Church has never concerned me as much as anyone seems to think that it does. If it helps you reconcile your thoughts, I am not giving this information to the Church as a whole, my dear. I am giving it to you. As in my eyes, you are the true Church.”

Seeing Jiivra’s features light up, he smiled and continued to lecture, “You are the single most devout upholder of values that I’ve met, and as much as you may silently hold me in poor graces… I do not hold you poorly in mine. I see you weighed with a great burden and that you have laden yourself with a responsibility heavier than the mere tasks of being Head Cleric. I would like to speak with you about this before you go, if that is alright with you. I think that I can help. I will say this—I think you are a good person. A great leader. Someone who stands with her beliefs and her people. Now, would you say our transaction is concluded?”

“I… yes, I do.” The Battle Leader felt trapped in the chair, and she hated the feeling. An anchor in her stomach kept her rooted as the old man had prodded a finger straight into her hidden worries. To have her fears exposed by an old fool made her anxious and angry. Jiivra tried to hide this in front of him, but her best efforts could not convince herself that there were details he didn’t already know. The old man simply had a reputation for cutting to the heart of matters. She grit her teeth and pushed through, “Yes, business is concluded. I shall hold you to your word.”

She picked up the finely wrapped lump in the cloth and put it in his cupped hands. Artorian closed his hands so tightly that they shook, and Jiivra didn’t know what to think about the sparkle of childlike happiness in his heavy blue eyes. It was as if he had never before gotten a present and had just been handed something he loved. Jiivra decided to take her leave. “Pressing the Memory Stone to your forehead is all you need to do. The rest will just come naturally.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

“Will you leave after I have used the stone?” Artorian carried a somber note in his tired voice. “If that is the case, I’d love to just have a small amount of your time to talk.”

The weight in Jiivra’s stomach increased, surprised that he hadn’t used the Memory Stone immediately. She hadn’t particularly wanted to stay, but better to just… get it over with. “I was going to, yes, but if you’d like to have a small chat first, I suppose… that would be acceptable.”

Given the room was silent and Artorian didn’t start the conversation, Jiivra simply opened up like so many others had done. The small hovel felt safe; it was tiny and well-constructed, but more than anything, it was filled with comfort. A small fire burned in the corner of the fireplace, and the square construction of the house made the room feel boxed in enough to make all the little, personal touches feel pleasant.

The old man had drawings, handwritten notes from Initiates, and several objects just stashed all around the room that seemed more like a container for memories than the stone that sat in his lap. The place had nothing but chairs and pillows, a single bed and table, and a large corner where someone could sit and measure out all that was needed for the day.

It felt awkward to share, but this was fine. It was fine. She carried a burden, and it spilled freely when given the opportunity. “I was supposed to lead my own expedition team before this, but a few… tests went awry. During one such test, my hands began to shake, and I could not focus. What everyone wanted me to do, needed me to do… it just became too much, and it plagued my thoughts like an endlessly ringing bell. The pressure of the test made me collapse in front of a full congregation, and I took that… poorly. I don’t have the luxury to fail! I need to succeed! When I reached D-rank one and I qualified to take the test… it all rushed back and…”

“Artorian, I am supposed to become a leader of the order—a frontline force and beacon of the Choir. I sought endless opportunities to overcome my fears and cope, but in truth, while I have the title now, it only sickens me. I feel an unbearable weight fill me. Uncertainty creeps into my head, and it screams at me that I will not succeed. I was told, endlessly, that this is my fate. A Head Cleric is just not who I am. I can fight with the best of them, but leading? Being in charge, determining the fate of the people that rely on me? It’s this fearful thing that haunts me with every s-step.”

Jiivra wrenched her hands together as the words and worries gushed out like water from a broken dam. More of the same message kept spilling from her—with a few repetitions—as the woman started to heavily stutter and lose focus. Artorian patted her hands to break her out the spiral that she had fallen into. “Allow a few words from this old fool, my dear. A truth that is small, like a coddled flame.”

The old man released her hands. After years of bottling up her fears and anxieties, the invitation of support felt amazing. Jiivra regarded Artorian and, for a moment, was a small girl again. His calm, grandfatherly countenance set her at ease, the crackle of the fire making the back of her neck tingle. Jiivra’s anxious mind craved whatever nugget of hope he might offer that would help her fulfill the duties she so dreaded. She felt trapped by her assigned obligations.

“Fate this, fate that,” he rumbled the words out, slightly upset with them. “A secret for you is that, in truth, there is no such thing as fate, just as there is no such thing as talent. When someone else wants you to take on a role, it is frequently masked by mentions of ‘fate’. Oh, she’s fated to be this. Oh, she’s fated to be that.”

He waved that prospect away. “No! You are not stuck being what someone else wants you to be! That’s not their choice to make. A sense of identity, who you are, is decided entirely by you. You can choose to be who you want to be. Fate is a cheap comfort and nothing more. It is the lie someone holds on to when they don’t know what to do with themselves, and we know that is not true for you.”

Artorian stopped speaking and leaned away, reaching for a small, bound book he’d been gifted. Opening it, he showed her that the entire interior was blank. He flipped the cover to the first page, laid a quill next to it, and popped open an inkwell that joined the other tools on the little table.

“Write,” he said this word with certainty, confident about the message he’d given her. “Write your hopes, your dreams, your wants. Ignore what everyone else has told you. Close your thoughts to such whispers and listen only to the words that come purely from you.”

Jiivra was hesitant and didn’t particularly feel comfortable with this command. Still, she felt so off-balance that she took the quill, dipped it, and without saying a word, slipped into the mode that made her follow orders. Orders were easy. Orders were convenient. She thought of her dreams when she was in the convent, what she had declared with her prideful mouth. Endlessly getting in trouble and laughing off the repercussions before the rank and file structure became her life and the call to become a Paladin consumed her. The first page was filled before she looked up to notice it.

Artorian had remained quiet the entire time. He’d not interrupted or even moved. With her realization that she’d written so much, the old man slowly started easing the cover closed. Without resistance, he took the quill from her hesitant grip. Loud, sharp scratches ripped into the cover as he carved colored letters rather than merely scribe them. When he was done and returned the book, she took it and read what he’d etched. Emotions bubbled inside of her, and the weight in her stomach fluctuated.

The front of the book now read ‘Jiivra’s Fate’.

Her brow furrowed, and she questioned the old man with a look. Artorian remained calm, merely smiling at her. “Your fate, my dear. Fate as chosen by the only person that has say over it. You. Keep that pocketbook; it’s yours. Together, you’ll journey far.”

Jiivra didn’t have words as she watched the old man prepare to move to his next task. He unfurled the cloth and pressed the Memory Stone to his forehead. It didn’t seem too exciting from her perspective, but she remembered what it had been like for her. When Jiivra saw his face, she sighed and had to roll her eyes.

The aged academic was having a delightful time of it. Answers that had eluded him rushed forth in the form of someone else’s memories. The information started with the creation process of a basic spiral and was completed with the feel and methodology for actively cultivating. All crucial information that Artorian did not previously have. The basic functions, now that he grasped them, were all so simple. When the rock came down, his other hand went up.

*Slap*!

His open palm whacked against his eyes and forehead as a soft laugh eschewed from his throat. “That was it? That’s all? Actively cultivating is the willful effort to pull while you’re present in your Center and visualizing drawing from that which is around you? I’m truly a blind, old fool.”

Artorian used a towel to wipe his face, preventing himself from getting teary at all the wonderful things he’d just learned. Answers to issues he had not even considered to be a question… he found solutions for. He was burning to set them into motion. “There is such risk to cultivating! I wasn’t aware that you needed to sacrifice awareness of the world around you to such a degree while you focus your efforts inwards.”

Jiivra didn’t share his epiphany nor his joyful manner. This was all basic information she’d had for years. Instead, she was torn at the oddly thoughtful gift she’d just been given. Not just considerations that the word ‘fate’ shrouded the wishes of others but that her own desires had become solidly codified in book format. Something Jiivra had never thought of before; words were stronger when written.

They felt real rather than ephemeral. Jiivra still felt off-balance but less from the weight that had eaten at her for years. For the first time, she had an alternative literally in her hands. She still believed she would walk the path of the Paladin, however, the reason as to why was beginning to change. Jiivra was going to be a Paladin because she wanted to be, not because some high-strung Vicars had told her she needed to be one.

The difference in how it sounded was minor, but the difference in how she felt about it was profound. Her shoulders jerked when she realized Artorian was carefully observing her instead of being enamored with his own thoughts. “May I ask a cultivation question?”

Jiivra was more than happy to leave the prior topic behind and jumped on the new one with the same speed that she mounted her Diretusk Boar. “Certainly.”

She didn’t see a reason not to go along with this talk. There were things she wanted to attend to, but the twinkly-eyed scholar and his varied interests constantly made her curiosity flare up. Artorian thanked her and launched right in, “What can you do with Essence other than just keep it within you and refine it for your well-being?”

Jiivra’s face flattened; that was a far-reaching topic he’d set up. “Difficult question. The basics are generally core cultivation, followed by Essence sight. Which, by the way, is done by cycling Essence to your eyes. There is basic healing, which celestial Essence excels at… *hmm*. Incantations, which are powerful, single-use, large-scale effects, but you lose all of the Essence you invested into them. Basic enhancement, which is what I’m currently working on… though my technique isn’t without flaw. Then techniques, which… cover a lot of things.”

*Ergh*. Fumbling her words, she found that she really couldn’t continue that line of questions further without something more specific to discuss. “There are a few more options, but those will be of no use to you unless you’re capable of the ones I just spoke on. To reach D-rank one, I needed to turn my Chi spiral into a Chi fractal. It’s an enhanced level of the current cultivation technique you just learned. Almost everyone starts with a spiral and goes up from there. Only Royals have access to other methods, and they are kept secret.”

Artorian shared Jiivra’s expression; both were visibly confused. “I don’t know the differences between ranks. Is there a reason I never hear E-rank? I’ve heard F and D while talking with the other Initiates.”

Jiivra sank back in her chair ever so minutely. She’d explain that at least, his first easy question. “F-rank is where your average adult human begins even if they do not cultivate. E-rank is a… special rank. It means ‘Echo’. Someone in the ‘Echo’ ranks has had someone else’s cultivation technique ‘echoed’ into them, allowing them a quicker rise through the ranks. This is usually because a gifted technique is better than what someone can cobble together themselves.”

“Anyone of D-rank or higher can do this, but the process is incredibly costly and dangerous, as it requires a direct connection to another person’s Center. Such techniques have many dangers. If something goes wrong, it ends poorly for both participants. I, as example, could Echo my fractal on to someone else. However, the Essence it would require would leave me so dry and drained, that I am nearly guaranteed to die.”

The Battle Leader was giving a lecture and started to ease back into a place she was comfortable with. Teaching others was something that she liked. “After D, come the C-ranks. These people are truly powerhouses. The general comparison is that a D-rank could take on ten F-ranks in a fight, and one C-rank could take ten D-ranks. A C-rank cultivator can be recognized fairly easily. Usually, their bodies have been imbued with Essence, and they generally have a very powerful Aura—so much so that non-cultivators can be suppressed just being near them. I have only met a handful but standing next to one always felt like I was standing next to pure danger.”

“To become a Paladin, I am required to achieve C-rank one. I’m told to take my time, as entering the C-ranks will take whatever cultivation technique I have and make it ‘solid’. What was meant by that I’m not sure. After the C-ranks, there are Mages. These are the B and A-ranks and are so complicated and secretive that I know next to nothing about them… except to never make someone in that rank mad.”

Jiivra ended the quick rundown, but it seemed Artorian didn’t have any issues with her explanation, a joy to her after needing to deal with recruits all the time. Artorian’s soft words prodded at another sensitive topic. “Could we go over techniques in more detail?”

The new Head Cleric didn’t want to go through the entire gamut of explanations, but now that she’d gotten herself into it, she tried to cobble something together. “It’s a term for an Essence effect that has a… foundation? It doesn’t crumble right away like an incantation does, and the cost varies depending on how good that ‘foundation’ is? I know of a few superiors who can use their Essence in the form of an attack, and that’s also called a technique. That’s… still not it. It’s hard to explain.”

Tapping her lips, she disregarded Choir-lore and explained it the way she thought of it. Practical applications were easier to explain and implement than their lofty ideal counterparts. “A technique is a specific method and manner in which very precise amounts of Essence are moved in order to achieve some kind of effect. As an example, when I move one ‘unit’ of celestial Essence to a muscle in my arm, I gain temporary strength and speed before my muscle burns through that Essence, expending the unit of Essence.”

“Unlike cycling Essence to your eyes, which keeps the Essence in you without great loss, a technique is a stable method for expending Essence in trade for temporary power. Flashier and larger effect techniques require greater amounts of Essence, with additional costs for everything else you want it to do. Don’t let anyone ever tell you they’re ‘free’ or ‘you always get the Essence back’. That’s only if you’re compatible with the technique and can perform it perfectly. Which, as you can guess, is almost never the case.”

Jiivra’s voice betrayed some irritation at past failures, but she didn’t elaborate and instead marched on, “I can heal someone by concentrating my celestial Essence on their wounds, and that is draining. However, I could also do that from a distance. The problem is every bit of space my Essence has to cross to reach that person vastly increases the Essence cost to the point that it is prohibitive and thus never done. You run the risk of draining yourself dry from attempting a technique you’re not suited for or that is vastly too flashy.”

“To most people, the useful thing about proper techniques is that they allow you to burn off miniscule amounts of corruption with each use. The effects of the techniques undergo drastic changes when corruption is added. Why that is the case is something we didn’t really know, but with this writing you’ve provided, I have a few thoughts. A technique always starts from your Center, where you keep all of your Essence. I take mine from the Essence stored in my meridians, and I hear stronger cultivators can apply a technique from their Aura. I don’t know how that works, but my guess is since an Aura is always around you at any given time, you can move Essence swiftly.”

“For myself, I begin at my Center, take the appropriate ‘units’ of Essence, and order it to the place I need them to be. When the celestial Essence is in my arm, I push the energy in and think of striking harder with my spear. My arm then consumes the Essence, and for that one strike, my power is significantly enhanced. More units of Essence means a better result, but there’s a limit.”

“Pump too much Essence, and my arm flares with pain. I get the natural effect of celestial Essence instead of the effect I wanted, but the celestial Essence heals the damage I’ve done to myself. If I can’t focus on what I want the technique to do, it all falls apart. The real nasty kicker is when someone tries it with an Essence that isn't celestial.” Her expression turned gruesome as she held her upper arms while shaking her head to get the image out. Failing body-empowerment was a terrible way to die.

“It’s all very visual and mental, horribly difficult to do. I keep to the quantifiable and just focus on appropriate units. As a reference, I would say my arm can take one-hundred units. A unit of Essence is different for everyone, but I’ve found my method to yield good results. I’m not very imaginative, but I’m excellent with numbers. If you want to see someone truly skilled at precision Essence use, consult Keeper Irene. She was a beast before she accepted the position as Keeper. Irene measures her Essence capacities by the individual muscle.”

Artorian was still making mental notes as Jiivra stopped and looked at the window; she really needed to go. “Don’t let me keep you, my dear. You’ve been a delight.”

He sunk back into the cot and prepared for more rest. “The pillow can go wherever there’s room for it. As to your new journal, why don’t I send you letters? We can keep in touch, and you can tell me how your dreams are coming along. In the meanwhile, I can sneak you any little bit of insight I gain while I lay here pondering.”

The Battle Leader stood, pocketbook still clasped in her hand. Jiivra couldn’t deny that his offer wasn’t enticing, so she just asked the worry that was on her mind. “You don’t mind that I’m likely to share your findings with the Church?”

Artorian reached out, eyes half-lidded. He’d had a long day—for him. “I don’t mind sharing the little I find with you at all.”

The old man appeared to slow significantly, and his hand slipped and fell from her glove. Jiivra caught it and gently placed it back on his resting chest. It seemed that was all the old fool was able to handle today. She treasured the idea that as far as Artorian was concerned, she already was the beacon she wished to be.

A Paladin.

Jiivra parted her new volume and ripped a page from the back, describing how to send letters to a priest in the Choir. She placed the folded page under his water cup and pulled the blanket over him. What a strange, little man. Jiivra kept her hand on the blanket longer than she needed to and didn’t even notice her own smile as it grew in the flicker of the firelight.

“Stay alive, long beard. I want you to read this book when it’s full.” The cleric closed her eyes and focused inwards, pulling on her celestial Essence to bring it forth. She brought it up through her arm and concentrated energy into her palm, a soft glow seeping through. Essence moved through the cloth as if it wasn’t there and bled into Artorian’s chest. His breathing wheezed a little easier as the clean energy was absorbed by hungry cells, and the aged heartbeat came ever-so-slightly more steadily.

She heaved the recovered helmet back on to her head and felt the familiar weight of her spear in her hand. New confidence found her; it was time to be a leader.

Chapter Twenty-Six

After the expedition team had left, life in the cloister fell into a very predictable daily routine. The clerics who remained behind, while devout in their faith, settled into a more family-oriented pattern. Prayer was still daily, chants were recited and taught, but the work focus shifted over to food production and long-term stability. With so few present, the available workforce was limited to mostly Jin, Tibbins, and Tarrean.

Irene made everything operate smoothly, though Yvessa filled in when she wasn’t tending to Switch and Artorian. Switch was still unable to speak or interact with the world around her, but Artorian was doing well under their tender ministrations. The apiary had been re-established, the apple grove was healthy, but the salt flats had been abandoned in favor of small fields that grew basic crops.

Cultivators were vastly more capable than an ordinary person, and progress requiring physical labor was incredibly easy for them. On certain days, they even had time to harvest some salt from the flats; though they all had to be careful to lock down their passive cultivation. They couldn’t afford to take any Essence from the Scar, even if it might be tempting to tap into that huge resource.

The new trader, Olgier the Northman, came once a month with additional meal options that were bartered for with salt. Luckily for Tarrean, their bedridden, old fox knew all of the values and weights for proper and fair bartering. The trader—to his teeth-gnashing displeasure—was unable to swindle or get overly favorable transactions. Still, he was there every month without fail.

As an additional bonus, when the huge, red-haired Olgier swung by, he was usually given a few parcels to deliver. One mail parcel always went to a Head Cleric in the Choir. While another was sent far, far forwards to some Academy in the mountains. Olgier didn’t particularly like to play mailman, but an extra bag of salt went a long way toward making him forgive the hassle. Rutsel—his town of origin—was well-known for its hunting grounds, and salt was needed for preservation.

To Artorian, the quiet days where he merely laid down and basked in sunlight were quite busy, though not that many people knew it. His Lazuli robe hung neatly on his old bow, having remained there after Artorian noticed he got better results when more of him was… exposed. He wore some warm, winter pants and kept his pillows snug all about him to retain warmth. As a minor bonus, the pillow wall blocked just the tiniest bit of extra wind. For the majority of the day, sunlight poured through the open window and washed over the old man.

The earliest part of the day, where the sun just wasn’t quite in the right place to stream through the opening, was an excellent time to wrestle his way out of bed. He would mosey over to the stream to wash himself and take care of necessities. Artorian adamantly refused to let Yvessa bathe him, even if his clumsy stumbling meant that there were times he desperately needed her help to actually arrive at the stream. Though everyone else only saw the tired, old man rest, eat, and talk to himself, Artorian was fully absorbed and attentive to the activity in his Center for the duration of nearly every day.

It made time absolutely fly by, and even the interruptions where he was nudged for a meal were swiftly forgotten so he could bolt back into his new favorite play-zone like an impatient toddler. He wasn’t actually muttering to himself during the day; he’d found it was easier to be vocal and bicker with his Essence to keep himself focused. It helped smooth progression, and the breakthroughs he had were phenomenal, even if they came with a cost. Still, after gaining the knowledge from the Memory Stone, things were looking up.

His control of Essence wasn’t fantastic; it required great practice and patience to get things right. He tended to run out of patience and would pause only to throw ideas at the wall. One of the few times he bothered to snap out of his fantasy was when someone needed a word or when a flash of brilliance struck him that had to immediately find its way on to paper. His desk contained a messy pile of notes compiled on cloudy days where cultivation was going to be inadequate.

Artorian’s contributions to the Academy were in the order he figured things out, rather than a cohesive step-by-step build. Hopefully, those sharp minds sitting on their tall rocks would parse the documents in the correct order. As the sun rose into the correct position, Artorian settled in his bed again for the day. However, he found Yvessa firmly seated in the bedside chair with her arms crossed.

“Yes, my dear?” he quizzed with the expectation of something being amiss.

“What are you up to, old man? You’ve been… suspicious. I can ignore all that mumbling to yourself, but I cycled Essence to my eyes yesterday to have a look at you. Frankly, I have no idea what I’m seeing. Your Center was a disgusting mess—it still is—but now it’s this,” she made a floppy, circled hand motion of uncertainty, not knowing how to explain herself, “mess of colored rings? I can tell it’s corruption, but nothing I know of tells me it could possibly behave like that. Did you actually make tubes of Essence? That’s horrifying! To sustain that… the sheer amount of Essence it must suck down is more than I manage to actively cultivate in a whole day!”

Her gaze sharpened. “Explain.”

Artorian rolled his eyes. He could pretend to be all innocent and know nothing, but he was more than aware that she read his mail. Yvessa was capable of looking at his Essence flows anytime, so trying to be stealthy while making progress was not happening either. “Shall I explain from the beginning, then?”

Yvessa leered at him with demanding expectations. “Of course, from the start!”

“Fifty years ago, I was born. From there– Ow! Rude! Not the beginning then… So, Essence. As discovered, there are two draw methods: passively taking it in or actively taking it in. If I consider a drop of Essence to be a drop of water, then my Center is a bucket, and my body is a well. Both can only hold so much. Corruption comes along with Essence, and for every one drop of Essence, you have roughly two drops of corruption.”

Artorian paused to make sure she was following. “A normal person likely isn’t bothered by this intake until they’re about my age, at which point the body starts to break down. Really, it’s just corruption being a nuisance. Once you get to the entry-stage of cultivating, one’s ability to actively draw Essence in speeds up the process of dying if you are not careful. So, preventing corruption intake becomes paramount. The technique you have allows you to separate the drop of Essence from the whole and mostly reject the corruption from entering your bucket. I noticed you all have a little celestial glow that shows the main bias in your Essences, so your technique is not flawless.”

“For every ten to twelve hands of time, I would say you passively gain what I consider a single unit of Essence. It’s not an exact measurement, but there’s an average I can deduce after having watched you all so long. For ease of understanding, twelve hands are an hour, as one hand is five minutes. Even if you would gain a unit in ten hands, I’ll call it twelve so you can follow this next section.” Yvessa nodded to show that she was following, and the resting man went on.

“This part will differ slightly for everyone. The reason why I round it out is for convenience. See, I heard something interesting from Jiivra. Adding too much Essence into muscles causes ‘backfire’. Also, never add corruption to your body if you can help it. Sweet mercy, what a day that was. I lost weeks of progress cleaning that up.” Artorian sighed and rubbed his forehead, taking a good drink of water while his caretaker smirked.

“When you actively cultivate, the rate at which you draw in natural energy increases threefold. Three and a bit. That’s the basic spiral, which is rather good even with its limitations. Tarrean draws in three times as much as that, so his technique is a vast improvement over the basic one. He somehow broke up his spiral into two additional spirals. Reminded me of a diagram from my Academy days. It seemed to be the beginning of a fractal? The shape was a… triskelion? Yes, that.”

Yvessa laid a hand on Artorian to pause his words, her smirk now a frown. “You can cycle Essence to your eyes and study someone’s cultivation base? How? Who taught you that?”

Artorian scoffed but dodged explaining that secret for now, “Not exactly difficult once you figure the basics of Essence out. Now, back to the lesson! For every drop of Essence you gain when actively cultivating, Tarrean gains three. Just to give you an idea of how useful it would be to enter the D-ranks. Now, that is only counting a single affinity channel. So long as nothing is interfering, you get one drop per affinity channel of every affinity so long as you are somewhere they can be gathered.”

Her voice cut his off lecture, “Interfering?”

Artorian derailed for a moment before finding his thoughts once more. “Oh, yes. Say that you, for some reason, could not cultivate nor passively pull Essence. You would be stuck with the Essence you had in you to sustain yourself. I’m sure you’d be fine for years, but it is possible to be cut off from replenishment, and that would be an awful fate indeed. Say that you had a water affinity. If you went somewhere, say a desert that held absolutely no water. You’d wither not just from the environment but internally as well.”

“You have one affinity channel. Passively, you pull in one drop. Tarrean has two affinity channels. Passively, he gains two drops. I have four.” He could see her fingers drumming on her arm—more lecture was needed. “When I actively cultivate, I do not get three times the intake. I only get two. I am not using the spiral from the Memory Stone; it didn’t suit what I needed and would most likely have just killed me.”

Yvessa cycled Essence to her eyes, determined to have a good look at his Center and whatever idiocy he was concocting. To her surprise, she could see details that normally eluded her, like a veil had been moved out of the way and she was looking at something she was holding in her hand. “Just. Just walk me through… this.”

A veil of sorts did indeed protect the internal secrets of powerful cultivators. Normal folk were free game, having no protections, and some of the Initiates only had a wavering tarp. When Artorian had checked, he found that Tarrean and Irene possessed vast, thick veils. Yet, those protections diminished as people slept. Equally, they also strengthened when Irene had noticed she was being observed. He didn’t know how she’d known, but the veil had thickened in the span of a thought.

His assumption was that she’d purposefully not desired her inner workings to be seen. That had made him wonder—could that mean the opposite would hold true as well? Her clear gaze gave him hope that his test was succeeding. “How many rings do you count?”

Yvessa counted on her fingers. “Five, six… nine?”

Artorian clapped softly with one hand on the palm of the other, pleased that she was able to see so deeply. Check-mark one success off on the list. Wanting your method to be seen was sufficient for his entry-level abilities. “Correct, I’m currently at nine.”

Her distressed voice snapped at him, “Currently! More of these things are going to be added?”

Artorian settled back into his pillows, quite pleased with himself. “Oh, yes. Allow me to give you a tour of Boday de` Artorian! They’re only circles when you’re looking at them straight down, as you are. In truth, they’re as you guessed—Essence tubes formed as circles. I’ve spent a grand amount of time spinning my Essence in all manners of woven varieties. I have found that not only does the corruption separate, but Essence does as well. Every circle going outwards from the Center holds a denser type of energy. From inner to outer, the separations are as follows: the purest Essence I’m able to get refined to that quality–”

He was interrupted right away. Yvessa surprised him with her observation, but it only made him proud. “Is that inner circle going the complete opposite way of all the others?”

“Indeed! That is the only circle I have pulling inwards, while the rest push outwards. The interactions of the spin are a little complex. I’m not merely going around in a circle, but inside to out as well, and there’s some additional direction that makes all but the innermost circle spin from its center outwards.”

He got back on track; he loved the cleverness of this next part and hoped his caretaker would as well. “So, the innermost circle is the purest Essence. Then in order: celestial, air, fire, and water Essence, followed by circles of corruption in the same order. Water is always the densest, and it pushes away the furthest. Yet, even the thickest of water Essence will always be less dense than the lightest celestial corruption! I am spending all this Essence on the circles because it is paramount that I keep everything moving. If anything settles, that’s it—I’m dead.”

“My survival thus far, while painful, was dependent on my body receiving large amounts of Essence to keep it functioning. While the corruption was fighting amongst itself, as they each attempted to force their identities on the others in an ugly mix, separating them has allowed some insight into their interactions.”

He needed another drink of water from speaking so much, and he was excited to keep teaching. “So, as Essence and corruption flow into me in their raw states, like is pulled to like. The greater the speed at which I have things moving, the less difficult it is to refine something and the more it ejects unsuited components to the next circle. I found some tricks to keep the density filters without sacrificing speed, though I’m going to need to disassemble more baskets to get a grasp of it.”

“When some celestial Essence enters my inner circle, it gets refined. The purified Essence moves inwards, and the separated corruption shunts outwards, where it is entrapped and slowly refines further to release additional Essence. The corruption is launched out of circles it doesn’t belong in, then bounces further and further until it gets trapped in ‘its’ tube.”

“Again, when the celestial Essence refines to a greater purity, it loses density and sinks back to my inner circle. It’s like this for all the Essence types I have. I refine them all individually, yet at the same time. The purest Essence is what I use to sustain the circle-tubes that hold everything together. It’s a poor technique… in that it’s horrendously wasteful.”

“On a happier note, I am slowly making adjustments to the design, hopefully into something more permanent and stable. It takes extra Essence to ‘basket weave’, but efficiency rises. I save an extra little bit of Essence from then on. Progress is incremental, but by the celestial, I’m getting the hang of it!”

“What is particularly entertaining is when some water corruption enters the weaved tube that holds the fire corruption. It’s as if there’s a brawl! A fiery warrior jumps from his seat, ruthlessly barrels forth, and slams his fist into the water corruption’s face to send it launching back out of a rowdy tavern. They do not at all play nice, and any interactions are violent.” Artorian was beaming sagely, still amused at the memories of the complicated interplays in his Center.

Yvessa nudged him in the arm. “Sounds like you’re not as bored as you seem, Mr. Sleeps-All-Day. I think you’re trying to hide letting slip that you’re going to add even more circles. How would that help?”

Artorian had his hands back up defensively. “Well, right now, I am on the verge of… *ahem*… exploding into large, meaty chunks.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

“Artorian! You explain yourself right now!” Yvessa refilled the water cup and handed it over, glaring at him as she waited for an explanation.

“Make me! …Just teasing, please don’t.” He flashed her a playful smile, though she didn’t relent in the slightest. As her face puffed up, he quickly got back to it.

“As I was saying, I can squeeze and condense Essence down so until it fits in the tube. Even then, I can only condense so much into the rings before I reach a critical mass and… hmm, *pop*. I am already at the point where my circles are expanding in size, which leaves the spot closer to the middle of my Center a little vacant. So, I will be adding additional circles for further and further refinement and containment. There will come a point where I run out of room, but I’ve a plan for that!”

She was clearly displeased with him as he told her this. “You are just allowing corruption to accumulate? What’s wrong with you? That’s a massive disaster waiting to happen.”

Artorian’s waving hands were instantly back on the defensive. “No, no! I have two methods to my madness! One, confining the corruption not only neatly stores it in my circles but prevents it from roaming about inside of me and doing harm. Since the types I have are rambunctious, corruption is instead pulled out of my body and stored in my Center.”

“Two, the compound Essence I absorb purifies me as I actively cultivate. As I take in new Essence, the starlight that strikes my Center also burns off some of the corruption I’m keeping trapped in my Center. I’m not sure what to call that kind of lost corruption, but the light just shears it away, and it flows out of me. So long as the starlight blazes and my circles rotate, I am losing more corruption than I gain on a daily basis.”

Having the wind taken out of her sails, Yvessa just shifted in her seat. Rather ladylike even, but it came with the distinct emphasis that she wanted to backhand him. With a hard stare, she moved on to the next accusation, “Rotate doesn’t sound the same as spin. I think that you are playing with forces that no one understands, that you are going to make a mistake, and that there will be no one there that can help you. There is a reason we all use the same or similar cultivation technique.”

Artorian was at a loss; for once, he didn’t know how to explain himself. He started with the cultivation motions. “It goes up, and… around, and they all sort of move like a ball spinning in a ball, which is also in a ball…”

“Just… just watch. Easier to show you.” He stopped speaking, losing the thread of his own explanation. His mind dove to his Center. Yvessa cycled Essence to her eyes and watched, hoping to be able to save him if he started to accidentally kill himself. Artorian’s Center began to glow as he shifted into active cultivation. Concentrating, he let the suction of his Center grow beyond the confines of his being.

Rather than omnidirectionally pull from the land around him—as was typical for cultivators—he aimed to only take from the direction of the sun above him. The influx of Essence changed to an upwards cone, and Yvessa saw the Essence flood into him faster. From a cone, it focused again, reshaping to a pillar angled towards the sun. Yvessa had to hold on to her seat when she felt the *thrum* of energy moving around her. Her hair frizzed, and little pops of static snapped over her garb.

When the raw energy of the heavens crashed into the old man, his Center exploded with resplendent starlight. The innermost ring began to rotate on a new axis rather than merely spin in place on a flat plane. The circle-tube itself still spun in a variety of directions to control and contain the Essence flows, but now, the entire assembly of rings moved as a whole.

She started to understand his earlier explanation after seeing it. When each ring spun and rotated fast enough, it had the appearance of a ball. Each ball fit inside of another ball exactly large enough to hold it. The celestial Essence ring started getting up to speed after the purified Essence one. Then the air ring followed suit, then fire. After a long minute, all the rings were spinning, and raw Essence and corruption were filtering between them at an astounding rate. It was a conflux of denser things moving to the outer edges, while the lighter energies moved further and further inwards.

The bright blaze collected itself in his Center, visibly bleaching and searing off scraps of colored corruption in the outermost layers. Yvessa likened it to a fence which had the paint stripped away over a great many years but in fast forward as the compound starlight Essence streamed in at a pace beyond her comprehension. The sheer amount of Essence he was taking in outstripped her personal cultivation by leagues—even if her spiral was better than the circle at protecting her from corruption in the first place.

Yvessa’s attention snapped to an out-of-place bubble of Essence developing in his Center. It didn’t follow the patterns of everything else going on, and she watched it move out of his Center entirely and travel to the back of the old man’s shoulder. It was clear that Artorian was intentionally moving that little bubble since the nesting spheres continued without pause.

In a dark spot on his back, deep down in the smallest parts of his body, that bubble drew out corruption and scooped it up. Dark masses collected in the wobbly orb, one group of thick energy after another. Even some blood and tissue when he wasn’t careful enough; the process wasn’t flawless. The gathered corruption had been causing him pain there. With it gone, he would no longer feel it, or at least, it would hurt less.

Yvessa couldn’t believe what she was seeing. He was cleaning his body just by shaping and moving Essence? By the celestial… he was expelling impurities! She tried to think about the situation logically. Sure, this was great for his well-being and might even let him steal a few years back, but overall, the damage was done! Or… was it?

The bubble filled with corruption, but the large patch was also shrinking. Looking closer, a lined network of Essence was being used as fuel to sustain the shape of the scoop. It took Yvessa several minutes of deep observation to see that Artorian was pulling Essence from the celestial ring and refilling the cells with it after he stripped out the corruption. Body repair with celestial Essence? No wonder his progress was slow; he was literally patching himself up from the inside out!

Yvessa closed her eyes, retrieving the Essence from her eyes to her Center. Her fingers pressed to her stressed temples. “You made a cultivation technique, found a way to remove corruption from your body, and managed to find an Essence source that satisfies all four of your affinity channels at once. All this… in the span of a few seasons?”

Artorian heard her, given that he had been expecting her to speak eventually. He began slowing and stopping the process of his active cultivation. It took a full minute before she had her response, and his voice intoned a profound tiredness. Each step of properly starting, maintaining, and stopping his method took effort.

“Not quite, my dear. I made the concept, and now, I’m building it after finding methods that work. I have some nasty anecdotes of failures and accidents I’d rather not speak about. The reason I know where to look for certain corruptions that have filled my body, for example, my entire left shoulder is my own fault. I lost control of my corruption tubes due to a bad Essence weave and flooded myself with corruption wherever the leak happened. I was so panicked that I shoved my purest Essence out of me. I would rather have my progress abandoned than it get devoured by all that corruption.”

Yvessa had one of those looks again, and Artorian twiddled his thumbs. He was about to get a not-informative lecture, and he knew it. “Yes?”

“Then why do I think that not only did you not lose your Essence, but the corruption didn’t get it either?” She spoke slowly with deliberate words. Artorian looked like he was about to try to weasel his way out of speaking like a petulant teen, but she snapped her fingers at his face to force him to focus. “I’m on to you. Tell me.”

The old man hadn’t wanted to touch on this yet. “I may have accidentally discovered how Essence is stored in an Aura. I didn’t lose a single drop of Essence; I just found a… new storage space. In truth, I’ve been using it to hide what cultivation level I might be at from all of you. I don’t know how the system works when I’m not playing by the normal rules, and I will likely never have a fractal.”

“An Aura is incredibly useful as a storage shed, and every aspect I’ve told you about so far still has leaps and bounds of potential for individual improvement. Since I know you’re going to ask, I’ll give you the list again: your Center is a bucket, your body is a well, and your Aura is a village. When I prodded before, I couldn’t begin to understand all that beautiful space. How could I not make it where I store all the good stuff while my Center is a canvas of struggles?”

“I’m a child exploring the forest, gleeful to discover what I’ll find next. I have such ideas for techniques, but I won’t spend a drop of effort on them until my bases are covered. With my current progress, two years is about where I see myself properly being able to walk again.”

He trailed off, and Yvessa pushed his drinking cup into his hands, reminding him to hydrate. “Oh, thank you, my dear.”

She nodded and scooted her chair closer, scraping it across the floor. “Listen… Artorian.”

Her voice was soft. Yvessa didn’t want him to make himself suffer like this; all that internal Essence moving must have hurt. She also found, very suddenly, that she didn’t want to stop him. “Just don’t go overboard or get to a point where you can’t call for help. Now that I’ve seen what you’re doing, I know exactly how wasteful it is. This is not something an F-rank should be doing—if you can even be considered in that rank at all. This is upper-D kind of stuff at the minimum, and I don’t know of a single person not in C-rank that figured out how to use their Aura.”

“Eventually, you’re going to find something by accident that isn’t healthy for you. Not to mention the problems you’ll run into from a technique that nobody else uses or can support you with. A way to clear out corruption? Even if it is slow? The progress you’re making has me incredibly jealous, and I don’t know how I’m going to explain this to the others.”

Artorian tensed. “I don’t suppose I could convince you… not to share this? I don’t mind knowing you all read my notes. However, I don’t like the idea of my personal growth being shared. I can’t imagine that… Tarrean, for instance, would be pleased with me.”

Yvessa shook her head as a firm no. “I don’t believe he would, no, but this is something I feel needs to be shared, Artorian.”

Artorian shifted uncomfortably, considering less than savory alternatives. His voice was pensive but low. “What if I were to give you some cultivation? Boost your rank? A small bribe between friends?”

Yvessa felt electricity course down her spine and jumped from her seat in shock. “Long Beard, don’t you dare lie to me about a possibility like that. I have been struggling with growing my spiral, and that is a horrible slap to my face now that I know just how quickly you gain… you gain…”

She was shaking, her breath unsteady. Yvessa had her hands balled so tightly her knuckles were white. Artorian regarded the borderline enraged cleric and shook his head because he wasn’t playing with her. “Not a lie. A trick I learned from Jiivra that would allow me to directly push my Essence into your system. Perhaps not your Center but certainly the system. Before she left, she tried to heal me and pushed Essence into my chest. I was still awake, not that she could tell.”

“If I take the time to tap purely from my celestial source, I believe I could do it. We’d have to hold hands, where one of our hands pulls Essence while the other pushes. I’m reasonably confident of the safety. I really don’t want you to tell them, and if it costs me my time and effort to bribe you to look the other way… well… I am willing to pay that cost. Are you?”

Without further ado, he held both of his hands out to her and sat up with a grunt. Yvessa was clearly a person torn. On one hand, speaking out was the right thing to do, the proper thing. On the other, a gain of Essence was unbelievably beneficial. Unlike her, who could only cultivate a few hours per day, Artorian could afford to cultivate nearly non-stop. If he wasn’t actually asleep or doing some other activity, he was gorging in the influx of Essence like an endless feast. Not only did he pull in mountains of the stuff, but he had the type she needed neatly sectioned off and already corruption scrubbed.

She had no idea just how much Essence he was hiding in his Aura or even how to read one. Since he had so forwardly offered, the sacrifice he was making wasn’t irrecoverable. But if she took his hands, she would be hiding important information from her order; she would be complicit in losing what could end up being an amazing option for her order. But she would gain something amazing for herself. “Abyss it.”

Yvessa took his hands and drew a firm breath to steady herself. She could already feel the push of energy building against the skin of her left hand. It was deterred from moving as Artorian only formed half of a conduit, and so the energy just waited. With a hesitant acceptance, the young priestess began cycling her Essence through her body as if she was starting active cultivation. She pushed her Essence out from her right hand and had the horrible fright that she was about to lose it for good.

Then she felt the connection knot together like two loose ropes being tied, their hands acting as the bonds as she willingly completed the conduit. With a short gasp, she instinctively pulled from her left. Heaving, her stomach exploded with tingles as a sensation of numbness coursed through both her arms. The right felt drained while the left was overburdened, but the Essence… oh, the Essence.

Instead of the slow, melodious pull to her Center that she gained during daily cultivation, this was a torrential river. Yvessa directed the energy to siphon straight into her spiral, allowing her body to store it in her cells. Doing this, she realized why it was so valuable for Artorian to externally cultivate with his Aura. He couldn’t store a lot of energy in his aged cells. His body was still nearly completely tainted, which must be why he was cleaning it up.

Artorian funneled from the celestial energy circle but was pushing it with outer energy that Yvessa could feel crackle and pulse as it danced along her fingers. F-rank seven. F-rank eight. The ebb and flow of cultivation level spiked as her cells saturated in what seemed to be minutes but was instead hours of real time. F-rank nine.

“Stop, stop! I feel like I’m going to burst!” The flow of energy halted slowly, the knot of their hands tightening and forming a blockage. She ceased giving him refined bits of Essence to keep up the bond and stopped drawing in rivers of it via her other hand. She was bordering the upper limit of her current rank, and her spiral roiled in a whirlpool of activity, further refining the energy. Unable to keep up with the previously unseen volume, her spiral just did what it could.

With a final crackle, Artorian released some Essence to close off the connection, forcibly sealing the openings on Yvessa’s hands as well. He collapsed on to his bed, out of breath, drained, and exhausted. The old man was sweating, and his hands, wrists, and arms were bright red from swelling and internal injury; conversely, Yvessa’s hands were spotless—the clear difference between a clean, young body that held Essence and an aged, tainted one.

“Oh, that rather hurts.” The diminished old man’s voice was weak, yet Yvessa reeled with power. She was drunk off the rapid rise but forced her head into reality when she gathered just how taxing it had been for Artorian.

“Well. *Gasp*. Why don’t. * Gasp *. Why don’t we wrap those up after treatment, with all this extra time I have from not making a report?” She spoke the words but realized they went unheard; the old man was out cold.

Yvessa broke into the D-ranks a month later.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Two years had passed since Yvessa entered the D-ranks. This morning was notable for only one reason—Irene had unbalanced the daily routine by making a massive cacophony at the gate. She was furious, and it roused absolutely everyone from whatever they had been doing.

A messenger had come to declare a new expeditionary force once again chasing raiders was moving their way in. The scout was there early to bring the matter to the attention of the cloister since the area was officially bound to the Church. The expedition force would be occupying it as temporary lodgings and would use the centralized outpost as a headquarters while they performed their duty. Irene was irate not because this disrupted the comfortable days they had come to know but because that swine known as Keeper Kendra was part of the incoming force.

This was that day everyone learned that Keepers famously do not get along and hold bitter rivalries due to their interpretations of the scriptures. Interpretations meant different opinions. Unless there was an Arbiter on the matters being discussed, the discussion was more along the lines of screaming. Keepers became aggressive and violent to one another, never feeling the need to hold back in order to come out on top.

Artorian was woken that day by the crude sound of a guard tower crumbling to the ground as shattered splinters. He poked his head from the window, only to take in the absolute smackdown raging between two livid Keepers. Both of them found the energy to scream obscenities—as well as break half the cloister—without regard for what the other appeared to be uttering.

The argument was something about… the correct amount of bread one took during prayer? Artorian couldn't tell, too distracted by the shrapnel slicing through his open window. Kendra was infuriated, and she picked up a wooden beam from the ground like it weighed little more than a broom, sweeping the courtyard with the support pole. The beam was kicked away by Irene, forcing the tip to slam into the hardened ground. This provided more than enough stability for her to leap on the beam and dart a few steps along its surface to roundhouse kick the other Keeper.

Kick may have been too gentle a description, as Irene spun her body before unleashing the Essence-fueled blow. Kendra didn’t have the time to pry her fingers free as her world went blank. The woman crumpled into a pile after being launched into the damaged cloister. Cracked scaffolding noisily collapsed on top of her.

*Thud*!

“I said. Half. A. Loaf! No exceptions!” Irene vengefully punted the unconscious Kendra out from under the ruined logs and sent her barreling into the surrounding expedition force members. Before a raging Irene had a chance to continue the attack, the freshly arrived group rushed their Keeper off to get medical aid. Glancing back to ensure there was no pursuit, they saw the sizable new hole in the outer wall—a hole made during what had likely been the gentlest of arguments to come.

Tarrean arrived in full armor and cleric regalia to break up the commotion but only managed to disperse the onlookers when his shouts were joined by Nefellum, the Head Cleric of the expedition force. They firmly shook wrists on meeting and plowed through welcoming rituals with elaborate hand-sigils. Artorian stopped paying attention once the action passed, feeling no further need to spy. The gossip mill wouldn’t be turning for a while, but it would be sure to catch him up in due time.

This new expedition force looked to be all business, and Artorian recognized no one when he cycled Essence to his eyes to get a better look. Having forgotten what cycling pure Essence did to your vision during the day, the colors lathered in richness and the sunlight stabbed right into his eyes. “Argh!”

The shiny sky orb was always there with the sneak attack, just waiting for you not to pay attention! Artorian stopped cycling and smoothly eased his way out of bed, doing some test motions. He went through basic stretches, bothered to dress properly, and picked up a gnarled walking stick that hung next to the table. The commotion in the cloister already made it sound like regulations and organizational plans were in full effect. He could hear a large man snap at Initiates to pick up the pace, followed by the distinct *fumble-bump* of someone hitting the dirt. Artorian made a mental cue to expect more yelling, and sure enough, it was almost instant.

The drill instructor’s voice was a hardy baritone. “Get up, Initiate! If I have to pick you up from the dust one more time, then by the celestial… I swear I will find the worst job in this cloister and dedicate you to it for a week!”

The wet *fwack* of a strong hand striking a rear spurred the risen Initiate to start jogging laps around the cloister’s outer perimeter. Poor boy looked like he was going to collapse any second. Artorian’s shout was far friendlier than the one the drill sergeant had let out. “You can do it, m’boy! Don’t let up!”

One could tell from a distance that the cleric in charge of the Initiates was a simple man with simple tastes and simple methods. The drill instructor’s dark head shone like a cue ball, perfectly bald and smooth. His ashen skin made it clear the man was from a warm climate. Right now, his arms were crossed, and displeasure was aimed at the old man shambling along in the Church’s holy cloister. “Sir. I must please ask you to leave the premises. This is holy domain. Members not part of the Church are not to tarry here.”

Artorian put some pleased pep in his stride. It had been ages since he’d gotten to be sly, and the opportunity was given to him on a platter! “Oh, goodness me! No, my good man. I very much live here and have for quite a few years longer than your cloister has been up. I suppose you should consider me the current landowner until the reigning Head Cleric is granted the title.”

The drill sergeant's eyes went wide. Oh, abyss… did he just insult the landowner? He knew well that he could be magically persuaded to leave the lands by force of Mana if he was told to do so. Whether the old man knew it—or not—was not a risk he was willing to make. “My apologies, sir. I did not know. Please, do be careful in your travels. My Initiates are blinder than moles, and I do not wish for their incompetence to cause you harm.”

Artorian slowed his shamble, his hand pressing to the small of his back dramatically. After all, why not play the cards you were given? He took his time and strolled right up to the instructor, holding out his hand in greeting. “The name is Artorian. Well met, my good man.”

The instructor shook wrists with the assumed landowner. “Marud, Choir second-in-command Battle Leader. It is both my pleasure and a surprise to meet a member not of the Church in the domain. May your health stay firm through the sands of time.”

Such a strong shake! Artorian shook his wrist for effect if only to unsettle the large man. Why were all the people in the Church so tall? He dismissed the thought; after all, he was slightly hunched over. “I do appreciate it. Teaching the kids to run?”

Artorian watched one slop by with the dexterity of a drunk rabbit exclusively using its hind legs to push onward.

“Indeed,” Marud stated with displeasure, keeping a watchful eye on his slacking recruits. “Move your feet, Initiate! Even this villager here could outpace you!”

Marud’s eyes went wide as he got a sassy reply from the exhausted man. “No, he. *Wheeze*. Abyss-well. *Wheeze*. Couldn’t!”

Before Marud could scold the recruit, Artorian had stabbed his walking stick into the dirt and was disrobing, hanging the lapis lazuli cloth on top of the firmly planted stick. With a twist, it pushed deeper into the ground than an old man should have any capability to do. His words were full of fight. “Young man, I am going to shuffle my way over, and I will be hot on your heels. When I catch you, I am going to give you a scolding on the benefits of being kind to your Elders!”

With a truly awful gait, the old man waggled rather than walked forwards, wearing only pants and shoes. His scars and shriveled appearance unsettled even the seasoned Marud. However, the instructor could see there was health hidden in the man. Sure, he might look old, have terrible posture, and a beard so long you could make rope out of it… yet he also had what Marud recognized as war-scars. In Marud's culture, one didn’t gain honor-marks by resting on one’s laurels.

His drill-instructor attention caught that Artorian had a vibrancy to his skin. There was a brightness in his eyes and a forward momentum to his step that said he didn’t hurt one bit when he was getting a move on. He was just awfully slow. The old man clearly could not run. His legs were thin and spindly, and there was so little muscle on the aged wreck that Marud didn’t want to put any effort into thinking about how the old codger even remained upright.

What was he, eighty? Still, the old landowner was a delight. The instructor now had extra fuel to light under his recruits’ rumps. If they could not pass the aged grandfather, then he could hold that against them in future training and long-term practice. Marud’s thick fingers rubbed his forehead at the thought ‘long-term’. Bleh. They were going to be stuck here for at least a full season. His dark eyes watched the old fool fail to keep up with his exhausted recruit—much less catch him—but Artorian didn’t quit.

Four hands worth of time later, a disheveled, sweaty, heaving, and out of breath old man was pressing a hand against the small of his back before he hobbled his way to the point he had started. Once there, his hands fell to press on his knees, catching his breath as his iron gaze caught Marud’s amused little smirk. “Again. *Gasp*. Tomorrow.”

Artorian coughed out the words with an energetic wave of the hand, grabbed his walking stick, then draped his robe over his shoulders before staggering off. “I am going to catch those unbaked little loaves and put them in the oven!”

Marud suppressed a snort at the old man’s ire and persistence. He was fine with this, as it was just a few more measuring sticks to goad the recruits. “Sure, old-timer, come back tomorrow.”

“Ah… ahaha! I did it. I did it!” Marud’s face snapped back to the Elder, who sounded absolutely elated. His fist was shaking in the air. Even though Artorian was wobbly, he was clearly pleased about some sort of accomplishment. What? Had it been a few years since he’d even made it around the perimeter?

“Hah.” The drill instructor didn’t see the Elder again until the next morning came. When the second in command rolled up with a powerful stride, ready to discern which recruits to chastise, he was surprised to actually find Artorian mingling with the crowd of Initiates. In fact, he was joining in their stretches.

“No, a little more down, m’boy. You want to push your leg down as far as it will go while you keep your opposing knee bent. Feel the muscle stretch in the taut leg. That little tremble? That’s what you’re looking for. Remember to stretch after training as well; it’s awful being sore.”

Marud let the instruction slide, and his voice boomed through the mottled line of tents. Half-asleep Initiates scampered, partially dressed, from their resting spots and made their way to the front gate in a hurry. When they were all present, Marud firmly gave them a short speech on preparedness. Only one person had vanished.

“Now where did the old man get off to?” He called out for Artorian, looking around for the old man.

One of the recruits pointed around the bend of the wall. “He started already, sir. Said he was going to get a workout in and catch us before he washed today.”

The instructor threw his hand in the direction of the corner. “Well, get going then! The old man is beating you all in performance! Move, move, move!”

The stampede of feet began in a hurry. That day, they all passed the old man at least thrice before he’d made it back to the front gate. As before, Artorian needed to stop at that point.

Marud couldn't hold back his enjoyment nor his commentary. His gleaming white smile countered his natural darker profile. It was rather delightful to see, artful even. “Ah-ha-hah! What are you doing, landowner? You plan on being here every day to catch my Initiates?”

“Indeed, I will, my boy!” Artorian replied with confidence as he straightened up and did more stretches. “I can’t catch raiders if I can’t even keep up with your lads!”

“Sir. Please. You joke too hard. You… catch raiders?” Marud broke down in hearty, thick laughter. His disbelief mounted with his humor. “I would not let a gentleman such as you leave the safety of the cloister! That is what the Church is for—we protect those who cannot protect themselves.”

The smile on Artorian’s face matched Marud’s but for a different reason. “Well then, I’ll just have to outpace all your Initiates, won’t I! Let me? Pah! I’ll get so fast that you won’t be able to stop me!”

Artorian pressed his fists to his hips and posed with conviction. It only made Marud double over once more, failing to control himself. “Oh. Oh, you are too much! Please. Come. Outpace my recruits. I wish to see this.”

“And. You. Will!” With a stern nod, Artorian was off, swaggering off to the stream. He spoke with the stubborn, self-assured tone of the old man that he was.

Artorian was back the next morning, the next, and the next. What did surprise the seasoned instructor was that not only was the old man succeeding in such strenuous daily activity, but he was improving. His crippled shamble had developed into a smooth jog. His knees no longer bent at odd angles, either. Every day, some incremental change or progress could be seen in the aged man’s posture, breathing pace, or muscle strength. After just one week, what Marud before believed to be a cripple was now doing two successful laps around the cloister. By the second week, he did three. By the fourth, he caught the slowest Initiate.

Marud had a field day that morning. “You let him catch you? What happened to being a proud member of the Choir, recruit? Are you holding out on me? On your team? He caught you! He. Caught. You!”

The recruit was in dismal spirits after that. That evening, however, the young man heard a tapping on his tent. “Excuse me, is this Initiate Que’els’ tent?”

Que pushed the flap open, and his dark features fell even further upon seeing who was waiting for him. Confusion replaced the expression as a skinned rabbit was pushed into his hands. “Eat some extra meat, my boy, and don’t tell the big one I gave it to you. I’m thinking that your growth is slowed because you’re not getting enough meat to eat. Some extra rations in you can only help.”

Before the Initiate could thank the Elder for the gift, he was gone. Artorian was learning how to move annoyingly fast for such an old man. In fact, the next morning, the old man outpaced everyone. Marud held his face in his hand as he watched the farce of a training exercise. The long beard could only handle seven laps, but he finished them before his recruits did—and their current limit was also seven.

When Artorian walked to the stream like an unbending ironwood tree that day, he secretly relished the verbal beating the Initiate squad was suffering through. He was mid-wash when the booming baritone finally ended. Even then it stopped only because the clamor had attracted Marud’s superior, who demanded an explanation.

Their bickering forced all the Initiates to pay shamefaced attention to their feet and keep their heads down. The Head Cleric of the expedition was roasting Marud on the performance of the Initiates as Artorian strolled up with all the swagger of a star athlete. “Excuse me, my boys, why all the noise?”

Artorian would have said more, but an armored finger pointed a bare inch from the tip of his nose. “Is this him? Is this the fool that made all my recruits look so shameful?”

Marud kept his mouth shut tight, but his body language betrayed the answer. “Explain to me. Explain to me! How my top-class Initiates were left in the dust by… you. These men and women are the cream of the crop! Their potential is astounding, and now, I heard the aged landowner outran them? All of them?”

The… huh… short Head Cleric was almost foaming at the mouth, and Artorian would have been very interested in making a quip… if he wasn’t so puzzled by the pattern of behavior he’d observed in cleric leadership. Maybe it was chance? He shook off the thought and looked at the recruits. “Greetings, Head Cleric. I must admit your armor is quite the impressive symbol of your order.”

The Head Cleric wiped the back of his hand over his mouth and straightened up. Yes, yes it was excellent equipment. At least the landowner recognized quality. Artorian continued, this time not quite as flattering, “As for your Initiates. I’m not entirely certain why this is a surprise? They’re barely eating! If they got some chow in them, I would never have been able to outpace them! I’m not sure what you’ve all agreed upon between the other superiors in the Church, but you are more than welcome to till some land and grow some crops for additional food. The work may be too demanding for the recruits since only the strong should labor like that. Still… you’re welcome to do it.”

The expedition Head Cleric adjusted his gauntlet-strap and replied with a textbook answer, “Rationed meals are exactly portioned and even for every single Initiate. There is no issue with their intake.”

Artorian just shook his head, reminiscent of a disappointed father. “Would you have your troops drink more water in the desert or bundle up with an additional layer in the cold mountains?”

The Head Cleric crossed his arms as if the answer was obvious. “Well, of course I would. The environment demands it.”

Artorian nodded sagely, glad the man understood. “Then you understand, good sir, that this is the Fringe. Individuals require more intake than is ordinary when they are in this region. While I don’t know why this is the case, it is true. If you have been giving the Initiates regulation meals, which was my assumption, then they are without a doubt… malnourished.”

He clarified when he saw the Head Cleric didn’t seem to understand him. “Underfed, Head Cleric. I won’t ask you to believe me, but if you give them a few days with additional rations, I’m betting you’d see significant improvement.”

The primary Battle Leader grumbled but faced his vice-commander. “Marud, give them double rations for a week. No harm in checking the truth of this matter.”

As the superiors walked away together to discuss adapted meal plans, Artorian stepped past them and gave some of the tired recruits a pat on the back of their shoulders, humming along with a whispered, “You’re welcome.”

He had just gotten them all more food for the week! Everyone loved more chow. More than anything, Artorian smiled about his progress. He could walk again and properly. Excellent progress. He just about jumped into the air but held off. One thing at a time, old boy.

One thing at a time.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The first big hunt the expedition returned from had proven unfruitful. This fact soured moods and raised irritation among the whole cloister. They’d been certain it was going to be a victory, but the raiders had abandoned their activity midway. A small blessing, as the village a day’s ride away remained untouched as a result. However, the Choir expedition had spent resources and didn’t have a single decisive victory to report to the Keepers.

Speaking to the Keepers remained a conversation Nefellum didn’t want to have. The two were still beating the ever-loving abyss out of each other every few days. At least they had moved on from bread. A bowstring’s *twang* split the air as the tired force tromped back into the cloister’s camp. A few heads turned, and they saw Artorian had set up a makeshift target. He was holding a cobbled-together bow that looked poised to snap from the pitiful construction alone.

Sure enough, his next draw cracked the curved wooden branch right at the handle. He held the bottom half and watched the top dangle by the now-loose string. With a complaint too quiet for anyone to hear, he tossed it in a pile of two more snapped bows. Their quality was equally poor, and the expedition put the oddity out of mind, aside from a chuckle.

They recouped over the next few days and put together a new plan. As the days passed, the expedition members found the old man standing in a variety of places, staring at walls or off into space. They laughed at seeing him squint at a bucket of water, which he seemingly splashed into his own face at random. Beyond sputtering, Artorian didn’t budge at that, simply taking a few steps forward or a few steps back while half drenched.

The behavior was odd, but nobody wanted to ask. Just another old person doing strange, ‘old people’ things. After a few smirking stories spread about some of the demented things the codger had pulled in the middle of prayer several seasons ago, the expedition Acolytes decided to just give Artorian a wide berth. The Initiates followed suit with this behavior, but unlike their direct superiors, they kept their mouth shut on snide commentary.

Nobody who managed to secure extra rations for your entire troupe was going to get that treatment. They were all distinctly happier with more comfort food in this middle-of-nowhere cloister. Who knows, maybe the old man would end up doing something similar again? Freebies were a valued commodity in such an isolated no-chance-to-spend-your-silver place.

The Choir superiors approved of the change to farming the land, if only that it forced their Initiates and Acolytes to pay more attention to learning their chants and to focus attention on their cultivation. The extra field to till doubled as group coordination practice and offered a use for their unspent physical energy.

Yvessa was excluded from the majority of those tasks and was not up for playing the devious old skeleton’s games. With an *ahem*, she tapped him on the shoulder and felt the corners of her mouth creep upwards as the startled old man jumped a few feet.

“Whow!” He fumbled for the bucket and quickly dumped the rest of it into his face, soaking his long beard, bare chest, and baggy cloth pants. He squeezed a hand down his face to press the water off and blinked, then without squinting had a good look at Yvessa. “Oh, hello, my dear. You look lovely!”

The Acolyte had never been complimented on her appearance by Artorian before, and that set off warning bells in her mind. Her arms folded across her chest, and she slapped aside the attempt to distract her. “Uh-huh. What ridiculous scheme are you up to now?”

Artorian looked offended, his hand pressing to his heart as he leaned back. “My dear, why would I be up to anything? I’m harmless.”

He attempted to play it off with a forced, sweet little smile, but Yvessa wasn’t buying it. “My fractal-cultivation butt you’re harmless. You’re pacing and have creeped out nearly the entire camp. They think you’re senile!”

Artorian straightened after a shrug, hunching right back over as he squeezed the water from his beard. “I don’t see how that’s a bad thing. It gives me some space, nobody comes to ask questions, and I can nose my way around at leisure. I can ask all the strange questions I want, and since I wander off when they answer… well, hee-hee, they’ve learned that it makes me go away! It’s a momentary inconvenience for them, and I shan’t pretend I don't hear the jokes at my expense, but I am unbothered.”

Yvessa took a daunting step towards him. He was deflecting again! “What. Are. You. Up. To?”

Artorian’s shifty look to the side made the stern woman clamp a hand on his shoulder. This reminded him that the Acolyte saw through his wit, so he decided to just let her figure it out. He’d give her a few small clues to see what he could get away with.

“Have a careful look at… my eyes.” Yvessa didn’t relish the idea of peering deeply into the old man’s eyes, but she ever-so-gently leaned down and had a look.

“Bright blue, look spirited, lightly glazed, so a healthy coating that prevents the eyes from going dry. They’re excellent… I don’t see the problem.” She let go of him, expecting an actual explanation now that she was playing along.

Artorian just gave her another clue, “I too no longer see the problem.”

That was an odd thing to say, and Yvessa leaned back in and had another look. “I still don’t get it. They’re just eyes which—in my opinion—look like they ought to do all the things eyes do.”

She decided that she must be missing something, so she cycled Essence to her eyes. “Oh. Oh! You cleaned your…! No. Wait. Are these… new? As in completely…”

Artorian smiled and gave an ever-so-minor nod. Yvessa paced around him like a curious animal, using Essence sight to inspect from differing angles. “How did you…? Did you go blind and rebuild your eyes with pure Essence? How did you figure out how to do this? I was only told about meridians last week, and this isn’t even remotely similar.”

Artorian puzzled her words out and looked to the sky for a moment in befuddlement. “Meridians… do you by chance just mean vital inner organs? The six Yin and six Yang? Helps Essence move through the small, inner holes that are on the edge of your Center, then loops? Correct?”

He waved off her raw bewilderment. Yvessa rattled off her knowledge so as to not feel like she’d been left in the dust. “I was told meridians are energy channels that transport life energy throughout the body. Life energy is also known as Chi—or Essence—depending on what part of the world you’re in. They’re very important for one’s affinity channels, being the pathways along the meridians that Essence flows through. Having multiple affinities will open more pathways, allowing more Essence to flow in at one time.”

The old man winced and filled in how he found out in his own terms. “I had corruption flowing through those channels. I am very much aware they exist, how they work, and where they go. Pain is a memorable teacher, as your Initiate’s instructor seems to understand. Now, I have a vague idea of the increase in longevity the reinforcing of meridians—or vital inner organs—may grant. However, it comes with a cost I currently cannot pay.”

He held his hand up to halt her inevitable retort. “Yes. I rebuilt my eyes completely. If it wasn’t clear before, my eyesight had been significantly damaged. Cleaning my eyes of corruption and dumping said corruption into my Center for storage was insufficient. At best, it restored my eyes to the best quality they could be in the state that they were. Which is to say piss poor.”

A snort came from Yvessa at his sudden language, and he’d said it with emphasis and a sharp up and down movement of his head to drive the context home. She held her questions and let him go on. “So, little by little, I painstakingly siphoned individual cells rather than repairing them. I fueled this by a combination of refined and celestial Essence, with the intent to replace what was lost. When the cell formed, it did so in the best pattern it could be rather than simply ‘repairing’ the damaged segment. Mind you, the process is slow and took quite some doing in order to keep the identity of the Essence steady while it set. I am becoming quite adept at the basics of shaping, moving, and convincing unformed Essence to be something other than what it wants to be.”

Yvessa held up her hand to pose a question; she had a few now. Artorian nodded to his student, falling right back in teaching mode. “Why are you pacing around if your eyes are fine, and what do you mean by ‘basic functions’ and changing those?”

“Ah.” Artorian grasped the question and began walking in the direction of his dwelling. “Come with me so we’re not just standing here. The sun has moved, and it’s about to put me in the shade.”

Yvessa was immediately suspicious and glanced at the old man’s Center with Essence sight, having figured out the trick to see through the thin veil of protection a Center otherwise had. The person targeted needed to be unaware of what you were doing or otherwise willing to let you see. Not wanting your Center to be visible thickened the protection, but unless someone was putting active effort into keeping their Center hidden, it was child's play to see through low-ranked cultivator Center-veils. “Third question, how many… circles… is that? I can’t get a proper count.”

Artorian tilted his chin up and slapped his beard left and right to force it to dry faster. “I’ve lost count. I simply keep adding smaller circles for additional refinement when I have the Essence to do so. I’ve had to completely redo the weave on all the tubes after I found a much better method. Taking numerous woven baskets apart has its benefits, and that alone was worth the jokes at my expense. Every ring increases my ability to refine Essence. I wouldn’t put a number on it, but you’re likely seeing what’s currently going on.”

Yvessa moved her fingers in complete circles to follow the track. “All of them are turning like a ball, but you’re not actively cultivating. Oh! I figured this one out. There’s so much Essence moving around between all the circles that the push of all the light is enough to force the whole system to move on its own! Your passive cultivation now must be almost as good as your active cultivation was.”

Her tone held just a touch of jealousy, and the priestess mimicked Tibbin’s classic flat-lipped expression. “Impressive.”

Chapter Thirty

A light blush colored Artorian’s cheeks as he proudly swaggered into the sunlight. “My active cultivation currently has less to do with my ability to refine and more with how much I’m able to draw from starlight. Passively, I take in quite a bit more than before—excellent observation! I’m quite proud of your progress, my dear.”

The smoothness of Yvessa’s cheeks did a poor job of hiding the additional pink that colored her sun-bronzed skin when Artorian’s compliment made her flush. He remembered seasons ago when she was deathly pale but didn’t mention that; instead, he returned to her questions, “Essence has things it does by itself. Let’s take the one that will be useful to you. Celestial Essence heals… except that it doesn’t. From my observation, it instead removes impurities and imperfections from where it is added. While I’m certain that it would have restored my eyesight entirely, I lack the amount needed to create that effect.”

“Dumping more units of Essence into an issue allows you to reach the intended effect even if you do nothing else to help it along. Removing sickness is a function of celestial Essence. However, it achieves that state because the healer is heavily intending for the Essence to lend its natural qualities to the focus of a similar but alternate purpose. ‘Remove this infection,’ the healer says.”

Artorian was making broad hand motions for effect. “Instead of removing damaged imperfections from the system, you’ve the clear intent in mind that the infection is an imperfection. So, rather than heal an injury, it spends its energy on purging the infection. It’s a minute difference, but the celestial Essence will now only attack the infection, hunt it down, and disassemble it—as it would any other imperfection.”

“You can’t easily convince an Essence type to do something it is opposed to doing naturally; however, you can skew it to the left and right. This is why the majority of clerics use celestial rather than purified Essence for direct muscle empowerment and enhancement. In the event of an accident, celestial patches you up automatically. I’ve watched no less than several dozens of bouts between the Keepers, and that brings me to now.”

Yvessa was patient and just made the circular *go on* hand motion as they paced in a circle around the inner cloister. Artorian, old codger that he was, needed no further encouragement. “By cycling refined energy to your eyes, you see with increased clarity. Everything becomes this horribly rich and lathered landscape, and even Essence flows become visible. I have simply found that I can pierce the veil of higher-ranked cultivators at the cost of not seeing the flows of Essence in the area. By focusing on one effect instead of a general effect, I ignore the veiling fog. Thus, even though Tarrean is a higher ranked cultivator than I am, I see his triskelion clearly.”

Yvessa had known this already based on his previous statement, but it was good to know how. “Alright, I’m following so far.”

The long-bearded teacher kept striding along. “So, as we’ve noted, more units of Essence invested to a body part equates to a more profound effect. A body part has an upper limit of what it can handle. Everyone also only uses refined Essence for their eyes from what I can deduce, out of concern for possible damage to the vital organs.”

Shuddering, he paused to speak with emotional emphasis. “An entirely reasonable conclusion. Even slightly unrefined Essence can wreak havoc on your body. Investing fire Essence into my hands without it being sufficiently refined gives me a horrible rash that itches for hours. Don’t recommend it.”

Artorian collected himself with a patient exhale. “Essence has stages of refinement. Refined Essence that still carries hints of its prior Essence is safe enough. All my additional circles have their purpose and ‘grade’ of refinement quality. I am consistently impressed by just how much purer Essence can get. Now, your question—adding other types of Essence to your eyes causes distinct and significant changes to not just what you see but how you see.”

“Celestial gives you an idea of imperfections. Things out of place and notes of something lacking, which hints at what is supposed to be there. Tearing a leaf from a plant and then observing the plant gives a clear but fading imprint of some kind of pattern. More Essence invested means that they become more obvious.”

“Air Essence makes me able to slightly see the movements of wind as if they were gently fogged. The flows and movements freely alter and dance as nymphs during play.” He made an exaggeration, never having seen a nymph. The Acolyte was enraptured with his words and didn’t interfere in this particularly valuable lesson. “Fire Essence lets you get a grip of the innate heat in things and—in some odd way—the cold. When I look at a person, I can see where the heat they are generating is.”

Artorian coughed into his hand, momentarily uncomfortable. “Not always a sight you want to see.”

Yvessa quirked a brow but didn’t stop the old man from carrying on. She had been a healer too long to fall prey to embarrassment about other people’s bodies. “Water Essence should be obvious; it lets you discern the movements found in liquids—the pumping of blood in someone’s body or the churning motion of the stream. Most everything else in my vision melts away and is replaced by brightly colored hues in black, grays, and whites. The more something moves, the brighter it is. It’s incredibly jarring. These Essences can be mixed, and when you do, everything you see changes again. This weirdness is why I’m stepping back and forth lately.”

“A certain amount of Essence can only extend your sight so far, and the amount of Essence you spend also determines how well you ignore objects in the way of what you’re looking at. Cloth is a breeze, wood is difficult, stone is borderline impossible, and anything metal is hopeless. No matter how close I get, I just can’t get my line of sight restrictions to overcome metal matter. Perhaps if I had earth Essence? Regardless, fire and water. You’d think they’d have a big fight in your eyes?”

Yvessa nodded in affirmation to Artorian’s question because that idea seemed reasonable. “Turns out, not so much! You see the heat and the liquid movements at the same time, and for a reason I simply can’t understand yet, you clearly see a person's muscles.”

Yvessa was clearly confused, but Artorian was right there with her—equally lost. “Slapping celestial on top of that creates one wonky visual adventure. You don’t just see the full movements in the body; you can deduce where the body is likely to be based on the pattern it holds. If someone was walking towards me and I had all three of those cycling… I am convinced that I would know when they were going to stop before they did.”

“Activity in the muscle is proportional to the amount of energy given to it, so if I see someone’s arm lightly glow, I have a decent chance to guess where they would be moving. I feel that this has incredible combat applications, but unfortunately, I’m too slow to capitalize on such information.” He paused as Yvessa started shaking her head back and forth.

“That could do wonders for the military! Though… the Essence it takes…” She clearly dismissed the idea. “Never mind.”

“I had the same thought when I was starting to test these; trust me when I say that I understand where you’re coming from.” Artorian counted on his fingers and nodded, having remembered where he left off. “Now, I know that it might be the thought that adding air Essence would also allow me to see their breathing pattern, adding to this huge pile of information. You’d be right, but the overload on the senses is horrible. Thus, the bucket of water.”

“I splash myself because the attempts dried my eyes out so badly that if I didn’t fully and immediately hydrate them, I’d regret it again. My previous eyes would not have been able to cycle anything other than refined Essence. After cleaning, my eyes may have been able to handle two, but these newly made eyes can handle all four. I am firmly of the opinion that I skipped a step somewhere. I get splitting headaches now from cycling too long. The information my eyes take in is different than what the rest of my mind can handle.”

He had to stop, rubbing his closed eyes with his palms. “Still, it’s nothing in comparison to what I see when I apply precise Essence combinations. I have seen a world of violets that shows me designs otherwise invisible. A world clad in nothing but reds that I barely know the words to describe. It’s more pronounced than mere fire Essence; it’s deeper than mere heat—a below red. My vision blurs to gradations of red and blues. Hotter is redder. Cooler is bluer. The violets are beyond just color.”

“There is a… luminescence to the world. All this from differing units of Essence being added and kept in a specific balance. It’s rather costly, as you still need to add exact amounts of Essence for a better effect.” Artorian stopped mid-stride, the pensive beard stroke returning. “Is Essence additive? I have the suspicious thought that it may be.”

Artorian then realized he was hungry and could also go for something to quench his thirst. He missed the taste and texture of fish and sighed it out loud, “I want fish.”

Yvessa stopped as he did, having no idea why Artorian suddenly changed the subject to such a degree. A thousand-yard stare into the distance, only to question Essence, then segue straight to fish? That’s where Yvessa knew she’d lost the ancient-looking man. “Alright, old-timer. You’ve satisfied my curiosity. Go home. I’ll bring you something to eat.”

Artorian perked up, thoughts consumed with the promise of a good meal. “Oh, that would be lovely. Thank you, my dear!”

He looked around for something, stance puzzled and out of sorts. “Errr. I do believe I’ve lost my bucket.”

Yvessa rubbed her forehead, slapped her hand on his shoulder, and marched him home. “Come on, skeleton man. You’re skin and bones. Mealtime.”

Her hand squeezed, and she realized she was wrong. Artorian wasn’t skin and bones like he had been, and only by touching him had she realized it. She just remembered him that way, an old wreck of wrinkles and impoverished movements. His ribs used to be defined and visible, but now, they were no longer. He looked… well. While still a little on the weak side, his frame had bulked up nearly to the point of a young man. There was even some gray coming in at the base of his snowy beard-hair, and his face was considerably smoother. His walking cadence was not the labored step of a ninety-year-old; visually, he now appeared a respectable… sixty.

“Have you been replacing more than just your eyes?”

Artorian shook his head ‘no’. “Dear heavens, no. That process was atrocious. I’ve just cleaned myself up and fixed up problems with celestial Essence. It made me feel better than using refined Essence, which just temporarily improved what my body was already doing. Celestial actually patched me up. I have years to go until I get to a nice and healthy state, and I am going to have trouble with what you call meridians.”

The Acolyte's hand on the old man’s shoulder caused him to relax. “Oh, why is that?”

As this was something she was struggling with at the moment, she hungered to know more. Having been told in secret that her lifespan would vastly increase—a desperately needed trait for a cultivator—she had sizable interest. Finding the thread of conversation again, Artorian rambled on while looking around on his way home.

“Vital organs are called vital for a reason. When I had corruption running through those channels, I also became aware of all the densely gathered impurities present in those organs. Take my heart as an example; I can gently scoop it clean of corruption, but that doesn’t account for parts of my heart that have become steeped in it over the years. If I push Essence into the meridian channel that goes to my heart… I am… I believe the impure aspects would be forcibly ejected. In other words, I would have a heart attack just by attempting.”

“The cleaned portions of my heart have become so bound by Essence that it relies on Essence to continue its primary function rather than what typically regulates it. That is, Essence keeps it steadily beating, keeps me alive. If I fail when opening that particular meridian, the heart attack would force me into such discord… I would lose my trained concentration on my Center. The entire system would collapse in on itself, and just like that—*pop*.”

“No more Artorian.” He folded his hands behind his back and locked sharp blue eyes with the young priestess. “You won’t have this worry, as your cultivation technique doesn’t have the chance to fracture like mine does. Your only concern is having enough Essence in your system to let it flow through you and allow the binding of your heart to happen. If I had to measure by the corruption in me before, it would take more Essence than you currently have in total to bind all your meridians at once.”

“So, if you are at all able, find how to stop after only a single or small number of meridians have been affected. I need to speak to someone who knows the right words for this, but the idea remains the same. I’m merely using simpler terms. I believe there’s a difference between what I did to my eyes and what I expect binding meridians does. Somewhere I skipped a step, and I’m paying a price for it. If I could do to my vitals—or body—what I did to my eyes… that would balance things out.” Artorian took a deep breath. “However, if I try that now, it’s just a death sentence.”

“The amount of Essence it requires is vastly above the maximum amount my organs can hold. If meridians are a middle step that allows one to skirt around this, that would be delightful indeed. I need more data.” He grumbled to himself under his breath. Yvessa opened the door to his abode in the cloister, ushering him in. Without needing to be prompted, Artorian slid on to his bed and pulled close his writing implements. He needed to jot all of this down while it was fresh. He failed to notice Yvessa had left and returned with a full meal until there was a strong nudge in his shoulder and a spoon full of stew in his face.

“Oh. Stew!”

Yvessa snorted. “Artorian, for a man with so many options for sight, you’re awfully blind.”

The old man rubbed his left eye as he scarfed down the offered spoonfuls of well-flavored food. He was so busy eating that he didn’t register her jab. “This sauce is always so flavorful. I do enjoy it. Not to complain, but wasn’t there talk of fish?”

Yvessa calmly nodded with a flat expression while she got him to eat the full bowl. She took his quill and paper sheets as his hands stopped moving, using a wet corner of the nearby towel to clean his mouth off. She hoisted him properly into a sleeping position on the bed and then tucked the dozing, old man in. If she was going to do anything today, it was making sure this wily academic got proper sleep.

Even if she had to use Tibbins’ ‘special sauce’ to do it. Tibbins had been growing quite the herb garden and was the cloister’s unofficial-but-official cook. He had found his passion in the craft and barely did anything else he didn’t need to if it meant getting more time for his herbs, kitchen, and culinary experiments. Patting the snoozing Artorian on the head, Yvessa noticed he wasn’t wheezing anymore when he slept. Good.

“You keep getting better, old man. Just keep getting better.” She quietly closed the door behind her and left the snoring body behind. When the door clicked against the frame, Artorian slowly opened an eye and reached under one of his myriad pillows to pull free a small satchel. Chewing on some leafy greenery contained within, he swallowed the bitter antidote to the sleeping draught.

Pleasantly patting his tummy, he settled down into his bed with a wry little smile. As if he didn’t know what crushed Valerian root tasted like when it was used as a food additive. He’d sleep when he was abyss-well ready! Artorian picked up his neatly stacked pages from the desk. Dipping the quill, he once again began merrily scratching and scribing.

Today had been a good day. Tomorrow… oh, he had such plans for tomorrow.

Chapter Thirty-One

Artorian woke late, covered in an abundant pile of messy papers that spanned the area of his immediate reach. Odd. He’d missed hours of cultivation time, and the cloister camp was full of activity. He must have gotten whacked by that powdered root even after taking the antidote. That the mess was still present told him Yvessa had not been by this morning.

An excellent opportunity to hide the scene of his crime and stack his papers with professional neatness! He hadn't been an academy scribe for nothing back in the day, and he was pleased to see that his script was delicate and impeccable. A little flowery, but who cared so long as it was legible? Artorian snatched the robe off the wall and called it good. The academic felt grimy without his morning wash but decided he would postpone it until he had some clues about the current kerfuffle.

It took the span of leaving his front door to see wounded priests being carried into the medical section of the cloister. What in the abyss had he missed? Sleeping drugs, how he hated them! Wading through the busy mess of injured people being carted back, he didn’t even get the chance to ask basic questions. His eyes widened at the sight of a captured raider being wrestled down. Even bound, the man was a wild animal. The raider howled like a mad, terrified beast.

Essence powered punches to the face failed to shut the man up… until his head was bashed against a rock to force unconsciousness. What did these monsters endure to be able to shrug off blows like that?

“Raiders? Again?” Artorian spun in place and held firm to this particular clue. Asking any of the superiors would put him in the way and may delay needed efforts. No, he had better sources to ask. Breaking into a run that immediately took a toll on his breathing, the blue-robed old man zipped past tents, bursting into the medical section.

The noisy medical tent had a few priests in it already. Based on the number of cots being dragged in… he had a good hunch there would be more wounded incoming. The Acolyte in charge of restoring the Initiates to good health didn’t have time for him, fully focused on closing an ugly arrow wound that oozed with some slick, crystal clear venom. The Acolyte was sweating, having to wipe the wetness from his forehead with his previously white sleeve. The edges were drenched and bloodied from triage, and he was doing his best to tend to the uncooperative wound.

The weariness of the thick-bearded man was clear, and the tide of wounded continued to pour in. Artorian advanced and cycled celestial-Essence sight in a hurry, providing his irises a minor golden outline. He learned that the Acolyte was trying to find a balance between purging the venom and healing damaged tissue. Artorian was swift in his words and actions, pressing hands around the wound and ignoring the irritation of the Acolyte.

“I’ll cover basic restoration. You have proficiency in this matter, focus on the venom.” The grumpy Acolyte wriggled his thick mustache but could see that the old man was funneling celestial Essence into the wounds, slowly allowing them to close. With half of his problem accounted for, the Acolyte focused his efforts on this pain-in-the-ass venom.

By the time both of them had cleared and stabilized the Initiate, four more had been laid in cots. The young ones looked equally haggard, many of them pale and resisting the slow call of death as paralysis spread through their vitals. As soon as this one was stable, Artorian hurriedly followed the healer to the next man to save. Artorian had his bloodied hands pressed to the wound as the injuries bled without clotting.

With the healer checking for venom, Artorian was silently allowed to continue providing basic restoration, matching the healer’s pace and stride. Not a word was spoken between them as they moved from patient to patient efficiently until they finally reached the eighth person. Two more healers ran into the tent, bloodied and dressed in the regalia of the expedition group. The mud and grass still sticking to their clothes was a clear giveaway that they too had freshly returned from the battle.

Relieved at their arrival, the heavy-mustachioed healer collapsed from Essence exhaustion. Sweat stained his clothing, and the ragged breathing betrayed just how much he’d overexerted himself to get this far. Artorian was beading sweat as well but had his wits about him. With the practiced clarity of a battalion commander, he forced the new healers into position. “Venom removal is priority! Two-man teams on an envenomed Initiate—dedicate one healer to venom and the other to restoration!”

He’d made this call based on the priority order he’d seen the healer apply. Artorian didn’t question the healer’s choice of pattern, so he adopted the trend from the person that did this for a living. Initiates with small injuries were in pain, but they were going to live. Larger injuries needed attention, but they had longer than the ones with envenomed arrows pin cushioning them. That killed.

Artorian stepped right into it to pick up the slack and was glad to have one of the new healers whisk to the opposing side of the Initiate he was keeping alive. Venom treatment was picked up by the expedition healers, having been given a primer on what to do before arriving.

An Acolyte that was healthy enough to get back up carried the collapsed Head Healer out of the way, laid the stocky man down, then sped off to fetch additional healers so they could save more Initiates. From the complaints and clamor, captured raiders were apparently being tied down one tent over; they would just have to wait until the clerics had been tended to.

Artorian was burning on the inside. His fire corruption was screaming with glee inside of the entrapping ring. Captured raiders meant possible answers, and if he wasn’t focusing his attention on patching up the Initiates… he would have happily taken the role of an Inquisitor. It had been over two years, and there were things he needed to know. Something. Anything concerning the current status or whereabouts of his sproutlings. His impatience to patch himself up to standard had netted him a few setbacks, and he had needed to come to terms with the truth.

Artorian was not going to be able to do anything for his little ones if he was unable to survive. He was going to have to fight once again, and if the current status of these Initiates was anything to go by… he was considerably outmatched and outnumbered. A palm tap on his shoulder broke his train of thought. The Head Healer was behind him, now glancing at the Initiate Artorian still had his hands on.

The gruff voice carried a dwarven cadence. This healer didn’t sound like he’d grown up in a human household. “Oi! Don’ be draining yourself like I did now. Rest if you need teh, or we’ll just be adding another injured body to the growin’ pile. I’m Hadurin Fellstone, Head Healer of this motley expedition crew.”

A strong handshake was shared between the two men. Fellstone had quite the experience under his belt. From the width of his belt, that was a lot of experience. “Artorian. A pleasure, my good sir.”

Hadurin slapped him on the back and pointed at another lad that needed help. “I’ve heard of ye. Heal a soul while we chat. I didn’t think you’d be of any use, given ya have a personal hospice caretaker an all. Now, look a’ this. All capable of caretaking others. Wish I’d have known earlier, would have put ya to work!”

Fellstone released as hearty of a laugh as he could manage with his Essence drained. “Ah abyss, I’m dry as an empty bottle. An’ look here, not a drop in sight. Bleh.”

Artorian chuckled at the words as he tended to a youngster that had serious wounds but didn’t require venom tending. Hadurin had fallen still and was watching with interest. “Ya know yer way around wounds far too well teh just be a wee old lad. That robe isn’t doin’ ya any favors neither. Sore thumbs stick out less than yer blue butt.”

Artorian smiled and chuckled louder. This man had a great sense of humor in him, and the grandfatherly figure was rather fond of the directness. He told the dwarf-raised-man what to do, “Look at my Center.”

Fellstone folded his arms and used a tiny bit of Essence to have a look. The flabbergasted mixture of horror and surprise on his face was more gratifying than the sweetest dessert. “By the cracked bones of the dreaded deeps.”

The Head Healer quieted himself after catching himself say that a bit too loudly. “Yer in the D-ranks, but you’ve got no fractal. Not a single one of yer meridians is open? Somehow, you’ve got yer Aura storin’ Essence like a C-ranker… though it’s not the least bit built or infused. I would have said yer body is a wreck, but if I didn’ know better… I’d say you either infused your eyes or figured out how to do somethin’ even better. I’ve never even seen a C-ranker with eyes tha’ infused. It’s like they’re made of the stuff.”

“I don’t even want to know what that spinny thing is where yer spiral should be. Reminds me of a gyroscope my Pa had me play with as a wee lad. Awful bright in the middle of it though. I can only catch glimpses when none of the circles are in the way. Quit moving, ya wee bastards!”

Artorian’s laughter forced his hands to jerk, almost doing some damage to the Initiate with a badly pushed energy flow. He verbally deflected the healer’s words as he looked down at his own chest, “Keep moving, don’t listen to him. You’re pretty and useful.”

Fellstone was the one to have a chuckle this time. “Oh, now that’s a treat. Ya talk to yers, too? Behaves better when you do that, don’ it?”

Artorian was pleased to have found someone else who talked to their cultivation system and felt the thought that he might be crazy for doing so fade. “Indeed, I do. It makes everything behave much better. I have theories as to why, but nothing I can share just yet. You said quite a few things just now that I have questions about. However, would you happen to know how I could open my meridians without falling over dead? Even I know my heart can’t take it.”

Fellstone had a merchant’s grin on his face. “Oh, sure I do. Depends on what yer willin’ teh trade me for it, Mr. Four-Open-Affinity-Channels and somehow still walkin’.”

Artorian knew that had been coming. It seemed there was really no such thing as a free lunch. He had to simply be satisfied that at least Hadurin hadn’t asked why he wasn’t dead. He was so tired of hearing that. The Head Healer could tell that the old man was taking him seriously. The stare into the distance look showed that Artorian was thinking through his options.

“I believe all I’m able to offer you is my time. I have no goods worth mentioning, and you have knowledge of cultivation past my own understanding. My only bargaining salt is your earlier mention that you’d have me work for you. Let’s not play. I’m aware you can’t draft me nor force me to do work. If I offer… well, that becomes a different matter, does it not? Let’s talk.”

Hadurin was amazed that the old man was so sharp. He’d been expecting a fragile, old dog who could provide some extra healing, but no! Artorian was full of goodies, and all he needed to trade was knowledge? Information that this sly fox could potentially get elsewhere?

“Aye. I want all teh time that ye can manage to stay standin’ for teh duration. As long as the expedition is here, since I can’t make ya come with me after. If ya can do that, I’ll help ye out with yer meridian problem.”

Artorian held up a hand with all his fingers spread wide. “I can give you a hand’s worth of hours each day, but any more and my health will suffer. I am bedridden on paper, and when my caretaker finds out what I’m up to… well… she is going to drag me by the ear to my cot and force me to sleep.”

Hadurin extended his rock-hewn hand. “Aye, that’s a fair trade. I get yer skilled labor when I need it, and ye get yerself a few extra years to enjoy livin’. Not gonna pretend I didn’t notice teh sty of corruption ya got there.”

The old men clasped wrists, firmly shaking on a deal well-struck.

Chapter Thirty-Two

“Let’s patch up your sons and daughters. After, I’ll go and see if any of the raiders you brought in are talkative. They may not talk to someone in a cleric’s regalia, but… they may speak to me.”

“Aye, got as much luck gettin’ anything out of that lot as I do findin’ a drink in teh cloister. I’ll be getting teh reports together from this lot.” Fellstone liked this plan, mostly because his new temporary recruit was right. He paused to carefully watch Initiate healers pile into the tent and get to work on the priests with major and minor injuries. He had to get involved a few times to set priorities, but otherwise, the work was assigned in a hurry.

“From what I gather so far, this group of raiders is a splinter faction. Lots of infightin’ in teh clans. Got bold and pushed a surprise raid on Lapis. Bastards didn’t know there was an expedition force next door. They got trounced, we captured a few. Preferably, we need ‘em alive for questioning, but seeing as you won’t be patching up many more people… I’ll leave it up to yer discretion so long as ya can get a good tale out of ‘em or can make one squeal. Come talk to me about yer meridians when you’re nice and full up on Essence. You’ll be needin’ a caravan load of it even with me keeping ya alive as you get it flowin’.”

A strong pat hit Artorian in the upper arm as the Head Healer released him from the area. Both of them nodded as they went to their respective tasks. Hadurin nudged an Essence drained healer and caught his breath. “Lad, ya overheard me. Tell the guards one tent over that Blue Robe over there can talk to the captives. Also, it might get a touch… screamy. Roll with it.”

With a pat to the back, the experienced but drained healer was on his legs. He managed to make his way over to Artorian, and both of them walked the short distance to the guarded captives’ tent. After the healer explained the situation, Artorian was allowed in, and the flap was closed behind him.

Several of the raiders were awake and full of fury. Most of them were gagged. Artorian slid his hands behind his back. He wondered how to introduce himself but found it best to lie and go with an option they might recognize. “Good evening. I am the Elder of the village of Salt. I’m here to take care of you.”

The raiders grunted, not buying the story. They communicated in sets of muffled sounds and angry whines through their gags. Artorian just stood there and felt himself dip into the sea of fury splashing around his heart. His voice existed in a flat plane of emotion tempered with control… but filled with rage. “I’m only going to ask this once. I don’t particularly care who answers. If you answer one of my questions, you live. Please be aware… I only have two questions. One. Where are abducted children taken when they have been snatched from a village. Two. Why the attack on Lapis?”

The questions didn’t continue, but no answers came. The old man walked to the closest raider, and seemingly without feeling or remorse, broke his neck with a *snap*. It silenced the others, who had previously been laughing at him through their gags. Cold terror suddenly replaced mirth. A muffled reply from the second raider whose head Artorian casually and gently embraced, “Mno… Mno!”

*Snap*!

Silence and the slow pitter-patter of footfalls from the old man were the only things audible in the tent as the second raider was ended.

“Mno! Ait! Unno. Iunno!” The third raider went icy with panic, struggling against his bonds as his head was gently held. Tears almost had the time to develop before a *snap* ended that possibility. A panicked raider near the middle of the room wasn’t going to die like this.

“Uoolf affle! Ufkove Affle! Idf awe achen cho ufkove affle!”

Rather than break the fourth raider’s neck, the pitter-patter closed the distance to the talkative boy, and his gag was removed. “Once more. With clarity.”

Artorian’s voice was flat, cold, and leveled a sense of finality. The panicked breath this surprisingly young raider took shuddered, and he barely got the words out, “Duskgrove Castle.”

The other raiders thrashed against their bonds at the traitor, or at least, the brainwashed majority did. Two weren’t budging, very aware that with only two questions available, only two of them were going to have a chance to live if the rules were ironclad.

“We take kids on orders. The big boss likes them young, says they’re pliable. Whole lot of seasons back, big boss slaughtered a whole castle after posin’ as hired mercs. Place is called Duskgrove Castle. Reaper faction o’ the raider clans flies a high flag. It’s where we’z told to take the lil’ unes. Please dun’ kill me. I was just followan’ orders. I was just… followan’. If I din’t…” His words broke down to chuckled tears, unable to continue. If any of his fellows got out, they’d end him. If the rules that had been set were a lie… then he was about to die anyway.

Artorian gave the broken raider a pat on the cheek. There was hope for this one. “You live, youngster.”

He paced to the flap, tapped on it, and poked his head out. Swiftly, the guards were inside, and the entire cot the raider was bound to was carried from the tent. Talkative raiders were useful; no need to waste them if they thought they were going to get out. That decision was up to the clerics now. With absolute, inhuman calm, Artorian paced back to the thrashing fourth raider he’d ignored prior to the lad answering a question.

*Snap*!

The muffled speech of one of the quiet ones who hadn’t thrashed earlier picked up on the far edge of the cot line. “Oear ab!”

The old man saw fit to remove the gag. The also very young raider quickly stated, “Power Grab! It was a power grab! Why kill my friends? They couldn’t say anything! They have gags on!”

Artorian normally appreciated questions. This was not that time. His grip moved around the raider’s head. “Tut. It’s rather simple. When it comes to things I care about, I’m remorseless in my pursuit of them. To me, you’re not just simple, little raiders trying to feed yourselves. To me, this is war. You see, any society that I consider worth going to war with must have social aspects that so violently conflict with my nature… my view of the world… that your ‘suppression’ is inadequate.”

“I don’t hold the view of war being a ‘minor disagreement’. This is not ‘he took my sock’. It is the willful understanding that the beings I have designated as enemies are so anathema to what I believe in that it warrants their utter destruction. In the event something ought to be destroyed, it, therefore, ought to be destroyed in its entirety.”

The raider died with the tone of a sharp spinal *crack*.

“You’ve all seen fit to knowingly make everyone else’s lives miserable… for the simple benefit of yourselves. People may change, but patterns really don’t. The amount of effort it takes a person to change is sizable and also requires the desire to do so. Merely saying you’ve changed is irrelevant. It must show in your behavior, your actions, for years to come. Frankly… I don’t have the luxury of time. My response now is that I see your intent to destroy all I love and hold dear. You have no desire for diplomacy, or you would have attempted it. I see no way for you to thrive in life alongside me without me risking everything. Therefore…”

*Snap*!

He strolled to the next raider. “Therefore, with much sadness in my heart, I declare that you—and all who take part in the eradication of that which I cherish—must be eradicated in turn. I don’t despise you for your choice. I merely tell you that this response is the outcome I am willing to live with. This is my peace, as I now send you to yours. I condemn you.”

*Snap*!

The bonds of the raider that hadn’t thrashed began to fray. Releasing the head of yet another dead raider, Artorian turned and cycled some Essence. “Oh, how curious. A cultivator?”

The raider buckled against the restraints, getting both his upper arms free at the same time. Maliciousness burst in the raider’s eyes, but it simmered to a pale chill as both his hands were grasped firmly by the old man. Artorian was holding the straining hands with his own, still having a look deep inside the man. “That’s quite some progress you’ve made! If you get any more freedom, I believe you’d have the upper hand. You know… today, I am not a good man.”

The raider bit through his gag and spat out the scrap of cloth. “I’m going to tear you apart, or I am not Alphas!”

“Hush now. I’m knowingly and willingly doing some awful things. I must thank you for the opportunity you’ve provided me. In truth, I’ve been dying to know how this interaction worked.”

Essence built against the raider’s right hand, and a void pulled at his left. Being stuck on the cot, the raider saw an opportunity for free Essence. He tried to siphon from whatever technique the old fool might be building.

Alphas the raider had the best Chi control of any of the secret cultivators in his raiding clan. He was a proud F-rank nine. Overpowering an old man was going to be no effort at all, and now he’d even be able to steal some free Essence from the pathetic old man’s skill. A vicious smirk snapped into place as he pulled at the Essence the old man was pushing. Power poured into him with the force of an ocean, and he willingly accepted the conduit link. He started laughing as he was immediately pushed to… F-rank… ten? That didn’t exist!

Then he felt dreadfully sick. If there had been an F-rank eleven, he thought he would have been forced into it. Instead, he was physically ripping and about to burst from the inside as too much power flooded in. The raider’s muscle pulled so tightly on his bones that they tore along his arms and legs.

An F-rank body simply couldn’t hold that much, and the imbalance was shredding him. Looking for any sort of outlet, he pushed his Essence on to the waiting, pulling void and completed the connection fully. Excess Essence drained off as his eyes and ears suffered profuse bleeding, already long past risk of severe internal damage from Essence overdose.

Then… then came the part he had not been ready for. He both felt and saw the completion of the energy flow in who he was connected to, and the literal sun that exploded with resplendence overloaded his numbed senses. This wasn’t a pathetic old man at all! He’d been tricked!

In a panic, the smile vanished from Alphas’ face. He forcibly tried to sever the connection, but it was to no avail. Alphas felt nauseous as a full rank of cultivation was ripped out from his Center with all the gentleness of a log being struck with lightning. A second rank of cultivation quickly followed, dropping him to F-rank eight. Something worse was afoot. Alphas realized that what the right-hand connection was pushing into him wasn’t Essence anymore.

It was… heavy. Dense. Bad. It felt like Essence at first. Once the bubble broke inside of his system from the pull, he learned otherwise. The ripping twist of force drained his Essence out of his left-handed connection, while a sick, vomitous stream of corruption bombarded his Center from the right.

Being hit straight on by siege weaponry would have hurt less than the agony which quickly built. Endless streams stifled, drowned, burned, and whirled inside of Alphas as he dropped to F-rank three. His Center space was aggressively being replaced by torrential maelstroms of corruption that didn’t get along, destroying the man from the inside out. Channels that needed Essence to sustain themselves were clogged by the corruption, and with a pained final sputter… *Hurk*!

Alphas felt his very spiral being rent from his Center as it fully filled with a bloating force that was going to drive him insane. Only when the last of his Essence had been pulled from his left hand did the connection break, preventing any of the corruption from cycling back into the old man’s system. Alphas convulsed on the cot. He shook, trembled, and turned a violet red as his eyes spotted bloodshot and thick foam slid from the sides of his mouth.

A few moments later, Alphas was dead. The noises had cowed the remaining raiders. A few of them wet themselves from the absolute horror they’d just heard from the strongest among them. Artorian quietly took stock of the result, having watched the full process in as much detail as he could. His voice had the pitch of an epiphany.

“Ah. I understand now. This is what a small fraction of my corruption does to someone else? I too would wonder how I’m not dead. I suppose I can stop getting annoyed when I am asked.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

Hadurin let out the heaviest sigh once he sat himself down in the confined cloister meeting room. His satchels rattled, and some vials clinked about in a leather pouch. He wasn’t one to wait on protocol and pressed forwards on the table from wrist to elbow. “Did ya have teh kill ‘em all, Artorian?”

A grumble went around the table as Head Clerics Tarrean and Nefellum compared notes, still far too busy for this annoying little spot of news. The Keepers were sitting opposed to each other, faces indifferently filled with an air of ‘I’m not talking to you’.

Marud and Hadurin also sat on opposite sides of the table, but unlike the other four, they had turned their seats and their attention so they could listen to whatever nonsense the old man had pulled this time. Yvessa and Tibbins leaned against the back wall with their arms crossed, silently whispering bets to each other on the outcome of the not-quite-roundtable talk.

Ordinarily, this would be called a debriefing, but Artorian didn’t get the benefit of such procedure since he had technically been operating under the instructions of the Head Healer, whose buns were now over hot coals. What interested the old man was the Head Healer’s name listed on the vellum in front of Hadurin. It made his mind work as the cogs of recollection turned. How… interesting. Hadurin was lying about his last name? He’d have pressed the topic if he didn’t feel dead tired right now.

Hadurin Fellhammer didn’t care about that, his voice gruff as usual. “Wasn’t a very good thing to do.”

Artorian slumped back in his seat, hands folded in his lap, his eyes locked on to an empty spot of the table with half-lidded effort. “Wasn’t it, my friend?”

The table made a dusty thump as Hadurin dropped his fist on it. Everyone simply held on to their particular stack of papers without so much as an additional glance. They knew what the dwarf-raised human was like.

“No! T’was not! We got one chatty one! When we came in to check on the rest, it was a broken neck party that everyone was invited to!”

“I suppose it’s true that I didn’t need to kill them. I could have simply prevented them from harming anyone ever again.” Artorian pressed his thumbs together. Fellhammer threw his hands up at the oblique statement. “Then I thought about it some more… and realized I was being delusional. I couldn’t have stopped a thing.”

Hadurin felt his general mood alter from admonishment to confusion. It showed in his tone as his arms dropped. “Wha…?”

Artorian released his hands from one another and held up his thumb, counting with his fingers. “Good and evil are words that get thrown around a lot. Yet, when it comes up… someone tends to twist the meanings and rules so it will fit the outcome they’d like. Something can be both good or evil with a simple change of perspective. A persuasive enough person can convince you of such. That’s my warning to you, my friend. So, rather than argue with you on your beliefs, I’m going to lay out what I was thinking. Then you give me your opinion. Fair?”

Fellhammer squeezed his lips together and crossed his arms in defiance, but the grumble that left him was one of assent.

“I believe there’s a difference between willful evil, uncaring evil, and evil that came about because you had no other choice. A lesser evil, if you will. Now, I’m not going to bother getting into if it’s a ‘bad thing’ to kill someone. I know the Church wants to keep their image intact, but those Initiates were awful bloody, and the raiders captured were maybe a fraction of the ones who died in the field.”

A few people in the room didn’t know what the word fraction meant, but they just followed along best they could. “I gave a clear directive to all of the raiders. Something simple. I set a requirement, and I set an outcome that let them avoid it.”

Hadurin crassly interrupted him, “You were breakin’ necks.”

Artorian tiredly exhaled. “Crude and unkind, yes. Also, effective. It got the point across in a snap.”

Tibbins and Yvessa groaned, and a small pouch from the both of them was tossed to Marud, who caught them with a glimmering smile. Artorian ignored the gamblers and continued, “The report from the Keepers told us more about what the survivor spilled and confirmed that children are specifically taken at a young age. The reason of it being ‘easy to make them think a certain way’ is what bothered me. Once someone has a worldview and way of doing things, it can be impossible to break from that pattern. So, I hold that most people either can’t or, if they could, don’t. I’ve heard plenty a sob-story from a young woman on how they wished their partner would stop certain behaviors, was told he did, and then… clearly didn’t. Raiders are no different.”

Artorian took a drink of water, as he had their uncomfortable attention. “The survivor, the boy. He was the last category, doing evil because he had no other choice. You could tell from his voice, his willingness to cooperate, to let me know that he was in that mess against his will. Doing what you’re told isn’t good enough!”

He paused to collect himself, and several people swallowed hard. “I have the years, the experience, to tell the difference between tears and acting. He isn’t a bad lad, just had everything working against him. Given a chance, his pattern can change. Even a small section of the report from the Keeper is enough proof for me to believe he wants to, badly. That’s the kind of drive that allows a person to become someone new.”

The old man paused, but there were no questions. “Uncaring evil is the same as apathy. These people simply don’t care. There’s no reasoning with them, as nothing you say could possibly have an impact on the actions they’ve chosen to take. If they’re a raider, that’s it. You will get nothing out of them, and you can’t turn them around. The same is true in anyone. If you don’t care, you won’t do.”

“Willful evil is in people who are easier to blame. They are excellent scapegoats, as you can tag the wanted poster on them. They enjoy making the lives of others miserable and put effort into it. To the abyss with those people. A trip to the gallows for every last one of them! I don’t care what position, social status, or power they might hold!”

Artorian raised his hand and snapped his fingers twice to make a point. “I ended people who would do nothing other than commit acts which would eventually harm or kill people, as they committed willful or uncaring evil. Does it make me an evil person to put my foot forwards and sweep the broom to clean the dirt off my floor? Is it justified, or does that not matter? People make laws about don’t do this and don’t do that. In the Fringe… that boils down to social understandings with one another. Nothing is written in that fashion; we just know the rules we’ve agreed to follow with one another. Writing it down is needed when you have to lord it over someone to enforce your rule.”

“To my firm distaste, it is the people at the top who tend to then make additional rules to protect themselves or their interests, rules their subjects can’t prevent them from creating and enforcing. The Fringe is clear on what to do with someone unwilling to be of a benefit to the community as a whole. They are named Poison.”

Hadurin grumbled, “I can already take a strong guess as to what happens to ‘em.”

Yvessa was given a small pouch by Tibbins, who was sour-faced having to let some of his prized herbs go. Artorian shrugged. “My point is that I understand that rules have their place, and it’s better to do good. However, I’m too old to base my decisions on rules that are questionable at best. So, I’ve firmly decided to only act on the decisions where I believe I will not regret the outcome. I make the choices I am willing to live with. Even if the outcome isn’t what I thought it was going to be—my choices, my actions, my life—lived out the only way it matters.”

The Head Clerics had stopped their page ruffling, now paying attention. Marud knocked his knuckles a few times on the table for attention, his baritone cutting in. “That’s one strong personality hidden in that fragile shell of yours. I’m going to cut this short because the situation isn’t as bad as it looks. The report says that Hadurin listed ‘At your discretion’.”

The large vice-commander tapped a pointed finger at the document in question. “The information we needed, we have. By all accounts, your personal views are not being called into question. The task you were requested to do was fulfilled. Your viewpoint gives context on why we have a tent full of dead raiders that needs sanctifying before we throw them on the bonfire, but I’m not interested in the philosophical debate here.”

Marud then changed his face to a scowl directed at Fellhammer. “If you had been here on time to hear the full report, you would have known that. The guard came to tell us you were pacing in your tent muttering to yourself about how the old man got you in trouble. We have the information. So. What trouble?”

Marud’s sharp look warmed up to his trademark smile. Celestial were his teeth white. Hadurin felt a weight drop from his shoulders. The Head Healer slumped deeper into his seat than even Artorian. The healer rubbed his face and took a sharp breath, getting a hold of himself.

“Right then! I’ll catch up later. Where are we?” Joining the meeting, he reached out his stubby fingers, and Irene leaned over to hand him a freshly scribed copy of the agenda and notes for the day. Fellhammer frowned as he looked at the next item. “The old lady is awake? There was another one?”

An unscrupulous look swept across Artorian’s face. He sat back upright in his chair to pay attention.

“Please tell meh it’s not another one like ye. What’s this one got in her Center. Squares? All the squares come together to make circles or something?” The Head Clerics looked at one another in confusion. Squares? That was the moment Hadurin realized that these superiors didn’t know. They didn’t know Artorian was cultivating, or they would have gotten the joke about the circles. Everyone else, except for the expedition Keeper and the Head Clerics, had a thin smile on their lips. Just like that, everyone knew who else was in on it… and the silent pact to keep it hidden from the others was reinforced—if only to see how long they could.

Lots of secret betting pools were riding on it, after all. Artorian waved off that item as a footnote. “I’ll take care of her. I know what she’s like. Can she walk?”

Yvessa cleared her throat, and eyes turned to look at her expectantly. “She’s a… how to put this… a screamer. If she’s not passed out, she’s breaking down and blurting out nonsense, but there are a lot of words in there that sound like ‘raiders’ or something to do with raiders. A familiar face may help settle her. Yes, she’s able to be on her feet.”

Her voice turned lemon-sour. “I preferred when she was catatonic. Her main reaction to anything is to grab something and beat me with it. Endlessly.”

A chuckle went around the room, but Yvessa remained stoic and unamused. Her face was covered in some marks that could now easily be recognized as stick-shaped bruises rather than training injuries. Tibbins looked her over, and Yvessa didn’t spare him a glance to acknowledge it even as the cook began speaking, “So… how did she get a stick?”

With the eyes of the Head Clerics on her, she couldn’t afford not to respond. Yvessa bit her lip with irritation. “I thought that it would be easier for her to calm down and have a walk if she had a walking stick. So, I got her one. I didn’t know she was going to turn into a beast straight from the abyss! That woman is crazy! The wanton yelling that I'm a ‘worthless child’ isn’t improving my mood either. If she was like this before her mental shock, I believe I would have followed Keeper Irene’s example of conflict resolution.”

Irene’s pleasure was palpable as she got a mention. The Keeper’s eyes flashed to meet Keeper Kendra’s, whose butt she whooped on a nearly bi-weekly basis. The beatdowns had become so one-sided that betting had completely ended. Artorian rose from his chair without the usual *humpf*, his hand making a motion to Yvessa. She happily pushed off the wall and sunk an arm under his shoulder to help him up. Had to keep the image up in front of the Head Clerics.

“I am proving a distraction to this meeting and will excuse myself to go deal with that inconvenient old toad. Yvessa, could you be a dear and help me do a proper bow so I may excuse myself?”

Tarrean just waved his hand left to right with wild and impatient dismissal. “No need, Artorian. You’re pardoned.”

“With all the various connotations that brings.”

Chapter Thirty-Four

Yvessa ‘assisted’ the hunched Artorian with his dramatic show. He had even pressed a hand to the small of his back on the way out. Certain Church members at the table bit back laughter. Once outside, Artorian gave Yvessa a conspiratorial pat on her hand. “I’ll be alright to go alone, my dear. If she sees you again, she might start swinging.”

Yvessa’s face fouled like she’d smelled a fresh carcass. The caretaker didn’t say anything; instead, she just turned around so he couldn’t see her violent cringe as the muscles in her neck went taut. Artorian just kept on moving. His caretaker had the right of it. He heard the tent flap open and flop to a close as she returned inside. The thought of Switch and what that greedy bat had done still plagued him.

He was trapped in his mind until his fingers brushed against the rough wooden door of one of the exterior cloister buildings. One he had avoided for over two years out of sheer, blatant discomfort that he wouldn’t tell a soul about. This matter was personal. The door creaked open, and Artorian stepped in to find a bare room filled with only the most basic essentials. Switch woke up as a chair was moved, announcing that someone had sat down.

She croaked, “Get out.”

When the chair didn’t make the sound of pressure being relieved from it, she bothered putting in the effort to turn her face… only to feel like she died of shock as dread beat through what was left of her heart. Artorian swallowed, attempting to get his words out, his face mired in a deep, contemplative frown. He looked at the floor with his hands pressed together. He still couldn’t bear to look at her as he repressed the roiling emotions. “Why did you do it, Switchy?”

The woman crawled away from the specter. “What. No! You’re not real! You can’t be real. You should be…”

Artorian felt his anger boil over as he jumped to his feet, grasped the chair by its back, and threw it against the wall. The thoughtless motion was performed with enough power to shatter it on impact like she’d done to a cup all those years ago. “Dead?”

It had all occurred in the span of a moment. Switch cowered in the far corner of her bed, back pressed to the wall as her lower jaw shook and her teeth chattered. “E-elder, please.”

The malice had died in her tone, fear replacing it. Artorian found himself incapable of feeling pity. Considering it a moment, he didn’t know if he was capable of pity anymore. Instead, all he felt was a calm sea frothing with endless anger. “I don’t go by that title anymore. There are no remaining Elders of the village Salt. I use it for convenience or for some clever gain. Otherwise, that word merely chafes.”

“One can’t be an Elder when there is nothing to be an Elder of. The village is gone. All gone, Switch. Burned to dust seasons ago, along with most all its people. Our people. Our community. None got away, and my only grace is that some were taken instead of slain. Even that small reprieve turns my stomach. No, Switch. I’m not dead. I have to stay alive. I won’t die until I’ve fulfilled my one, last promise.”

“W-what promise?” Switch slurred out the words, just trying not to wet herself at this impossible titan in front of her. He felt so much larger than life. An unseen Aura oppressed her by sheer proximity, and she didn’t understand how or why. The crone felt crushed. It was difficult to breathe.

The Aura that oppressed her increased in pressure as Artorian spoke. It wasn’t that she couldn’t breathe but rather that something was making it nearly impossible to do so. Artorian didn’t realize he was causing the effect and just spoke with a voice filled with sadness, “I told them I’d be there for them. Those children are my world.”

The effect relented and released, the mental image Artorian had been upholding crumbling at the thought of their gleeful faces. He couldn’t hold on to hate when love tackled him from behind with such a comforting hug.

“Then… then why are you here?” Switch stammered.

A sigh came from the old man as he looked at the open palms of his hands. He spoke slowly and with deliberate intent, “Unfinished business. See… at first, I wanted to ask… no. Demand answers to a thousand questions. As the seasons flew by, that fell to hundreds. Then maybe ten. Eventually, I was content with just… one. Now… now, I need none.”

“I no longer care why you did it. I have a decent idea after finding the vellum you so disgustingly scratched your name on. I no longer care why you sanctioned the slaughter of everyone we held dear. I only care that you did. I’m not here to admonish you, Switch. I am here for something that will satisfy a hypocritical, terrible, old man.”

Their eyes met, and he finished his rant. “I’m here for justice.”

To Switch’s confused relief, Artorian turned and began to walk away but stopped short at the door. “Pick up your walking stick, you old toad. We’re going on a walk.”

The door opened, and the old man stepped through, his shadow visible through the opening while waiting on the other side of the threshold. It took several minutes for Switch to collect herself or even consider moving her legs out of the bed.

Night terrors had plagued her for what must have been seasons. Her mind had been trapped in the endless loop of mind-breaking, day-long nightmares that she found no way out of. No amount of repetition made the grueling agony dampen or hit her any softer, leaving her either unable or unwilling to interact with what was real.

The thick, old lady had thinned significantly, and she only really noticed when her feet finally hit the ground. The walking stick was taken from the table, and she leaned on it to support the majority of her almost nonexistent weight. The first rays of sunshine blinded her vision, but the sight that met her was nothing like what she remembered.

The hills and green plains were all the same—a similar landscape with a different fate. Nothing was left to show the village had once been here. Almost nothing. A new apiary was in place, the stone mill still stood, and the flats still reflected sunlight off of its thin sheet of water in the distance. She kept her hand in front of her face and saw Artorian had moved a good ten feet away, waiting on her to catch up. She wanted to talk, to say something meaningful.

Something that would make this all better. Her thoughts found nothing. So, they walked and walked. It was just to the stream where people washed, but the journey was draining. She was furious that the old man wasn’t the least bit tired. He actually looked healthier than she remembered. Far healthier.

He was waiting at the stream, his back turned to it as he looked up at the cloister in the space they’d crossed. It was simple but pretty, the way the buildings were organized. Even a simple few buildings were pleasing when they were placed in a harmonious formation. Supposedly, it helped with a cleric’s cultivation, to lengthen the amount of time they could cultivate their blessing from the heavens. He didn’t quite believe it, and he wondered how someone had come up with that idea. Was it architecture or faith that had come up with this layout?

Artorian looked down and noted Switch was still taking her sweet time staggering her skeletal frame over. Artorian stole another look a short while later, and Switch was almost at his side. She was so full of flaws, Artorian shook his head and found that he was losing himself to thoughts again since Switch was taking the extra time of his silence to catch her breath.

“Why… *wheeze*… why the stream?” Switch’s question was answered by a finger firmly pointed at the cloister.

“Look,” he ordered.

So, she turned and looked. The scene was the picture book representation of a religious compound, filled with plenty of buildings that all seemed rather small, save for the main cloister construction closest to the center. “It’s just a church now.”

Artorian shook his head at her words. A solid, dissatisfied no. “You’re looking, but you didn’t see.”

This was immediately frustrating to the old bat, and if she wasn’t leaning so heavily on her walking stick, she would have swung it at him. “See what? It’s buildings, walls, a big church, not a person in sight.”

“That’s right.” Artorian nodded. The unexplained agreement made Switch’s teeth clench, and she just about found the energy to chew him out. “Not a person in sight indeed. So, you looked, but did you see?”

A terrible thought struck the old toad. Balance nearly lost, she couldn’t feel the grip on her walking aid. She turned to firmly look again, hoping to see a person. A single someone. Anyone. Anyone at all who might be looking this way. She found no one. “Oh… oh… no… witnesses.”

Artorian again quietly nodded. Switch swallowed. It dawned on her what he’d meant by justice and hypocrisy. She was going to die. “I take it you’ll tell them I didn’t make it.”

The walking stick clattered to the ground and rolled down the dike. It plopped wetly into the stream, and the piece of wood floated off and away. She was afraid and yet… felt relief. She wouldn’t need to suffer anymore. There would be no lengthy question and answer segments that slowly unveiled how she’d betrayed and murdered her entire community. The punishment that could come upon her from that felt worse than her current fate. Rather the abyss she knew than the one she didn’t. She fell silent.

“You stepped into the stream, lost your footing, and were dragged away. One of the hollows in the deeper sections pulled you under, and you were gone,” the slow, tired, old voice filled in. “The only kindness I’m willing to give you is one you did not provide to the people we were responsible for.”

Switch felt out of it, like she wasn’t quite present in her own body. The will to live fled from her. Still, she caught his meaning as she closed her eyes. The haunting metal flavor still filled her mind, her taste, and overpowered any other seasoning. If the Elder was going to look for his Fringe children, she needed to relay the horror she’d caused.

“She took them. One by one. She made me watch as her gilded knife opened them up like pigs for slaughter. She bled them, ended them, and only silenced them when they could no longer make the screams she demanded.” Switch shuddered and brought her hands to her face as she stood still, tears of regret fell down her wrinkled, bony, scrunched-up face. Her words broke apart, as did her breathing. Artorian stepped behind her to place hands on her shoulders, and she found strength.

“The woman you’re looking for is called Hakan. She leads a raider and mercenary group named the Reapers. Her humor was as unbearable as her laughter. It’s easy to recognize her. She wears more blades than actual clothing and speaks with the smoothness of a healer performing bloodletting as he calms you.”

“I can’t recall her face. Only the laughter and the smile. Every single one of her men fears her. She slashes their faces at any hint that they might have been disobedient, but I remember the girls were all untouched. She gives them leadership positions and makes them do her cutting for her while she watches and directs. Don’t let the way she stands fool you; she’s fast. Uncannily fast.”

“Boro was the middleman. All the traders are in on it. All of them. There isn’t a single merchant who operates in the Fringe who doesn’t have to pass through raider territory, and I imagine it’s only gotten worse. Their numbers were more than I could count, but most of them were young and not at all smart. A select few tell the rest of that horde what to do. Most of those boys could barely think for themselves.” She staggered and nearly fell. Artorian kept her upright with strength she didn’t understand. She took a deep breath, the crisp, warm air beaten away by the ever-present, soft Fringe breeze.

The sky was blue, and barely a puff of cloud hung in the vast sky. She’d grown up here, lived here; it was only fitting she’d die here. She knew nothing else to get off her chest that might give any semblance of recompense. Switch stood there moments longer, looking at the sky.

She didn’t even feel the hands that sent her into the stream. Only the sensation of falling was noticeable, then water rushed to surround her.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Artorian wasn’t doing so well. He’d been quiet and had holed up in his abode for days. Yvessa came to check on him, and a few of the Initiates dropped by his window. He gave some weak handshakes, but even the Initiates could tell that something had taken the wind out of the man when the old lady had the accident.

The otherwise daily addition of his presence to the Initiates’ training left a sore spot, as there was just that much less… mirth. The Head Healer had come to do a check-up on long beard as well but found nothing physically wrong and had to assess that the drain was mental.

Artorian was excused from needing to start his support-healing duties right away, and the Head Cleric had a hunch that maybe killing all those raiders hadn’t done him any favors. All in the same day no less. Well, it had been two days, but none of the healers nor Artorian had gotten any rest that night. Over the next few days, all the old man did was cultivate. His efforts were focused on patching himself up. Something to keep busy, to keep occupied, as he let the mixed emotions of Switch’s passing wash over him. Pull, Refine, Move, Refine, Move, Refine. Repeat.

He had no hope of counting how many circles he currently had in his Center. At any point where it remotely felt like he was reaching some sort of refinement limit, he added more circles. All the good refined Essence still held a hint of starlight to it, regardless of how pure he seemed to get it. Everyone had a tinge of coloration in their Centers that differed in minor ways, usually based on the Essences they refined from.

Then again, almost everyone else was using the main cultivation technique that went around. There had to be more than he could glean from the basic information he had. So again, from the top. A cultivation technique encompassed the knowledge of how to consciously ‘pull’ Essence from the heavenly and earthen sources, how to control the Essence, how to ‘allow’ it to flow through the body, and how to circulate it to your ‘Center’ without damaging yourself. This included how to do so without gaining too much corruption.

All these separate aspects lent themselves to the practice of how to build a Chi spiral, so Essence gained was not Essence wasted. Those who gained the knowledge from a Memory Stone also got a clue on how to look into their own Center. ‘Clean’ energy was better, and when Essence was poorly processed, it retained some features of its source. That showed up as some kind of color based on a person’s affinities.

Combined Essences had different properties than singular Essences, and that let him make sense as to why instead of a single color, his Center diffused a shining resplendence. Once you had a spiral going, the next step seemed to be opening the governing and conception meridian sets.

A total of twelve vital organs separated as six Yin and six Yang. Acupuncture charts had somehow figured that out, though they listed the governing and conception meridians as independent from the twelve vital organs. He’d figure out later which practice was correct. Artorian checked his notes from his early days when corruption ran rampant, running down the list to refresh himself. He licked his thumb and turned the page.

“Alright, so. The Yin heart meridian—it receives flow upwards and then turns and flows downwards to the Yang small intestine meridian. The Yin lung meridian—upwards, then downwards to the Yang large intestine meridian. The Yin pericardium meridian—up, down to the Yang triple warmer meridian.”

Artorian shuffled to the next page. Now the reverse ones. “The Yang stomach meridian—receives flow downwards, then turns and flows upwards to the Yin spleen meridian. The Yang bladder meridian—down, then turns up to the Yin kidney meridian. The Yang gallbladder meridian—down, then up to the Yin liver meridian.”

He put the pages of notes side by side and then ruffled through a collection of healer’s scribbles he had compiled from the Acolytes. This listed what all those words meant, what body part it was, where it was, and what it did. The notes from acupuncture on the governing and conception organ—if there even was one—were confusing. It supposedly served as the source for connecting the kidney, heart, brain, and… uterus? He didn’t have that… He was pretty sure.

Artorian had learned too much about anatomy this last season. His head hurt. The document described the flow as ‘branches’ that veered off and connected everything together. Did it mean the spine, by chance? Artorian furled up the documents and bound them neatly for stacking. He had enough of that. He picked up his notes on progression. “Opening your meridians is dangerous with any corruption in you. It is like opening the front gate of a castle in the middle of a flood. In relation to water corruption, everyone would drown. Fair enough.”

“A clean system is necessary, and once a vital organ is opened, it likely uses Essence for a majority of its support rather than what you eat. Getting the Essence to them properly… hmm.” He hadn’t figured that one out. His previous idea to flood the channels with Essence had been a bad one. After you have your meridians taken care of, your body ought to be able to hold more Essence than ordinary, your health improves, and your resiliency increases slightly, or at least, it should.

Once the meridians were open, a lack of Essence would kill you. It was a one-way road. Stopping your Essence cycle after such a point was suicide, but surely, nobody would want to do that after they’d gotten this far? He waved off the thought and worried about consequences. Opening a meridian was going to forcibly cleanse it of all the things negatively affecting it, which is why his heart meridian was such a concern. With help, only less so.

If the Head Healer could keep him alive, then Artorian could focus on opening meridians and keeping his circles going. If he had to keep himself alive on top of controlling the process, his attention would be too split and had a significant chance of sending his entire system into a cascading crash. Sure, most of his Center ran on its own without his direct guidance now, but the weave on the corruption he was holding needed daily care. He’d gotten rid of a hefty chunk by pushing it into that raider, but the very act had been horrible.

Artorian would rather not do that again if he could help it. “Once all your meridians are good, normally, you’d turn your Chi spiral into a ‘fractal’. A fractal is leaps and bounds better than the ordinary spiral by a factor of at least threefold. How can I use this information?”

Irene had given him a headache, as she had hundreds of fractalized spirals when he’d looked. His math was good but not that good. Still, it had added additional leverage to the idea that Essence was additive. Much as his own rings added improved gain as he kept tacking them on, fractalization had much the same effect. The latter was better for Essence-influx, but it was a tradeoff he was willing to take… even if you’d need a gargantuan amount of Essence to keep improving.

Given his discovery that you could remake yourself, Artorian figured that the next steps would ordinarily be to enhance or infuse your body and your organs. This would make them even more Essence dependent, but you’d gain natural resilience to a higher degree. Then there was the matter of Aura.

It had been let slip that his wasn’t built or developed. So, more than just a convenient storage area? He supposed it made him an external rather than internal cultivator. A problem for later. Currently, he depended on it to survive, as it stored all his ‘good’ Essence due to his body being… unreceptive. He could try to store it in his cells but, abyss, did it hurt. There must be a solid reason older people didn’t normally become cultivators, and this was definitely a sizable part of it.

You could simply not rely on your body anymore. After Aura… he didn’t know. Although, there was a chance building up his body and internals would mean that he could finally begin storing Essence in it. That was a good while away.

Then there was the mystery of that infinitesimally small hole at the very innermost foci of his Center. He’d found it by accident when he was still working with Essence motes. A few of them just… disappeared. When he looked for the exact spot, he found that when Essence was passed over it, motes just vanished. He’d not had the courage to explore that just yet and was going to wait until he finished what he’d been learning about.

Artorian laboriously slid from his bed, bringing the work to the cabinet bench to neatly stack them. Somewhere along the line, you learned tricks that made you better at something temporarily, such as cycling Essence to your eyes. He’d found you could do it to more than just your eyes, having cycled it to his brain as often as he could handle.

Particularly on days like this, where a little extra all-around clarity went a long way. So long as it didn’t leave your body and the effort was slow and sustained rather than released in a burst, the Essence could be recollected to one’s Center. Big bursts of Essence were great for sudden increases in performance, but you lose the Essence because of it. Much like the incantations his caretaker had spoken of.

Sustained flows of Essences just made everything work more optimally. He tried it with his nose once but had regretted passing by the latrine for days. His ears made him hear things that had been equally regrettable. Mostly because once the organ was enhanced, it did everything better while refined Essence was cycled to it. Overhearing conversation was significantly easier but so was the ambient background noise. Tuning out certain sounds was going to need a new method of practice. Taste and touch worked similarly. It took a portion of your Essence away to uphold, but he got it back, so he didn’t complain.

Actual combat techniques were things he hadn’t worked on after some initial attempts. All progress was focused on getting him up and running. Fancy toys could wait. Any tricks he might cobble together would permanently relieve him of Essence, and that was too much to ask for right now. He spent Essence on the ever more demanding task of core operations, his circles, and his Center. Every little improvement to the weave needed to be fully capitalized on, and every ring required careful creation.

The basis for everything ate months of his life to work on, and that was with the bonus of being able to ceaselessly cultivate. Active cultivation was better, but he was location-locked for the full duration. Hunger and basic needs still fought for his time, and no amount of willpower ignored the pressing need to go relieve oneself. He kept significant pots of potable water nearby and relied on the steady influx of food from Yvessa to carry on. If he needed to arrange for meals himself, hours of his day would have been spent handling it.

Active cultivation wasn’t possible when distracted or otherwise engaged. Not for lack of trying, mind you. The best he’d been able to accomplish was letting the influx of sun and starlight do the heavy lifting for him. Sunlight was significantly easier to work with, likely due to the intensity. Starlight had some incredibly strange properties to it that he simply had not been able to pin down. Of course, until recently, he hadn’t even seen what he was trying to pin down.

Artorian was fond of the discovery and recounted it on his fingers. “Twelve parts water, one part air, three parts fire, and eight parts celestial Essence.”

*Wham*!

Having cycled that exact combination of Essence, his vision lit up with light rays. He could see light! What it went through, what it didn’t. How it interacted with things, people, and objects. How it reflected and refracted. A world of observation invisible to all. The best part of this kind of sight wasn’t that he saw objects. It was that he didn’t. Only light was visible, and everything else remained a black emptiness of where ‘stuff’ was.

If there was light, he had full vision so long as he cleared the line-of-sight restriction. Another addition in the same mixture of units altered the effect. Twice the correct Essence meant twice the range of vision and twice the penetrative power. He stopped cycling his sight and rubbed his eyes. The changeover from his old eyes to these Essence-constructed ones had massively increased the maximum amount of Essence they could hold before a backfire. It was somewhere around four times the amount of what normal, uninjured eyes should have been able to do.

He’d been over by eight units once. Never again. Blindness and eye-pain for a full night, while he was healing and mending them, was not worth it. Then again, overload on all the senses did that, and if you couldn’t heal it, the loss had a big chance to be permanent. That included Essence-built eyes, as the overload distorted the identity of what the organ was supposed to do. He’d rebuilt them slightly better the second time, but it was still something he’d rather avoid ever doing again.

The cost to do so had caused his Aura-stored Essence to drop by a loss measured in months. Still, he should have known better when he stacked his eyes with light-sight sixteen times. Seventeen is what had been the problem. The memory of the pain alone was enough to make him lose complete focus on what he had been doing.

Artorian violently recoiled and got back to work. He had children to save.

Chapter Thirty-Six

Artorian slapped himself on the cheeks, took a deep breath, and decided he needed some fresh air. Maybe he would go wild and have a conversation. The cloister had returned to the rhythm everyone was accustomed to. The drills, tired Initiates, chanting prayer, and material being dragged about filled the area once more. Tarrean had gotten the idea to lay cobblestone pathways, and that was a noisy endeavor. Acolytes and Initiates alike tended fields, saw to the growing orchard, carried bags of salt, and complained of bees.

The Keepers kept track of it all, and the superiors directed the efforts to keep things running smoothly, and none of these activities were things Artorian could take part in. So, having gotten his hands on a gnarled walking stick, his nose led him to the small abode near the apiary. Scents and smells prickled the senses, pleasantly bubbling from a large pot that released a delicious aroma. “Tibbins, my boy, are you here?”

The old man pushed the door open to find not only a wide-eyed Tibbins but also Hadurin Fellhammer with wooden spoons halfway into their mouths. Their bright eyes were parted like they’d just been caught red-handed stealing treats before appropriate mealtimes. Since the Fringe Elder had been right about needing a heftier food intake, rations were strict, in place for a reason, and they all knew it. This made food all the more precious, and thieves were punished harshly.

That Tibbins was an excellent chef didn’t alter the punishment or the orders themselves. The silence grew awkward as the three men unblinkingly stared at one another. Artorian curled his lips into a smile and started tapping his walking stick on the floorboards as he took some cautious steps forward. “Tibbins? Come now, my boy! Say something! You know I can’t see very well. Are you going to let a blind old man just wander about?”

He dramatically glanced about to random parts of the ceiling for effect. Tibbins and Hadurin quickly cleaned up and stowed their spoons away at his good-natured understanding.

“Down here, you old codger.” The Acolyte-turned-cook tapped his free hand on the paneling next to where the pot was bubbling, a large rod held to stir it.

“Ah, err, yes, greetin’s, Artorian. How are ye feelin’?” Hadurin settled on to a stool next to a well-organized rack of herbs.

“Hadurin! You’re here as well! Always good to have company. I’m getting better. Honestly, I thought I’d sneak in to see Tibbins and save Yvessa the trouble of bringing me my portion today. Chat a little. What brought you here?”

Hadurin picked up on the questioning notes that were emphasized when certain words were said particularly slowly. “Oh, well… I’m just helpin’ Tib here with some… err… herbs!”

Hastily, the Head Healer snapped some greenery behind him and pushed it into a stone half-cup. The sounds of pestle grinding against mortar churned as the herbs were crushed in haste.

“How nice, Head Healer. Would you mind if I ate here?” Artorian sat himself down on the only proper chair, arm heavily leaning on the table as he set walking stick down upon his lap.

“O’ course not! I’m sure Tibbins has some for ya.” Tibbins didn’t need the nudge in the ribs the healer gave him; he was already spooning out a meal’s worth into the usual bowl.

“Here you go.” The chef set the steaming cuisine down on the table and handed Artorian a smaller spoon.

“Thank you, my boy. How have you both been?” Artorian looked up when the reply wasn’t immediate, starting to waywardly stir with his spoon. Both were staring at him, clearly wanting him to answer that question first. “Oh, don’t look so concerned. I’ll be well enough with some time. I’m even considering picking up a hobby.”

“Archery perhaps. I lost my bow in the fire… oh, years ago.” His expression turned somber at the recollection. “I tried making replacements, but they snapped so badly that they contributed to firewood.”

Tibbins felt bad for the old-timer but shrugged it off. “It’s just a bow, and don’t stir like that. Scoop in from below with the flat of the spoon. You’re just moving the top layer about and not actually cooling your food any faster. Now, the bow. I’m sure requisitions have a spare or two lying around. They always have spares.”

Hadurin nodded to that statement. “Dey sure do. Standard practice is to have a little more than ya need with an expedition force, specifically for unforeseen circumstances. Ya never truly know what you’re goin’ ta need.”

The stocky man stopped grinding herbs and crossed his arms, nodding sagely. He gave his vial-filled satchel a pat, and the glass clinked on the inside. “The apothecary wing of the Choir even saddled us with excess weak-grade healing potions. Just for small injuries mind ye, but it’s a whole crate full! Heck, I picked myself up a satchel just to hold ‘em and have some on me at all times.”

“How helpful,” Artorian flatly intoned, hiding the gears turning behind his twinkling expression. “Will I be needing to use those if more injured arrive, as before?”

The Head Healer’s expression slipped from sage to grim. He wasn’t fond of seeing Initiates flood his tent with horrible injuries. “Aye. The faster we can get those souls back up on their feet, the better it is fer everyone. I’ll show ya how application works when needin’ to use it as a topical. Otherwise, just pour it down a throat. Doesn’ work as well, but gets the job done.”

Artorian blew on a spoonful of food and tried it. His cheeks flushed to a darker pink, and a jovial *mmm* left him. His eyes closed to really delve into the flavor. Tibbins felt satisfaction at the happy old man with a good bowl of food in hand and verbally went through the bow list. “Requisitions likely won’t just hand over a composite or a takedown bow. Longbows are a copper a dozen, but I don’t think they’d be spotted dead with one. Clerics have a reputation to uphold. A recurve bow, perhaps—unless they have a ceremonial bow that otherwise just gathers dust.”

“No ceremonial bow. If I accidentally harm it, Irene will use you as a pebble, then count how many times she can skip you across the surface of the salt lake.” Artorian scraped the wooden spoon against the bottom of the bowl, gently interrupting. Tibbins compressed into himself and didn’t enjoy the spastic, cold shiver curling down his arms and spine. “Recurve would be delightful. I could borrow one with a draw weight not normally used. Say one that’s a little too high.”

Fellhammer raised an eyebrow and regarded the old man with a question, “No explanation needed? Ya just knew what that type of bow is?”

Artorian swallowed his spoonful nonchalantly. “It’s not the first time I’ve indulged in the hobby. I’m decently versed in tiny spear hurling.”

He put the spoon down in the empty bowl, having been delighted with the scrumptious meal. “Since you’re feeling chatty. Meridians? Just what do I need? I can already cycle Essence and temporarily make certain bits work better, so I’m not sure if I follow the difference.”

Fellhammer’s displeasure grew in an instant. “Old man… are you telling me that you’ve been cycling Essence without having a single meridian open? You’re not supposed to cycle until you’ve got at least one! The Essence don’t come back fully if you don’t have something stable to connect it to.”

“Abyss be blazed…. what did ya do!” The Head Healer then immediately realized this had not been a problem for Artorian. Cycling Essence to his eyes, Hadurin investigated the old man’s Center. “Yep. All meridians still closed. Nothin’ to tether a cycle to.”

Artorian smiled. He relished in the little outbursts anytime the topic came up. He looked inwards, pensively stroking his beard without thought. “There most certainly is, my friend. All you need in order to cycle is to have a set return point with a firm enough Essence weave. So, any of my rings will do. Now, I can only bind a single cycle to a specific ring or set of rings, locking off those sources for anything else I may have needed them for. I will admit it’s not very efficient, but it does work.”

“I don’t see the problem. Looks like it works fine, just that a meridian would be much better,” Tibbins joined in. His cooking was fine to let simmer, and he didn’t want to keep being left out. The cook was exploring around Artorian’s cycle with Essence-filled eyes, fascinated by just how different it all was.

“I’m honestly having difficulty telling what rank you are.” Tibbins had some newfound pep in his voice, and Fellhammer joined him.

“Aye! Yer entire method blurs the clear lines of separation we’ve come to expect. Can’t say you’ve broken through into the C-ranks with how yer core is set up. It ain’t solid. So, I’d set ya in a solid D but anywhere from one to five!”

Artorian pulled his attention out of his Center so he could answer. “My incremental improvements lead to faster breakthroughs and weaker bottlenecks. I’ve no need to break my spiral into a fractal, as I follow the theme of the progress by adding additional rings. From what I’ve seen, the vortex of a spiral is just repeated in a fractal. Two spirals just mean twice the refinement. A fractal could likely be any number of vortex spirals, but the method of gain remains the same.”

He paused and grumbled, “I must admit it’s incredibly space efficient. I’m still working on discovering optimal distance between rings myself. Two rings just can’t occupy the same space or intersect. Both will break when they impact each other, and that’s quite the mess. However, we’re getting off track. Meridians?”

Fellhammer snapped back to his explanation, mesmerized by the spinning artwork on display in the old man’s Center. “Oh, ya just spindle yer Essence. Think of something like a rope or a line. Ya poke the tip into the holes on the outer edges of your Center. It’s harder than threading a needle, but after ya do, the Essence thread will get pulled. So be prepared to visualize a bunch because it’s going to unspool straight from yer spiral. It’s going to feel like you’re being drained of Essence via it bein’ ripped out of ya, but really, it’s just condensin’ and makin’ new paths all about yer insides. It’s all still there; it’s just spread out.”

“That means ya aren’t actually losing any Essence; it’s jus’ put to permanent use. I warn my Acolytes that they’re likely to drop some ranks in cultivation and to expect pain. Essence is forcing a new, energy-only cardiovascular system to exist in yer body after all. This is why in the Choir the first meridian we open is the heart. It’s the most dangerous, and we don’t want to lose a person when they’ve gotten that far. From the heart, ye can go most anywhere else. But for Essence, it connects to the–”

“Small intestine,” Artorian interrupted him.

The Head Healer lost track of his explanation from the mention and turned in his stool. He had been expecting some questions, not total understanding beyond what was told. “…Aye. How did ya figure that one out?”

The kindly old man just laid one of his hands over the other. “All those pathways used to be filled with highly volatile corruption. I’ve got a grasp of them but just didn’t know how to connect them with Essence. Flooding the system didn’t seem like the way to go, but I hadn’t figured out how to move Essence out of my Center without it being lost or spent. Cycling Essence by itself is costly. I was using a weave like what I’m doing for my circles to accomplish the effect but being told you can just thread the Essence and feed it in is very helpful. I’m honestly surprised it’s that simple. I take it the process is exceptionally painful, or you wouldn’t have bothered to mention it?”

The Head Healer dropped the need for explanation, concerned about the patient instead. “Aye, every single time. Tibbins can tell ya.”

Both older men turned to look at the cook, who was already violently nodding. “There isn’t a cooking accident that has hurt me more than the pain I experienced when opening my heart meridian, and I have neither the Essence nor the tolerance for the next. Not only is controlling the flow crucial, but it took me a year to have enough stored Essence just to not run dry during the attempt. Now, I always need a set amount in my system, or my heart will outright stop. It may be easier for the next one, but then I’ll need to keep hold of more ‘safety’ Essence, and I’m just… not ready for the pain.”

Artorian and Hadurin nodded in understanding, and Artorian held his chin in thought. “So not something an abundance of Essence is sufficient to fix, as the pain will overwhelm you. I expect that’s not the only downside.”

Hadurin groaned at that next part with a miserable sigh. “A~a~aye. Ya expel all teh impurities that teh meridian previously held as it opened. I get a cleaning crew ready when I’ve got enough people that need serious punishment.”

Artorian leaned back in the chair, pensive. “Would being in a stream at the time of opening help? Swifter cleanup?”

The Head Healer shrugged. “Ah s’pose it’d mitigate teh need for a cleanup crew.”

Pleased, Artorian snatched his walking stick, rose, and did a minor stretch. “Very well, then. I’m off to the stream to open my heart meridian!”

The clerics snapped their heads to look at him in unison. “Right now?”

“Right now,” Artorian confirmed their fear and was already striding to the door. Tibbins could not leave his station since he had meals to cook, so he threw a pleading look at the healer who was already scrambling to his feet and following a very determined Artorian to the stream.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Hadurin chased after Artorian in a panic. “Ah can’t recommend ya do this! Slow down, ya stubborn bugger and think clearly about this! Ya only got one chance.”

Artorian slid off his blue robe mid-walk, folding it up while remaining dressed in the proper gi beneath it. “You’re here, my friend. One witness is plenty!”

Hadurin Fellhammer had seen some audacity over his many years of tending to fools, but this old man was really working to reach the top of that list! Already understanding he wasn’t about to change Artorian’s mind, Hadurin threw his hands up and cursed in Dwarven. Both rolled up their pant legs to the knees and waded into the stream. Hadurin remained standing, but Artorian plopped down right in the middle of it, getting into lotus pose as the Head Healer kneeled behind him.

“Yer crazy, but I can’t let ya just keel over here. I’ll be stabilizing yer heart. Don’t abyss-blasted fight me when I’m influencing yer system. It’s to keep ya alive, ya stubborn git.”

Artorian laughed at the mention. “Ha! It will be quite alright. I’m going to get quiet and Essence-coat the outer edge of my Center, then begin threading my meridians. This should be a novel experience!”

Hadurin leaned to the left to speak over the eccentric’s shoulder and honestly didn’t understand what the old man was talking about. “Yer gonna what?”

“Just watch,” Artorian retorted, releasing Essence from a refined circle and sending it barreling outwards at significant speed. The motes were suddenly significantly slowed back down by a barrier. A zone of differentiation between Center and regular body did exist, it seemed. This small area filled with refined Essence like glitter ensnared in gel.

The glittering light made the holes in his Center easy to ‘see’ and a formed thread spun and lined up with a clearly visible path. It was clear that Artorian had been hard at work getting everything prepared for this. Hadurin sighed with relief; if he had prepared so heavily and practiced, then this wasn’t a hairbrained attempt to end it all.

The thread left Artorian’s Center, followed the meridian, and traveled directly toward his heart. He exhaled hard as the Essence impacted with the force of a hammer. For a few moments, his eyes boggled and his body clenched. He grabbed at his chest as a full-blown heart attack tried to begin.

“I’ve got you. Fight through the pain!” Hadurin ordered, using his own Essence to keep the heartbeat steady. The old man had a strong heart for someone of his age, but opening a meridian was no joke. The thread looped around Artorian’s heart in a tight weave, tighter, tighter… until the organ had the thread moving through every part: tissue, artery, and capillary. The weave remained intact as the thread veered off to continue along its meridian.

The pain subsided in its wake, and his heart ceased needing the healer’s direct attention. Hadurin thought the process was going to end there, but he cursed and pushed his hands against the old man’s lower back. “You ragged, pebbles-for-brains, old fart!”

The thread had continued, flowing downward, and it hit his lower intestine. It did hit with less force than the heart, only creating a weave in a small area before splitting to move up to his lungs. The high energy-and-velocity Essence thread impacted both areas roughly enough that Artorian doubled over with wet coughs. Breath left him, along with a significant amount of blood. He never noticed, as his focus was purely on chasing down and trying to catch the overzealous—and out of control—thread.

The weave around his heart and lungs repeated itself, and Artorian went pale and blue. He couldn't breathe until the pattern completed, and it seemed to be slowing down. Terrible timing! Though this did allow him to catch it, and he forced it to do an additional loop in reverse. Artorian was convinced that this was the same feeling as being dragged along by a startled horse running from a snake.

The thread rejoined his Center from a separate opening than it had exited, as expected. Rather than smash into the circles of his Center, the end of the thread shattered and spiderwebbed connections among the free-floating, purified Essence in the limbo-zone of his glittery Center. Artorian opened his eyes and heaved before fully collapsing, blood spilling out of his mouth. The stream engulfed him for just a moment before the Head Healer managed a proper grip on him.

“I’ve got ya, ya mad fool! What did Tib ‘just’ say about holding the flow back?” No internal damage needed patching up, but he was still whacking Artorian’s back to loosen the gunk his body was now forcing out. Thick, wheezing breaths were interrupted by agonizing coughing fits, and they sounded nearly as awful as they felt. It took a solid few minutes of repeating the breathing and slapping cycle before he began to chuckle.

“Well then. That was–”

Hadurin interrupted him this time, “A terrible idea? A great way teh scare yer healer half to death? Aye. Yer heart would’ve just stopped had I not been here to make it keep beatin’!”

Flustered and red with anger, the grumbly healer checked his patient over. “Looks like heart, lungs, and lower intestines. What even was that thread ya made? It was dense… but looked like it was gonna fracture at any moment. I’ve never seen that space between the inside an’ outside of a Center be so clearly defined either. I can even see the rest o’ yer meridian channels.”

Artorian nodded, needing to breathe deeply. He slowly spoke, “I wasn't sure how to stop the thread. Once I let it go, oh… did it go. On the way back to my Center, I needed to convince it that it was something other than a thread and altered its identity.”

He could feel Hadurin drill him for information with just a look. “Admittedly, I was a touch scared—which naturally made me think of spiders. I’m also scared of those. So, rather than thread, my mind went to ‘web’. I don’t believe I got it all the way, but before the thread could make a mess of my entire cultivation system, it shattered and split, ‘webbing’ out to encompass all the glitter points. The broken thread used free, refined Essence as guideposts for where to tether. Now, I don’t know what this webbed circle around my cultivation is going to do, but currently, it’s what is actually connected to my meridians.”

Hadurin helped him up to his feet and grumped, “Likely for the best. I dunno how your technique would have reacted to a direct meridian connection. I can handle that fine, but as usual, you’ve surprised us.”

Standing on his feet again, Artorian felt wobbly while the healer steadied him. His gi was drenched, but he was alive. That’s a trade he’d make any day. Still, the old man was confused. “For such a big, painful, life-altering effect… I feel surprisingly good?”

He’d been expecting to still be in severe pain. Hadurin grinned and shook his hands to get the water, grease, and blood off. “You’ll get used to yer meridians bein’ open. In short, any benefit you got out of ‘em before is going to improve. Your stamina is going to see a nice boost. I was expecting more taint as well, so you must have cleaned yerself up a little better than ya thought.”

Hadurin grimaced and looked at Artorian. “You still need to clean yerself and burn that gi. Listen, I’m wantin’ a full, written explanation on how ya did that. As yer healer, I insist ya get two full days of bed rest followed by at least three weeks of recovery before ya attempt another meridian. Most people wait a year or so, but I feel like ya aren’t gonna do tha’, are ya? I want ya in the medical tent five hours a day as soon as yer rest has concluded. We’ll need to check you over for side effects, and I can’t keep lettin’ ya weasel yer way out of teh deal.”

“Yes, *cough*, yes. I’ll be there. Is light exercise fine?” Swinging an arm around Fellhammer’s neck, Artorian finally got steady.

The Head Healer thought about slapping the man silly, and an annoyed gruffness rumbled in his words. “Define light.”

“Morning jog and some archery?” Artorian smiled out the tired response as Hadurin was already dragging him back to the bank.

“Ya just love gettin’ that big nose o’ yers in trouble, don’tcha.”

In response to the healer’s quip, Artorian tapped the side of his admittedly large nose. “It does it by itself, I swear.”

Fellhamer snorted a *phah* and picked the dry robes up to carry. “Aye, that little bit is fine, but I’m siccin’ Yvessa on ya the second ya leave my care. Wash.”

The glum groan that left the hanging old man made the entire stream event worth it for the healer. Artorian flopped into the water, kicking and splashing. He grabbed sand and started scouring his black-oil-coated skin, then did his hair. Frankly, he looked like a toddler having a tantrum, which only made Hadurin happier. The sheer pleasure of siccing a caretaker on Artorian—one who delighted in forcing Artorian to rest and sleep—made Hadurin enjoy a cackle.

“Oh, look! Speak of the abyss!”

“Artoria~a~an!” Yvessa’s furious voice cut across the field as she stomped her way to the pair. She was livid and not hiding an iota of it. Artorian had not only snuck off without telling anyone but had likely hoped for a bonus serving of food by sneaking to Tibbins! She was fuming, and the motherly expression only made Fellhammer break down in raucous laughter as the dejected groaning of the man cleaning himself intensified.

“Hah! Ha-ha, that’s what ya get for sneakin’ about. Hello! Yvessa! Over here! He’s naked and doin’ odd things again!”

Artorian pleadingly glanced at the Head Healer for mercy, but there was none to be had. His groan petered out into a whimpered puddle. He wasn’t going to hear the end of this after Yvessa found out he’d not only snuck off… but opened meridians. Hadurin lived for this sort of torment. He was relishing every moment as Yvessa chewed Artorian out the entire walk home.

There were always fringe benefits to being Head Healer.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

A full week later, the beatdown Artorian received from Yvessa was still making the rounds in camp. To make things even juicier, Tibbins had been assigned duty when Artorian had arrived for a checkup at the medical tent after his assigned bed rest days expired… only to discover Artorian had opened his large intestine meridian in the meanwhile.

The Head Healer had hunted the old man down as long beard darted and ducked between tents. Artorian was laughing. “You’re laughing? You keep tryin’ ta kill yourself when no one is looking? I’m gonna finish the job! Get over here, you dusty tumbleweed!”

It was quite the day for the Initiates when they were awoken up for duty via an old man careening through the window flap of the tent. He was squealing with amusement as Hadurin’s endless streams of Dwarven insults followed him, always only a step or two behind.

The levity cut short when a loud *gong* resounded in the middle of camp, and the still-laughing, old man fell on his butt after running straight into Tarrean’s very ornate armor—with Tarrean very much in it. Having to explain to the Head Cleric that Artorian was having such a happy, energetic day was because his meridians had started to open was an adventure in facial expressions.

Tarrean’s face was stuffed with evolving disbelief, concern, and hints of tormented jealousy. More and more of his face became obscured behind his hands as the explanation went on. When he heard the news that Artorian had four major affinity channels, his forehead was pressed to the table, and he outright asked for a drink.

When Hadurin finally got around to Artorian’s checkup, the entire upper echelon of the cloister was present and observing. They had to see it to believe it, and even then they didn’t understand half of what they were looking at. When the checkup was done, Marud was in tears from laughter. Tarrean had his head against the main support pole of the medical tent out of sheer, rampant depression.

Irene crackled with the tenderness of living lightning and stormed off to demand written accounts from Tibbins and Yvessa. Meanwhile, Hadurin was trying to suppress giggles at the visual dichotomy of Artorian’s peaceful resting expression… which clashed with the despair that hung over both Head Clerics.

The expedition leader was haranguing Tarrean about why this man hadn’t been drafted yet, and gossip once again found life as secret after secret tumbled into the open like dominoes. When everyone left and it was just Artorian and Hadurin in the tent, the Head Healer slumped over to a padded cot and lit up a rolled-up bundle of herbs to puff. Practiced releases of shaped smoke blew from his nose and mouth as his leg lifted to lay on his opposing thigh. “Are ya pleased with yourself, old man? I know ya did it on purpose.”

The previously ‘snoozing’ Artorian opened an eye, then sat upright like he’d never been asleep at all. Which, of course, he hadn’t. “It was getting too quiet. A little life goes a long way, don’t you think? I can’t tell you how tempted I was to try and open a meridian while they were all watching. Ow!”

A pillow struck the side of his face, originating from the Head Healer. It smacked Artorian right back down on to the cot with an *oof* He grabbed and settled it behind his back with the others and peacefully sunk down. “Oh, another pillow. Wonderful!”

Hadurin shook his head, needing a strong inhalation of his makeshift cigar. “Ye’r a piece of work, Artorian. Ya don’t adhere to anyone else’s speed. Ya realize, of course, they’re goin’ teh be watching ya closely from now on?”

To Hadurin’s hidden enjoyment, the long-bearded man was once again a bundle of smiles. “My friend, I’m counting on it.

The Head Healer rubbed his temples and took an extra-long drag of his cigar. “Alright, codger, I’m interested. What are ya plannin’? All these small things you’ve done over the time I’ve known ya all add up to some big hullabaloo. Ye’ve got the same look the Vicars do when they’re puttin’ somethin’ together.”

He blew a big smoke ring right at the ceiling. “One old soldier to another. Sell me on it.”

A sigh of relief left Artorian, who had gone from energetic and laying in comfort to drained and tired in the span of a heartbeat. “Releasing cycled Essence always takes it out of me.”

Hadurin knew the feeling well. “Aye. I imagine you’re quite tired when you’re not usin’ it for a boost. Ye may have some good cultivation, but yer still old. Meridians are gonna help, but it’s not like yer twenty and spry. Someone with less cultivation and better training can cut ya off like a bad joke. Now, out with it. Yvessa warned me ya like to dawdle.”

Artorian sat up, faced his new friend, and laced his fingers together on his lap. “The raiders took my children, on that day the first expedition arrived. I believe they’re alive, and I’m going to get them out of that terrible life if it’s the last thing I do.”

Hadurin’s brows rose. That was a bigger punch to the gut than he’d expected. Artorian continued, “I have been reckless, done my best to be patient, and have spent these last… nearly three years working on my cultivation for any kind of edge that would let me get them back. I’m not one to ask for help, but I do trade for it. In a few months, the season will end, and the expedition will go back to the Choir. The trader comes once a month.”

The healer didn’t understand why that last mention was important and made a hand motion that matched his befuddled expression. Artorian explained with a snarling retort, “The trader is complicit with the raiders. I have it on good word from… the other Elder of this village, before she passed. I simply haven’t informed the cloister.”

This pissed Hadurin off more than a little, but contrary to his personality, he held his tongue. There was going to be more. He knew there would be, and Artorian didn’t disappoint. “The third visit from the trader, from this point, is about at the time when the expedition group needs to disembark. If I tell the trader the expedition party will be gone that day… a party of raiders is guaranteed to follow in an attempt to flatten this place and take it for every coin it’s worth. It will take me but a small mention to bait that hook.”

“The raiders I’m after have holed up in Duskgrove. I know the castle. It’s a wreck but a well-armed wreck. On that third trader visit, I will be leaving the cloister and going with him. I know he won’t be able to resist the opportunity to cleave my head and claim this robe, so he won’t decline my company. Rather than follow the trading route back out of the Fringe, he’ll detour past Phantomdusk Forest in order to get to a place he can hide the evidence. That gets me to where I need to be.”

Hadurin cobbled the information together, inspiration tingling as understanding struck him. He puffed from his herbs and tapped it to remove ashes. “I see. Would be an awful day for the raider group if they assaulted a position that wasn’t actually abandoned, and it would be equally handy if a good bowman were to annoy a castle that ran on a skeleton crew rather than a full one. Yer running was the basic training ya needed, and archery is yer problem solver.”

“You’ve got teh Essence intake to build meridians, and unlike most people, pain isn’t a deterrent so much as it is something you’ve accepted you’re going to deal with. Ya don’t actually care about yer life, and you’re spending it with abyss-cursed abandon to finish a war the raiders don’t even know they started.”

Artorian relaxed back down from his strong position. It was a delight to sit with another sharp-minded, old soul. “You’re a clever man, my friend.”

Hadurin shrugged and puffed. “Just old, and it’s not my first war. I’m not gonna try to stop a righteous cause like this, so I’m on board. What do you need from me?”

“A good bow, enough arrows for it to matter, and quiet checkups as I barrel through opening my meridians.” Artorian raised his hand and counted the necessities on his fingers, then winced at the memory. “It hurts like being chewed up by a beast, but I’m not actually losing Essence from the process, so I have plenty. I’m opening all of them before two months have passed.”

Hadurin’s face hardened stoically, understanding the aged soldier’s march to his chosen end. Artorian swallowed and continued, “Potions if you can spare them, rations packed in a sack since I expect my personal siege to last a good while. Some basic sparring? I know better than to hope I’ll stay lucky enough to remain at range. For the remainder, I’ll rest and cultivate. I might be able to send my children back here, but I suspect I could be too spent to return.”

Hadurin harrumphed. “Sword?”

Artorian just shook his head ‘no’. “Won’t do me any good. I can’t handle the weight, and I don’t have the time to oil up my rusty skills. Hand-to-hand and bow are the best I’ll be able to do, and then only because I know I can drop the bow to run if I need to. I’m going to be using some rather… idiotic tactics.”

The Head Healer just took a cigar drag and spoke along with a cloud of smoke, “Such as?”

“I plan on assailing the castle… from inside the Phantomdusk Forest.”

Chapter Thirty-Nine

“That’s askin’ to die! Nothin’ passes through teh forest. Everyone and everything just dies!” Fellhammer coughed and hacked on his breath, beating his own chest to get that bad swallow out. “Hunters, search parties, raiders, and clerics alike fall to the phantoms of teh grove. We’ve got deeply written history and orders to avoid steppin’ foot in! Death is as guaranteed as the Ebon Plague.”

Artorian sighed and squeezed the bridge of his nose. “It’s the only place with enough height to get above the walls even with an arced shot. I can practice the shots here, and I may have a way to detect where raiders are inside of the castle, but it’s a moot point if I can’t actually take enough of them down to cause the needed panic.”

The Head Healer was particularly interested in that last word and put aside the absolute insanity of the plan. He wasn’t about to stop a man who was already knowingly walking into a situation where he was going to die. “A few arrows don’t cause a panic, my friend.”

Artorian eased himself out of the cot and stood, brushing his robe off. “It will not, but this may. Extinguish the flames, would you?”

The Head Healer picked the torches off the wall and doused them in a bucket of water. The last one out made the tent enter a pitched darkness. That didn’t last very long, as Artorian started counting, and a burning, red glow built where his eyes were.

“Ten.” Right away, Hadurin could tell Artorian’s irises were bright red and glowing.

“Fifteen.” It became more than just a glow; a crimson tint emitted from Artorian’s eyes so strongly that it was downright unsettling.

“Twenty.” The tint flared so brightly his eyes may as well have been flames.

“Twenty-five.” There it was. The crimson flames now looked like searing orange and white eyes, burning and surrounded by an unsettling red gloom. The view completely obscured the old man’s features, his eyes unnaturally large and threatening in the dark. Hadurin felt as he was back on the fields with the undead, except that these unnatural eyes held a far deeper dread.

“Alright, alright. Stop that. You’re giving me the shakes, and I’m not sure if I want to run or strike ye.” The glow died back down significantly faster than it came, and the cleric re-lit the torches. “What was that?”

Artorian rubbed his eyes and sat back down on the cot. “Not quite refined Essence cycled to the eyes, given an identity to increase the visual effect and potency rather than push added sight. With specific units of corruption in particular measurements, I see something I’ve come to call infrared. It came with the benefit that I could make some truly scary eyes, and in the dark, it’s all you can see. Now, imagine that while those eyes are looking at you in the distance, every now and then, one of your comrades just… dies.”

The cleric nodded, both pleased and impressed. “That’ll start a nasty rumor, and they won’t be keen to send people out to explore. If I didn’t know better, I’d call that being attacked by a phantom of teh forest. Yer going to need a real good bow.”

Artorian scoffed at such obvious truth. “I take it you’re on board?”

Hadurin gave him the flattest, most severe look he’d ever levered on the crazy man. “An old soldier just told me that he’s going to stroll into the abyss itself, punch demons, and all so that he can rescue people that he loves. With the clerics here, you can afford to push past the point of safety—you are even willing to die, so long as your mission succeeds. I am firmly of the belief that I know the look of a man who thinks like that. Celestial knows I’ve buried many men over my career. Making light of the serious, being jovial about the end, and underneath it all, you’re dead tired.”

It was Artorian who was full of surprise. He didn’t think someone could read him so well. “What a book I must be to you to be read so easily.”

The Head Healer scowled and extinguished the end of his herb cigar. “A book I’ve read the ending of too many times. Come back alive, ya fool. There are people here that thrive because you’re around. You can’t throw yourself into the jaws of death that easily. We’re going to open your meridians, ready you up, and set up the best counter-ambush the Fringe has seen in a hundred years.”

He slapped a hand to Artorian’s shoulder. “I have Irene for a check-up later. Get out of here and rest. I’ve got a Keeper to cobble a plan together with.”

A rare occasion in his life, Artorian did what he was told. He clasped wrists and counted it as a cordial goodbye. Artorian heard the healer mutter, ‘Stubborn idiot,’ as he left, but it lacked negativity; he didn’t think on it any further. Yvessa was waiting for him at his abode with a nasty expression on her face.

She said nothing as he approached, just sharply pointed at the door. Silently, he entered the building, and she followed him in. He quietly shuffled in and hung his robe. Being properly dressed today, he then undid his gi and hung that up as well, leaving him with a simple shirt underneath. He settled into his pillow-laden, slice-of-heaven bed and relaxed under the starlight. That checkup had taken ages thanks to the audience.

Yvessa eased into her usual seat and seriously controlled herself before speaking, “So Tibbins fainted.”

The matter of fact statement made Artorian simply nod.

“That meant I had to give Irene the entire report by myself. By. My. Self.” She took a deep breath, calming herself with a controlled nasal exhale.

“I am going to be on you like salt on the plains. Every. Single. Day. For the next few weeks, until Keeper Irene has a properly compiled report on the daily activities of a hidden cultivator who, on paper, is listed as bedridden for three years. I have seen unwritten reports that already have that line on them. I had to explain, in detail, the ridiculous, impossible chaos that follows in your wake, and I had to start from our expedition. Tarrean, on top of now handling severe depression, also can’t escape the endless nagging of not one… but two Keepers.”

“Do you have any idea how draining it is to even have a single Keeper chasing you down? They’re working so long into the nights that they’ve taken to falling asleep on that massive pillow kept in the middle of the cloister structure. You know the one. Your practical joke.” Yvessa was venting, fuming as the conversation switched between irritation and badly needing to get things off her chest.

“Can I say that I’m glad it is getting some use?” Artorian quipped. When Yvessa was all out of things to say about that joke, she was out of breath. Through all of this, she had braided and unbraided his beard twice out of frustration.

“Why aren’t you talking anymore? You usually can’t wait to get a clever word in on someone.”

“Would you believe I learned my lesson?” Artorian voice held a hint of mirth, but he sobered quickly. “Can I just remark… you held your own against Irene through all of that?”

Yvessa frowned and threw her hands up. “Yeah?”

The grandfather kindly smiled and, with much satisfaction, praised her, “I’m so very proud of you.”

Yvessa was stunned, mouth slightly agape. She didn’t know how to feel. “You just can’t help but catch people off-guard, can you?”

The frustration thawed from her face as Artorian sat up to embrace his caretaker. He spoke as she crammed her stressed face into his shoulder. “I remember a shy, little girl who was trying her best to keep her confidence together. Look at you now, standing up against a Keeper! I told you, you could do it! After all, I believe in you.”

He let go when she pushed away and took his time re-adjusting to his bed. “Ow!”

Yvessa had punched him in the shoulder without a word. She pouted and glared at him. “You keep treating everyone like they’re your children. I’m not a child.”

Artorian closed his eyes. “That doesn’t make you not family, my dear. It is the role of a grandfather to stir the pot, and I am happy to be a grandfather to all who find themselves in need of one. I am the warm coat in a cold winter, a listening ear for a heavy heart, and a funny voice with a big nose for a small child who can’t help but cry.”

He sighed and pressed fingers over his forehead. “Hadurin, my friend, I’m afraid you were right.”

Yvessa had a quick look around but didn’t see the Head Healer. The old man must have been talking to himself. “He isn’t here, Artorian. Are you… seeing him right now?”

“I certainly have my work cut out for me. Oh, I’m going to be so tired, but I’ll be back. I’ll have to make it back.” Fingers snapped in front of his face as his caretaker tried to pull him back to reality.

“You’re slipping. What are you getting into now to make life hard for me?”

A small chuckle left Artorian. “Scheduling! Mornings, train with Initiates. At noon, eat. Then at high noon, cultivate. Assist in the medical wing all late afternoon, then eat again. End the schedule by alternating between days of basic sparring and archery from a bit before sunset to evening curfew. Sleep. When the merchant comes, I need a chat.”

“Oh, no. I don’t believe that one bit. You on an actual schedule? As if.”

Yvessa was immediately suspicious. She pulled his blankets over him and tucked in the puffy sides. “I am going to be here at sun-up with my paper and board in hand, and we’re going to record all the things you’re up to. I’m not letting you wiggle out of doing actual work! Go to sleep, grandpa.”

Artorian couldn’t help but feel delight, and his expression reflected the feeling. She’d never called him by that title before! Hadurin had most definitely been right… his suicide mission needed to turn into just a mission.

He couldn’t knowingly end the happiness even one person had due to his presence. He was going to have to put actual work in so he could survive. He fell asleep before realizing it, and Yvessa didn’t leave until she was sure he was out.

Tomorrow was sure to be interesting.

Chapter Forty

Yvessa spent the next few months bashing her face into what had become a sizable clipboard. That infuriating Elder was actually sticking to his schedule with a painful amount of accuracy, and her days were so predictable that they’d become horribly boring.

She could abyss-near tell the time based on when the old man was doing something. She was there every morning when he woke, holding his breakfast bowl in hand. He ate and was followed to the front gate where he joined Initiates in the training morning run. Ten laps around the entire cloister later, and it was time to wash in the stream. Artorian then ate again and spent hours in bed where it looked like he was resting. That was merely the lie visible on the surface.

Yvessa was getting very good at cycling Essence sight to keep track of what her favorite eccentric was doing, and in truth, it made her feel terrible about her own daily cultivation speed. Even with her fractal, she wasn’t drawing in nearly the amount his strange sun-Center was. Every addition to the array of circles just kept on increasing the amount he drew in.

He was taking in but a fraction of what was available to him. It blew her mind that he was taking in only a tiny amount compared to what he could if he didn’t care about refining. Therein lay the issue for him; it was the refining that took time. Unlike her fractal, which pulled purity and repelled corruption, Artorian’s rings relied on centrifugal force to move energy of a certain ‘density’ to a higher or lower layer.

That interaction mostly just broke her brain as the number of rings—and thus layers—wasn’t one she could count. It didn’t help that almost every week another meridian was opened. That would then alter the entire process of his inner workings, which made things just a tiny, little bit more efficient. Still, unlike her passive fractal, Artorian expended a significant amount of Essence to keep his operation running. He needed to cultivate every day without fail even if just to purify his body and Center.

Becoming a cultivator when old had significant drawbacks, and he was going to need decades and decades to do what a Beast Core could have done in a few minutes if his body could have handled it… but that option was gone. As an upside to his technique, breakthroughs were much easier. It came with the cost that figuring out his ranking was a hazy headache at best, but that was a minor annoyance in comparison to the luminous benefits.

Sure, the sunlight Center was slow in its own way, but once the downsides were accounted for—downsides counted in decades—he’d outstrip a fully formed fractal by leagues so long as he took no critical injuries. Actually, making it to that age was no longer just a passing dream but a possible reality. The caretaker was forced to take a daily break in order to cultivate herself but always found that the old man hadn’t budged when she returned.

From Artorian, Yvessa gained stacks of notes on medical procedure, organ placements, appropriate treatments, differing methods of potion application, sickness markers, and a full treatise on crystal venom. She carried enough documents on her person that some of the Initiates had taken to ask her for details on certain procedures since she had the notes readily available. When Artorian was present in the medical tent, she was his shadow.

Except for the one day a week when there was a class trip of every single healer to the stream. Acolytes and Initiates alike were present to take notes on the tribulations and effects of the opening of a meridian at an advanced age. On days where things didn’t go as planned, he experienced the effects of opening more than one meridian.

Any day where one of the senses of the old man were affected, they found it was going to be a gruesome endeavor. Severe scrubbing was required to get the gunk off him when the more severely affected meridians opened. His skin alone had forced such a severe reaction that the Initiates had outright fled, then avoided being downwind while a face-masked Acolyte team took a full hour to scrub him clean.

On the plus side, his physical injuries now looked like cuts instead of sandpaper wounds. Considerably less gruesome overall. After a full medical examination back in the tent with another compact round of lectures and note-taking, Artorian was excused. He picked up a recurve bow from requisitions, complete with a full complement of arrows.

That was normal and just fine. What wasn’t so great was how Artorian focused more on striking his targets through high-arched trick shots rather than direct collision. While he didn’t skimp on basic footing and form, he took far too long to fire a single arrow. To the bow users among them, it felt like he was nearly mocking their training.

Artorian let the side of his robe down so it wasn’t in the way of the string. Holding the weapon firm during aiming, he gently let it swing as an arrow flew free. His feet were positioned in a stable ‘L’ shape, legs slightly bent at the knee as he pulled. The bow clearly had a draw strength too high for a non-cultivator.

The *twang* that reverberated each time an arrow loosed made it vanish from the bow entirely. A telltale *thock* became a common impact sound as the arrow hit somewhere on the target. It wasn’t often in the middle, where the target was situated, but after mere weeks, he was scoring hit after hit. When asked, he mentioned that he’d done bow-stuff once or twice before.

With this sly fox… they didn’t quite know if he’d been hunting for two decades or had never picked a bow up before that day. Still, it was a strange thing to watch. The old man held his shots until suddenly he didn’t.

*Thock*!

Another successful strike to a target that should have wildly blown off course, but no amount of wind ever seemed to deter his arrows. A few of the seasoned archers had come asking how he’d pulled that off, but the answers had been… cryptic. “The wind is your friend, if only you take care to see in which direction it wants to play.”

He even offered to show them, but the archers could not seem to understand what he did. The interesting part came in later weeks when Initiates started carrying moving targets. They’d agreed only because he’d requested the training be in the dark, and the chance of an arrow hitting a target was slim to none. That had proven to be a horrific lie. The *thock*! of arrows striking the wooden target scared the abyss out of the recruits. It also loosened certain coin purses as old-man archery was a prime subject for gambling.

On days where there was no archery, Artorian joined in on hand-to-hand training. What should have been self-defense was instead an onslaught. Keeper Irene had decided that on those days, she needed to relieve some stress. Great anticipation spread through the camp like wildfire anytime the call went out. “Artorian is fighting Irene!”

The first fight they’d ever had set the pace, the betting rate, and the guaranteed high-attendance rate as several of the Initiates went full-fanboy.

“I am done with you. I have had it.” Irene power-walked on to the field and threw her papers to the ground. That was the first sign that told everyone something was amiss, and it momentarily hushed them as it stole attention. The second sign was that she erupted into a Choir combat-chant and charged right at the gi-clad old man without so much as a warning.

A roaring outburst boomed from the excited Acolytes, followed by a collective gasp from the Initiates as they were about to see a slow, old man get decked in the face hard enough to send him flying farther than Keeper Kendra. To their amazement, Artorian held aloft a single finger. With a small, circling inner arc, he pushed on Irene’s wrist as she flew by. His left foot shifted backward; his right shoulder pivoted to fill the space she’d previously been occupying. Her punch missed wide, her balance was gone, and Irene barreled right into the mud with all the velocity she’d built up.

Artorian just blinked, quizzically observing his finger while stroking his beard. “Peculiar. Is that how this works?”

Fury embodied shoved upward with a wet *thud*. Covered in mud, the irate Keeper didn’t care if that was a fluke. The surprise humiliation filled her with blind, irrational rage. She pounced on him with all the ferocity of a Morovian Liger, which just so happened to be the name for her particular combat-style. “Artorian!”

It was a back and forth that was difficult to follow until the old man slipped and failed a block or deflection, unable to get in a single offensive strike on her while Irene continued pounding him like a hung slab of meat. “You. Messed. Up. My. Filing. System!”

He took quite the pummeling, and the clamor of many acolytes hesitantly died down while they watched the one-sided beatdown. At the end of the bout, the old man didn’t need his robe in order to look blue. He was wheezing, on his back, and in a layer of plowed mud. He’d been the plow.

Irene wasn’t satisfied with a single day of sparring. Oh no. This Elder had caused her significant administrational grief. She’d taken exception to that and would not let it go easily.

Chapter Forty-One

Every other day, Irene fielded her combat expertise like clockwork. The winner was always easy to discern. Irene was without equal during practice, yet there were definite moments where she did not have the upper hand. The happenings were sporadic and sudden, but certain attacks Irene launched at Artorian found that an unexpectedly perfect counter awaited them.

Not only did she fail to strike the intended target, the blow was redirected back on her. This threw her off balance, dropping her to the muddy ground that Artorian usually found himself in. The first time the old man had done it on purpose, he’d raised both fists to the sky and excitedly burst out a, “Wooo-hooo!”

His momentary elation led to a mistake. He paraded the short-lived victory to the lauding cheers and cries of observing Choir members. When his gaze met his caretaker’s, on the other hand… Artorian noted she was looking past him rather than at him. “Oh, dear.”

He could tell she mouthed the words ‘get him’ just before his stomach and face dropped. The shadow of a tigress loomed over him before he took an all-too-familiar skidding trip across the mudscape with a noisy *fhwa-pwap*!

Sure, there were clerics on standby for patch-up duty, but Keepers hit hard. This was trial-by-fire as far as getting the rust off from fighting-skills was concerned. On more than one occasion, a booming crash and stilled body hushed the crowd. Clearly, they thought he was finally struck hard enough that he’d kicked the bucket. Then a thin arm moved, and a persevering thumbs up showed to the sky. The crowd was always instantly cleared of their concern, and they’d release another boisterous cheer. Which, of course, only served to agitate Irene further.

With increasing regularity, Irene’s more deadly strikes were deflected or ignored entirely. Then a counterattack hammered into her frame. These cacophony-causing counters made their fans go wild! It also had them duck for cover against the inevitable mud-wave that came after it. A few weeks in, a makeshift wooden wall had been erected around the mud pit. Makeshift due to it getting wrecked almost daily. It prevented a good amount of mess but getting some mud on you had become part of the experience.

Fan clubs had secretly begun to develop. People who showed up in some cheap variant of blue backed the old man, while people who showed up in full regalia backed the Keeper. When asked what sort of style he was using, Artorian didn’t understand their question. “Style?”

A fan-Initiate scribed things down with enthusiasm. “Yeah! Are you using Sabertooth Claw Strikes Angry Bird, Heaven’s Palm, or Splitting Mountain? We’re debating in our tents where your fighting type might be from. Popular theory is that it has Phoenix Kingdom influences. A few of us were fans of coliseum events before joining the Choir. We’ve got quite a collection of fighters and their moves. Irene’s fan club found out she uses a style based on a ferocious creature from her homeland, Morovia.”

The old man considered the query but still wasn’t following. He didn’t quite know where or what this ‘Coliseum’ was. He’d been out of the world-news loop for… a long time. “I didn’t get this from anywhere, my dear. I’m just building it as I go. All I’m really doing is preventing Irene from getting a solid hit on me, so I suppose you could just call it ‘No’?”

That got a laugh from the fans, but when they wrote it down as ‘No Style’, it thwarted their desires as that meant something entirely different. To their aggravation, after having a glance at the writ, the long beard had a good laugh and refused to call it anything else. A few of these clever fan-Acolytes had puzzled out he’d been doing something with Essence sight in order to give himself an edge. It was the only way they could explain some of the odd mid-fight mannerisms.

During bouts, Artorian had to wipe his eyes after he managed to fully deflect a hit from Irene. He would call out numbers to Yvessa that made absolutely zero sense to anyone else. “Twenty-two IR is insufficient! Note that for me, would you?”

During one match where he was sternly decked in the schnozz—in addition to crying out in pain—Artorian rose with a bloody nose from the mud and kicked at it. Mad that ‘Air is entirely useless,’ whatever that may have been about. Another gem was a complete pause in the middle of a fight where he just pushed his hands over his eyes and doubled over. “All that blood is driving me bonkers! It doesn't tell me anything useful! *Argh*!”

The Initiates wrote it off as the old man being just a teensy bit senile, while the Acolytes chalked it to some kind of distraction or delay tactic. Artorian kept private notes—ones that he’d only jot down when Yvessa wasn’t present to spy. In truth, he’d been using evening practice to feel out combinations of Essence sight. Not everything worked, and some things that did work were utterly useless. Being able to see air currents did nothing useful during hand-to-hand combat, unlike during archery.

Awareness of the cycle of liquid in a system was no good, and infrared and ultraviolet only gave him horrible headaches if it wasn’t already night. Light-vision was a trip, and while it was good for determining if something occupied a space or not, it was terrible in a fight when your opponent was a pitch-black lump.

The only truly useful sight was the costly one—muscle sight—which allowed him to predict the motions that would be coming at him. The mixture of celestial, fire, and water taxed his eyes, actually drained Essence even if he cycled it, and gave him a killer headache. All for minimal returns.

Stacking roughly five sets of the correct kind of Essence allowed him to deduce a zero-point-one-second prediction based on muscle, Essence movements in the opponent’s system, some golden glow outlines he didn’t understand, and where the body was going to be forced to go because of it. At best, he could stack it fifteen times for a zero-point-three-second prediction, and he’d gotten lucky with it the first time—when Irene made that first lunge on him in the field.

He’d clearly seen a golden outline of her entire frame about to collide fist first with his face. Artorian had reflexively pushed Essence up along his arm, wrist, hand, and finger as a temporary boost. When his finger impacted the side of her wrist, he’d been able to push the golden outline away as reality caught up to it. Then he simply stepped out of the way as Irene flew past him. The cost had forced him to turn it off immediately, but the results had been spectacular.

Being beaten by Irene was certainly painful and left quite the patchwork of bruises. However, having a skilled combatant as your opponent had its upsides—learning was faster and more in-depth. The fact that she didn’t pull her punches was a deterrent for the Initiates but a boon to the aged Artorian who needed a crash course in survival. Not being hit was ideal, but ideal was usually far from reality. He had greater success denying Irene an attack than he did landing one on his own.

Her masterful control of Essence was a true mosaic of muscle-infusing at specific times and with precision-measured amounts. Enough to beat him… but not break him.

Artorian was forced to be on the defensive, and that needed to change. Finally, it came to him. It was the way arrows launched that had given him the idea, and the lessons from how he managed to counter Irene reinforced the thought. If you could at all deduce what an opponent might do, they had a disadvantage against you. An arrow took that window of opportunity away as it accelerated and struck a target before one had a chance to react. So… why not become the arrow?

It was a chilly day when Artorian stepped on the training field again. Several healer Acolytes came prepared with the usual array of minor potions, and he was administered one before ever getting started. Both he and Irene did a full set of warm-up stretches as the empty space around the field filled up with clerics.

“Want anything special today, old man? You been wanting new teeth? I bet we could get your hair to be pretty if I ripped that scraggly beard off and we regrew the hair from new follicles!” Irene taunted from the other side of the field as Artorian was doing in-place jumps on solid ground.

He stopped and took a stance in reply. Irene took this as a challenge, just as she always did when he signaled he was ready. Her advance was calculated and confident, a tigress’s smile on her face. She was going to maul him today.

Artorian focused and began applying his theory. He pulled Essence from his Center and spooled it through his spine, reinforcing it. More went into his legs, gathering around the bone to prevent shattering and funneling into the muscle for raw output. As much as he could stomach was filtered to his ankle for flexibility, while a significant amount was rammed into the front of his foot and toes. When running, the amount of force you could put down determined just how fast your forward push would be. He’d discovered he could amplify that force and really shoot forwards if he kept a constant cycle of energy.

That’s not what was happening today. Smoothly cycling was being set aside. This was a burst. A quick, sudden, and explosive *boom* cracked the air around them. A spherical indent formed in the mud. Essence was pushed along his right arm to form a channel as the movement began, surrounding the bone and reinforcing the wrist… just in case. He opened the Essence channel on his right palm…

The sheer force of the send-off split the muddied ground into a tiny canyon from where he’d stood a moment ago. The steaming mud was forced away, and his vision became completely unreliable as the world devolved into a sharp set of lines from the extreme, burning increase in speed. Only Essence sight was providing his brain information quickly enough to operate on.

The attack was a straight-shot launch, Artorian’s body brushing against the air and irritating it severely, causing extra-flammable parts of him to burn. His on-fire body-made-projectile reappeared when he planted the pivot foot. He buzzed back into focus in front of a wide-eyed Irene whose surprised expression was matched only by the haste with which she erected Essence defenses.

Sight returned as the sheer kinetic might of all that velocity twisted and spun up from his leg, carried through the spine, funneled through his reinforced arm, and hammered into her chest through his open palm. A noise similar to a thunderclap matched the point of impact. The devastating blow struck her sternum directly. All the velocity and kinetic energy he’d built up… transferred.

The technique had been exhausting, incomplete, and terribly flawed. Still, Irene had a sudden lesson in flight as she was launched forty-two feet into the air at an upward angle. She easily cleared the height of the far wall on the farm end of the cloister. With a sopping *whap*, Irene rolled dozens of feet through wet grass as she landed. Artorian collapsed from the effort, not even realizing he was on fire. Snapping out of their stunned and rooted positions, clerics ran over to throw buckets of water over his burning frame. Fans hopped the fence on all sides, and entire platoons of Acolytes sprinted to the side of both combatants.

A half-unconscious Artorian had found a handful of drawbacks and problems with the technique immediately. He was bleeding from his nose, eyes, ears, and… more private and chafed areas. Even with reinforcement, it had hurt him tremendously. He was administered several healing potions and prompt celestial care. When he was lucid enough to give the usual shaky thumbs-up, the surrounding crowd erupted in a cheer! They didn’t grasp the extent of the damage; regardless of how self-destructive that may have been, it had looked awesome!

When Irene was recovered from the fields, she too was immediately escorted to the medical block. Hadurin had his work cut out for him. The strike hadn’t just broken her sternum, it had pulverized it. He could and would mend it with time, but he gave Artorian a few harmless whacks on his concussed head while firmly telling him to never do that again. Several of the old man’s tendons had significant tears in them, he had bone fractures, and a slew of other minor internal and external injuries that accelerating oneself to stupid speeds caused.

Luckily for Irene, her chest could be reconstructed with the combined help of nearly every healer at the cloister and a good number of potions. Still, she felt the damage when she woke, and the leftover bruise was a thing of beauty. It ached like the call of the abyss, and she groaned, “What,” she coughed, and oh, celestial did it hurt, “was that?”

Artorian was awake and recovering in the cot next to her. He was in equally not-great shape. He was pleased as punch to have the opportunity to lay this one on her, tossing her words back at her.

“Something special.”

Chapter Forty-Two

Olgier, the red-haired trader from Rutsel, was having a fantastic season! Those boors at Lapis didn’t know the value of their product had risen sky-high. He’d just bought and sold at the same stock price he always did. He’d made a killing! With rocks!

To build profits even higher, that salty village Elder at the cloister had just given him some information worth its weight in gold. Olgier’s money-loving voice oozed mercantilism as his hairy hand pressed to Artorian’s shoulder. “Really? An anti-venom against the stuff raiders have been using? That is truly a celestial blessing.”

His gap-toothed smile gleamed at some passing Initiates who picked through the bundled wares on his cart. Using the local vernacular was always of benefit. Artorian had a grumpy expression smeared across his face. Small, little grumbles emanated from the old man.

“They very much did, and not a copper of it is going to the village. Not a copper!” He huffed again with a finger waggle for effect and leaned into Olgier’s side. “It’s time to go, I tell you. A few days before your next visit, the expedition force is leaving.”

Olgier felt a rush at the little prizes just falling into his lap. Was it a holiday? The trader felt rushes of skewed pleasure at the physical outburst of the venting old man. “Leaving? Surely not. Taking their findings to their Choir, you mean.”

“No. They’re. Not!” Long Beard’s gnarled walking stick swung through the air a few times, demonstrating apparent frustration. “They’re leaving it here to be finished, and they’ll be back only when it’s done. Something about ‘bureaucracy and paperwork’ requiring them to only leave a token force behind, since the majority of the expedition must return.”

Artorian leaned back in closer to whisper in Olgier’s ear, “Next time you visit, could you drop me off at Rutsel? I can have all my important things packed in no more than a handful of sacks. I’d pay for the trip, of course.”

Olgier gave a supportive pat to the old man’s shoulder, nearly knocking a very wobbly Artorian off his feet. Silly him! He didn’t know his own strength some days. “Of course, of course.”

Schemes were already flying about his brain. He could say he was taking the old man to Rutsel, but… if he took just a minor detour… that would put them in ‘business partner’ territory.

Nobody would miss an old man. Plus, his life’s most valuable gatherings were going to be right in his hooded cart? Not to mention that untarnishable Lapis robe which hung over the Elder’s other clothing? An absolute steal.

Artorian let out a relieved sigh and pulled some packets from his side. “These are the last letters. I’ve written in them that I likely won’t be sending monthly mail anymore, as I’ll be traveling. Hopefully, it should prevent the Choir and the Academy from getting worried. This first parcel ought to be delivered to Paladin Jiivra at the Choir. I’m sure she’s made it by now. The other still goes to the Skyspear Academy and isn’t addressed to anyone in particular. I’m certain they’ve got a library section for my writings now.”

Olgier again patted the old man to assure him that wasn’t going to be a problem. After all, who looked such a gift in the mouth? Free stuff and all the cover-up work was being done for him? So long as those parcels were delivered, this was going to be the easiest grab and go ever! Next month would be quite profitable, even with the cut he had to give to his ‘associates’ for safe passage.

A handshake and some minor trades later, Olgier was on his way out of the cloister. His fat thumb popped open a fancy water skin. The clear water was crisp and cool as he downed it with a satisfied *aah*. Reins in hand, he snapped them taut to make both his horses move on. He didn’t bother turning to Rutsel, instead taking the earlier turn that put him on the path to Duskgrove.

The Phantomdusk Forest was vast, dense, and a true terror. The exterior tree line pressed together with thick, toothy foliage. The border trees weren’t the kind you’d normally see in the Fringe, and the extra depth of dark green in their leaves and brown bark made them stand out even in the distance. Colossal, brutish creatures reportedly moved around inside, and you could simply never see them. Mad whispers and sketchy reports comprised the majority of stories.

At best, phantasms had been confirmed, the supernatural forces leering at you from the depths of canopied darkness. The thought was unsettling, and the sight was brown pants worthy. The only saving grace was that even if you saw a glimpse, nothing left the Phantomdusk. You had to enter to make any of the denizens pay attention to you, and for that reason, it was respected and feared as an inescapable end. You could stand right outside the edge and be perfectly safe, but one toe over that line and the forest itself would turn to dice and devour you with its roots.

Following the cleared path, two big hills rolled up and down before you saw the ‘castle’. The forest split near those hills, forming a natural crevice where the woods didn’t connect. Cobblestone led to a wide-open grove where Baron von Dusk had—centuries ago—decided to plunk a small castle as a show of status and vanity. Just to show he could. Coffers of gold went to buying the surrounding lands just so the Mapmakers’ Guild was forced to rename the forest to something of his liking, and the lavish design clearly showed in the castle’s construction. All that really meant was that while it looked nice in form, it did a terrible job of function.

With only a single tower, thin walls, and ostentatious courtyards, the structure was meant to be a place of flirtatious flaunting and capricious courtesans. History had proven otherwise since its position on the edge of the Fringe had turned it into a prime strategic location. The reputation of the forest allowed the castle to be easily defendable. It encouraged armies to sneak through the forest, ignoring the rumors in order to assault the position from a considerably less defended wall. None of those soldiers ever made it back out. Their howls and cries were all that remained, moments before the unwelcome trespassers had been silenced.

Olgier recounted that it had been quiet lately, but anything with ‘Phantom’ in the name was well known as a place where people easily went missing and terrible events happened with ease. On the second hill, Olgier squinted to see some static figures. The shapes were haphazard and about as far from professional as you could get, but the telltale markers of the ‘Toll Guard’ were clear enough for the disgruntled trader to make out.

They rose from their lazy positions and unwanted duty, their intimidating body language shown along with rusted blades. The Northern accent was thick in Olgier’s voice. He didn’t want to play their games today. “Put that away, you mules. Fetch your leader women. Olgier is here to pay his toll. Also, I have information to sell Hakan. Pricy, valuable information.”

Olgier wasn’t the least bit against using intimidation tactics against people trying that on him. Name dropping important people made even these dumb muscle boys shrivel. They hurriedly spit words between themselves and played some sort of game with their hands. The loser groaned in defeat, not wanting to go but running off to the castle regardless.

Brigan and Ulno clapped hands together. They didn’t need to risk getting their face cut by fetching a leader. When Olgier got closer, they recognized each other and Ulno shared some words. “Oh. It you. Why no say? Come!”

Brigan made a wild come-along motion, and the hill guards strolled along with the hooded cart while Olgier slipped right into a chatty merchant role. The rectangular tower on the castle was right in front of him when he went down the hill. The flat façade hung large flags but only to hide the holes in the construction from siege damage over the years. Currently, the flags were crude and drab with scythes painted in dull browns.

Large portcullises were seen in the connecting left and right walls, but the left was a crumpled wreck that had half a battering ram rotting away in it. The right gate wasn’t in much better shape. Technically, the portcullis was closed, but the metal had been sawed out in places to let traffic pass through. Several patches of stonewall had hammered wood panels filling up holes to cover weaknesses. The structure itself still stood fine, but the whole bastion had seen centuries of better days.

Olgier drove his cart into the main courtyard, which served to show off the rest of the lavish layout. It led to two smaller courtyards where wildflowers bloomed, the first main structure nested between them. From the third balcony above the ground, a stern woman was leering down at the main courtyard. The empty lot swiftly filled with brutish looking men who counted respect based on the number of facial scars they had. Olgier was dismounting as a young lady with her hair braided in a single line stomped up to him.

“Ah, my lady Lunella! How wonderful it is to–”

*Slap*! He was cut off as she stepped all over his words. “How dare you call for the Mistress of the Domain!”

The back of Lunella’s armored hand backhanded Olgier across the opposing cheek while Hakan relished in the sadism from above. “My lady! I have import–

*Slap*!

“You have tolls to pay and tithes to offer, and if… if they have value, then the mistress may see fit to grace you with her kindness.” She squinted her emerald eyes at him. “Are you talking to me while above me, male?”

Olgier knew better than to fight back or quip and hurriedly bowed deeply before the simple act of paying a toll got ugly. The men around him didn’t come to his aid; this wasn’t worth a cut to the face.

“Oh, just bring him to me.” When Hakan removed her presence from the window, the grouping of men created a funnel and path for the lady and trader to traverse.

The man from Rutsel knew better than to get in front of her; that was cause to lose body parts. The heated parlor of the castle foyer was terribly lavish. Regal carpet was scrubbed by several raiders, rugs mounted the walls and coated the floor. Rich, magenta cathedral candles remained lit, and hooded torches lined the bare spots on the walls. In some design flaw, there were no windows on the ground floor. Serene footsteps made their way down a staircase as Olgier was ushered to take a seat.

The nicest chair at the table was pulled out by Lunella, and she stood to the side of it, remaining unseated. Hakan, while dressed in her standard attire under the noble’s coat, had puffy fur wrapped about the neck. She took the seat and sent a smirk to Lunella, who bowed and pushed the chair in. Her voice was as edge-tempered as ever. “Drinks.”

A bustle of activity occurred at Hakan’s order. Several raiders swiftly ran out to take buckets of water from those who had the forethought to gather some from the well outside. Actual glasses were filled with clear fluid. Rather than be put on the table, they were offered to the leather-clad Lunella. She carefully tasted each glass, and only when pleased placed them before Hakan and Olgier.

After, she took an empty spot near the wall, being handed a common wooden cup by a familiar-looking young male with the same emerald eyes. Only a single cut ran across the left side of his face, from forehead to the left of the eye, ending down the cheek. Wuxius didn’t drink from his cup until after Lunella took a sip, acting as personal aid.

Olgier didn’t dare parlay until Hakan had the first word. “I don’t get requested unless it’s really juicy information, merchant. My patience is the same distance as my smallest blade. Speak.”

With a minor bow, Olgier went right into it, “The cloister where the village Salt used to be? It has developed a cure against the venom you use for your arrows, but… the force currently stationed there will leave a few days before my next visit.”

Hakan already had a knife out, rolling it between her fingers. Her dissatisfied voice rang out, “And?”

Olgier smiled. “They’re not taking the cure with them.”

The twirl of the knife stopped as Olgier’s honeyed words reached interested ears. “Oh? Well, now… that won’t do. Everyone is leaving?”

Olgier made a wiggle-waggle motion with his hand. “A token force is being left behind—from the sound of it, mostly healers if they’re going to continue work on the antivenom.”

Hakan pressed her fingers together, stirring her water with the knife-edge of the blade. “Your source?”

Olgier shrugged. “The old Elder of the Salt village. He’s not up for sticking around. He’s taking all his valuables, including one beauty of a lapis robe, and requested a ride to Rutsel. A shame he won’t make it the whole way.”

The sound of a dropped cup reached Hakan’s ears. Stupefied, Lunella open-mouth gaped at the trader. She caught herself as Hakan took the effort to look behind her. All the raider leader saw was Lunella one-handedly strangle-dragging Wuxius by the neck, pulling him into the darkened passage while grumbling a, “You little–”

Hakan was pleased. One of her favorite apprentices had come a long way in treating her lesser with the proper force. She paid no further heed and turned back to the trader. Lunella’s grip had been strong, but it was all show. Once around no less than two corners from the foyer, she released her hand and collapsed into Wuxi’s arms, who was ready to support her. Luna’s hand pressed over her own lips to muffle her unstoppable sobs.

Wuxius just held her tight, hidden from view. He too felt a deep emotional shake, but he needed to be there for Lunella right now. Luna was heaving, her fingers digging into his chest from the news. “He’s alive. He’s alive! Elder is alive.”

Wux nodded and silently rubbed the back of her head, not caring if he pressed down on her leadership braid. His voice had gained significant depth over the years. “See? I told you it was going to be alright.”

“I told you leaving flowers was a good idea.” She hiccupped the words and was soothed by the tight embrace and brushing attention. They always had to do this in secret. When people were looking, she could hold her face and act intimidating, but otherwise, she didn’t have it together in the least. Luna was falling apart behind the scenes and would have done so publicly if she didn’t have Wux to keep her propped up, to keep her playing along with the lie they needed to survive.

She pulled the iron gloves from her hands and lifted them to touch and feel the warmth of Wux’s face. Her fingers were icy, but he said nothing and let her get warm. She brushed her thumb over the scar and immediately felt the guilt.

“It’s okay, and yes, you did. It was a great idea,” Wux whispered support and brushed the back of her hair, just letting Lunella cope. “You’re doing great, Luna. Just a little more and we’ll be out of here. We just need to be ready for whatever insane, little scheme that old man is making. We’ve got a month. That’s plenty to make some preparations. We can–”

Wux didn’t have a chance to keep talking; Lunella kissed him to shut him up. His world whisked away into hazy butterflies. He forgot what he was talking about until Lunella had her fill, sunk into his chest, and her voice reached him, “We’re going to destabilize the region, cause utter havoc between the men, and give our Elder as easy of a time as possible. Let’s get back in there.”

Wux took a firm step back and squeezed his muscles taut and shut his eyes. A loud *slap* resounded through the dark passageway. Wux’s sharp breath let her know a nice, big red mark was sure to show. Having the visual that she’d beaten him, they resumed their positions in the foyer where Hakan was playing with knives and Olgier talked shop.

Hakan was speaking, “Profitable is the right word. A minor token force isn’t enough for a large raiding crew. Robbing them blind is what we do, and survivors from the Choir are… undesirable. I am not fond of a cure to my precious crystal cobra venom. When I’ve put a plan together, it’s raiding time. I need you not to be there so we can avoid unnecessary collateral damage.”

With a waggle of her knife, she dismissed the trader. Olgier rose, performed a bow, and left the foyer flanked by Lunella and a very red-faced assistant. They handled the collection of the toll, going by Hakan’s orders of what appropriate recompense was going to be. Overall, Olgier left Duskgrove with more profit than he’d arrived with. A rare occasion, but then it wasn’t often you could hand Hakan a target on a silver plate.

He was going to splurge in Rutsel when he arrived!

Chapter Forty-Three

A month later, Olgier pulled his hooded cart into the near-abandoned cloister. The orderly rows of tents had been broken down, maybe a single cleric manned the tower, and nary a soul was visible within the walls. He reined in his horse and looked around for confirmation. Sure enough, it seemed the expedition force was gone.

Some smoke still rose from several places behind the main church building, but it was minor. A shuffling step got his attention, and what must have been a living pillow shambled his way.

“Err… well met?” Olgier was hesitant, as all he could see were brown sacks and fluff.

“Good morrow, my boy!” came the muffled response from beneath it all. “Could you help me get my things on? I can’t quite see where I’m going.”

Ah, it was the Elder. Pillows. Sure. Fair enough. The Northman hopped off his cart and lifted sack after sack, shoving them into the back of the cart. He was surprised the old man hadn’t been crushed beneath the weight, but sure enough, Artorian was beaming with relief as he was freed. “Ah. Fresh air.”

Olgier enjoyed a laugh at the Elder’s antics. “You look well, old man! Quite healthy!”

Artorian handed over a few more sacks now that he had help. “Oh, indeed. I had several injuries for a while, but nothing some consistent cleric power couldn't take care of. Whoo. Air resistance is a drag, let me tell you.”

Olgier didn’t understand that last bit, so he simply hoisted the next sack as the Elder prattled on. “I’m afraid you’ve missed the host, m’boy. They all left days ago. It’s just me and some stragglers now. I’m all set to go, no parcels this time. Did the others make it?”

Olgier held out a hand, helping Artorian clamber on the transport with a grunt. “They certainly did. I had their arrival ensured. How has the last month been?”

The old man pulled some pillows from one of the sacks and set them on the front of the cart before sitting down. “Eventful. I signed some paperwork for the Head Cleric here, giving him the land that he thinks he now owns.” Artorian gave a conspiratorial wink to the trader, who had another good laugh. “In truth, there’s no such thing as land ownership in the Fringe! Can’t be done. Contracts are invalid since they can’t be secured, and conveying him a title didn’t actually do anything either since my heart wasn’t in it. He can be the Cloister Elder all he wants if it makes him feel better.”

Olgier couldn’t stop cackling, his hand coming down on his knee with firm slaps. “Did you trick them, old man? How can you even tell who is in charge of the region?”

“The obvious way,” Artorian regarded him, pushing his thumb under the edge of his robe to hold it out while lying through his teeth. A toothy smile followed from the merchant, and both of them shared a laugh as they settled to get going. “Aside from pulling one over on clerics, it’s been much of the same. I require a lot of rest. Time in the sunlight is prized, and to be honest, I had a slew of recurring injuries that needed to heal up. I’ve got a good handle on it now, along with some clever new tricks of mitigating their causes.”

Olgier got the cart going and envied the pillows the old man was sitting on. Why had he never thought of that? It was a great idea. Ah well, he’d have them soon enough. Speaking of… “I need to make a small detour before I can head to Rutsel. Is that fine?”

Artorian waved it off. “Whatever you have to do.”

The old man scoffed and flipped a small knife out from the inside of his inner robe. Content with the sharpness, he began grooming with it. The end edge of his long beard was frazzled and needed tending, and he had hours upon hours to kill. Olgier let the old man have his distraction.

Nearly two days of rough terrain and hills later, evening fell flat once again. The cart operator pulled away from the dirt path, which made the old man look about with curiosity as Olgier spoke quietly, “Keep your head down. Raiders.”

Artorian didn’t fuss; he simply hurried into the back of the cart, ruffling through one of his sacks. It wasn’t too quiet, but Olgier had no worries. He thought the geezer was trying to hide. He calmly watched the sizable war party pass. They saw one another, but both parties knew the plan and thus ignored each other. He gave them a signal, and the look full of malicious joy turned even his murder-hardened stomach. The raiders moved on, and Olgier did as well after they’d passed. He’d need to conjure a good excuse as to why he didn’t go hide in the cart as well.

“Looks like they… didn’t see us?” his voice rumbled into the back of the hooded cart. Not hearing a response, he looked to see what the old man was up to. The last thing he ever suspected was a point-blank *twang*!

The sharp end of the arrow erupted from the back of Olgier’s head, and his body slumped, tumbling right off the cart. Artorian stepped back into the limelight with a strung recurve bow in hand. Without a word, he drew a second arrow. *Twang*!

The hunched man kept a solid eye on the fallen traitor, now with two arrows in his noggin to confirm the kill. He was admittedly distracted by the end of the raider horde but wasn’t overly concerned. That wasn’t his problem to tackle; his personal war had just advanced. The full might of the Choir’s expedition was waiting for the approaching raiding party in a well-planned ambush.

It was amazing how empty you could make the cloister look by temporarily moving people to the salt flats. When the cart departed, Tibbins was playing guard and had signaled a well-placed scout. While Olgier had been distracted with the ramblings of an old man on the ride away from the cloister, the expedition force erupted forth to reinforce the bastion.

Choir scouts had confirmed beforehand that the raiders had prepared to move out and laid full sets of contingency plans. The raiders thought they were just going to walk all over a few cultivators with sheer numbers, and they certainly fielded a sizable crew in order to do so.

Hakan

Hakan herself wasn’t present for the cleanup job but had still allotted a hefty amount of men. You couldn’t underestimate even a weak cultivator, and the Church wasn’t known as a pushover. However, enough arrows in a man still did the job. So, she just needed to send enough men to guarantee success. So what if a few fell in glorious sacrifice?

At worst, there was going to be a short siege. Equipment had been sent along just in case there were some problems with that cloister wall, but Hakan firmly believed that might made right… especially when she had all the might. She’d find out how it went in a few days when her raiders returned laden with loot and trinkets. Hakan hadn’t the luxury to go with her raiders.

She certainly wanted to wet her blades on some cleric necks, but her camp had been in disarray over the past few weeks. She had been unable to pin down the source of the chaos, but every day, there had been yet another small issue that made her normally cohesive troops snappy. They had even dared to almost fight with one another. Tensions were high, and she had to be personally present to keep order at home. She even sent her apprentices off to sort through the less important problems.

While that did help, it simply didn’t stifle the flow of discord that developed. In truth, she had decided to send such a massive force just to get them all out of the house and relieve some tension. At most, a few dozen raiders remained behind, along with her favorites who she didn’t feel like sacrificing. Mostly, that meant her girls, and she’d allowed them each to choose an assistant or two.

To her relief, Lunella was as reliable as ever. Hakan didn’t approve of her consort choices, but there was a comfort in choosing servants from the village you hailed from. She had to admit that the familiarity had saved Lunella’s chosen servant a lot of pain. With a strong inhale of winter air at the balcony, she made her way back to her private quarters. Of course, she had the most excessive and opulent room in the entire castle, fit for a Baron’s mistress. It was even better when you’d killed the Baron and claimed the place for yourself.

Her mirth was interrupted a few hours later. Panicked noise distracted her in the middle of what should have been a relaxing night. No, surely, her servants would deal with it. She told herself that no less than four times as the sound continued until a bothersome knock finally killed her delusion. “You must be joking with me.”

Hakan’s snap was dry and hungry, “What?”

Lunella pushed open the door, her expression drab but serious. “We have a problem.”

Hakan rolled her head in frustration before she had a drink. “I gathered. What kind?”

Lunella swallowed, her grip on the doorknob tight. “A vengeful phantom is killing our men.”

Hakan spat her drink across the room and got to her feet. “Explain.”

By the time Hakan rushed to the foyer, a considerable number of her troops who dared venture outside or man the walls had joined in on the death dance. Some cowered and were holding themselves on the floor; more were huddled in the corner cradling their heads or knees. The few who had an arrow whiz past their ear and kept a hold of their life hadn’t thought twice, bolting for the safety of the keep.

“Quna. Quna! Get here now.” Hakan pushed her way into the huddled masses and absolutely seethed that she needed to wade through her own raiders. Quna, another woman in the pack that had a few more years on her than the rest, quickly responded to the call.

“Here!”

Hakan turned on her heel and dodged her way through the cowering, useless men. Her voice was full of dry displeasure. “Explain.”

Quna saluted and pulled the slumped man next to her upright, not at all caring about the bleeding ear he was pressing some cloth against. “Tell the Mistress what you saw.”

Her order was short, and the stammering raider didn’t have any choice but to bow to their wishes. “Arrows! From the forest. They barely ever miss, and if you don’t run, the second one always gets you! Marcovius got lucky; the arrow stuck into his chest armor. The arrow didn’t penetrate. He saw… the thing!”

Quna let the raider sink back to his knees, then took two firm steps and helped up the second man with considerably greater tenderness. Marcovius was a thin boy with big bones. He didn’t at all fit the clothes or loose leather armor he was clad in, but his glazed expression showed that he didn’t at all notice his surroundings. A few gentle taps to the cheek brought some focus back to his dilated eyes. “Mar? Mar. The Mistress is here. You need to tell her what you saw. You need to.”

Marcovius tightly held on to Quna, his grip trembling now not only from what he had seen but also direct contact with Hakan. He liked his face. “Phantom. Red eye thicker and brighter than blood. Vengeance, rage, and fury. It hunted us from the forest. One glance, and it sees your death. It felt the same—exactly the same as when I was sent to the gallows by that judge. They told me death would hunt me. Now it’s happening!”

Quna very gently shook the boy who used to be a noble’s servant. “You’re going to be okay, Mar. Take a seat. Just take a seat.”

The boy’s pupils went dull, but he followed her order and sat on his butt with all the awareness of a potato. Hakan didn’t like what she was hearing; she didn’t buy it. “So, there’s a single archer pulling tricks out in the forest?”

She realized how strange that was when she said it. Still, for an attack to so suddenly hit them? In so short a time after her main force was dispatched? Suspicious. “How many living men do we still have on patrol?”

Quna didn’t want to give the answer and swallowed her discomfort as she had no choice. “None.”

A growl of irritation left Hakan before a blade appeared between her fingers from seemingly thin air. The sudden sprawl of people jumping over one another to get out of the way of her immediate strike zone was a sight to behold. “What position are the attacks coming from?”

Quna was ready for this one and threw out the response. “High hill past the broken portcullis and wall. I’ve tried directing men to sneak to the other side for a look, but they haven’t reported back. I have to assume they didn’t make it.”

Hakan outright bit the tip of her gilded blade. Annoying. “Gather the men; arm them with bows. We’re going to fill every position on the keep and walls, then erupt and fire upon the position with the lights all at the same time.”

A few worried glances were exchanged between raiders at their newly given orders. Hakan was already rolling her eyes and snapped them to Quna. “What now?”

Again, Quna’s reply was on the ball, “The armory is on the second floor. The path to the armory is open to where we’re being shot from.”

Hakan kicked at a raider who was cowering under a table. “So duck below it, fools!”

Quna didn’t have many more answers ready, so she marched her way to the stairs. “You all heard The Mistress. Get on with it.”

Left without choice, they moved.

Chapter Forty-Four

Hours before, when the sun was still dipping downwards in the sky, Artorian rolled a body under a large shrub. Sustenance for the plant, when the traitor eventually decomposed. The bearded, old warrior wiped his hands off and mounted the now unowned cart. With a strong *fwap* of the reins, the horses trudged along as if nothing had happened.

Artorian’s replenished quiver rested right behind him, having recovered the still functional arrows before moving on with the journey. It was a pleasant day—a little colder than usual, a couple of actual clouds, and only the barest misty breeze. He knew where he was going, even without looking at a map. When the first hill came into view, he didn’t make the animals pull their way over it. Instead, he veered the cart off to the side a few hundred paces and let the horses go.

They didn’t run off like he’d expected; the unexpected liberty made them trot to a bushy patch of moist grass. He wondered why but wasn’t going to force them. Hoisting several sacks, Artorian marched his way up the first hill on foot. He hummed an old tune under his breath and stuck close to the brambled woods without directly entering. Once atop the first hill, he had a decently good view of the second one. Placing his hand above his eyes to block some sun, he spotted a single raider keeping watch.

“That’s it?” He was nearly certain there would have been at least three. The force sent out had been sizable, but leaving only one lookout was just bad strategy. “Well, can’t say it isn’t helpful.”

The supply sacks gently hit the grassy ground with glassy clinks. Pulling one open to get the weaponry out, he nicked two arrows from a stored quiver and re-strung the recurve bow. He tested the string, getting an instrumental tone in return. “Right, then. War, part one.”

Cycling Essence to his eyes to see the waving air current, his vision shifted to a moving artwork of ebbs and flows. The wavy lines crashed into still space and nudged it into moving. Just beautiful. The string was pulled taut, and Artorian waited for a nice calm patch as he lined up the shot. It was far too slow for any sort of military fire routine, but upon finding a nice pathway of calm for his arrow… he arced and released the arrow with a *twang*!

Ulno never knew what hit him. The arrow descended through his skull and part way down his neck, and the raider dropped like a potato sack. Obviously, an alarm was never raised. Starting to hum the old tune once more, Artorian undid his string and stowed his weapon, leisurely strolling up to the second hill to hide the body under the bushy edge of the forest.

A free snack for the wildlife. Now came the crux of the matter. He could not descend the second hill, or he’d be spotted even with the fading light. So, here was the gamble. Left, or right? Artorian rubbed his chin and thought about it. Did that really need to be a gamble? He cycled the Essence combination for infrared to his eyes and looked to the right, where he’d dumped the raider.

“Oh, busy, busy.” The heat signatures of several large animals moved about. If he had to guess, a small pack of jaguar? Odd for them to be so close to the border of the forest. The group moved away and vanished deeper into the thicket, so that was a definite plus. The proximity to the edge likely also meant that entire wing was their territory.

In other words—not the best option. Artorian turned around and had a good look to his left—a significant lack of animals but a whole host of considerably smaller and bothersome ones. He couldn’t identify the roving packs of little things, but the creature maybe forty to fifty paces from him was definitely a skunk. His nose clenched at the thought.

So, claws to the right, horrible smells and nuisances to the left. No real choice there; left it was. Undoing the Essence-sight, he rubbed his eyes as they normalized. It was getting too dark to see anything, so he was going to have to choose an Essence view to find a place that could qualify as camp. He had a lot of set-up to do and very little time to do it. He might not be heading into the section of the forest with large cats, but worse things certainly roamed.

As an example, abyss-blasted snakes. He knew they were around; that poison the raiders used had to come from somewhere. Infrared might not pick up cold animals. Ultraviolet wasn’t going to do him any good, and it gave him a brutal headache. The realm past ultraviolet was a big no-no. Watching skeletons roam was not his idea of a good time. Light-sight was going to put anything solid in the dark, but if something was dangerous and not moving… he was just going to suffer by walking into it.

Air wasn’t going to help him at all. Wait… why was he overcomplicating this? Artorian cycled refined Essence to his eyes and saw his surroundings jump into clarity. “Yes, that will do nicely.”

It wasn’t as good as daylight, but by the heavens did it get the job done! With a heavy step, he pushed his way through the thorny brush and nestled himself in the Phantomdusk Forest. Another unit of cycled Essence was immediately added as the light level dropped from the dense foliage. An inconvenience but still notable that the difference was so clear. During the middle of the day, it would still look like late evening here. Perhaps that was where the name ‘Phantomdusk’ came from originally?

The ground *clicked* rather than *crunched* below his wooden sandals. That wasn’t something he’d been expecting, so he glanced down. All he saw were tree roots in the majority of the space grass didn’t cover. The tree density was only awful right at the edge and eased off into broad passages. Another odd thing was that certain branches had a bit of an… internal glow to them? How peculiar.

He deemed it best to avoid stepping on those shining roots, as it was a very thin string of Essence that wriggled along the root. It reminded him of a trap string that would spring if disturbed. So was the forest a cultivator, or did it have cultivators in it? Either way, that explained a few things. Seventy more paces and he was climbing the hill that curved around where he knew the castle was.

Torches lining the stone wall were few, but they painted blazing targets on a smattering of raiders. Once on top of the hill, he had a majestic view of the forest. Forest that spanned a far greater distance than he had imagined it did. “Oh. Well, right then.”

He put the weight down and really took in the view. Stars were visible through an opening in the canopy. While it was a little chilly, it certainly wasn’t uncomfortable. Under the foliage, there was only the barest hint of wind. He had the passing suspicion that these trees weren’t fond of air currents but didn’t know why.

The old man swapped out enhanced sight for infrared and had a check up on the situation. Nothing with a significant heat signature in the close vicinity, save for the castle denizens. He noticed the foliage didn’t in the slightest block his Essence sight. How odd… beneficial but odd.

He decided then and there that this was where he was going to set up temporary camp. After an hour of unpacking, he’d nested some pillows near a tree and neatly arrayed supplies in the order he thought he might need them. Quivers had been planted on a firing line that he was going to stand behind so he could snatch and shoot when necessary. The twin moons hung clear and visible in the sky.

“A good evenin’ for a hunt,” Artorian assured himself, uncorking a glass vial of honey and letting it run over some hardened bread. A few crunchy bites later, the old man licked his fingers clean. Honey was sticky, but heavens did he have a weakness for sweet things. He tossed the vial at his camp. He’d clean it up later.

A few brisk steps brought him to the planned firing position. A flat cliff followed by a slant in the hill offered a nice big hole in the foliage ahead. The old man did his basic stretches before getting started. He picked up his bow and kicked off the fear tactics by cycling an overabundance of infrared Essence to his eyes. He skewed the identity of the energy, intending it to invoke the more visual side effect components.

Blazing crimson eyes blossomed on his face. While he couldn’t see the effect without a mirror, he was certain that any observers peering his way certainly would!

*Fhwizz*. The first arrow flew.

A raider on the wall found himself gurgling. He dropped to his knees as a brand new neck ornament protruded all the way through his throat and a major artery. Blood gushed freely, and gravity did its work as the man fell.

*Fhwizz*. *Fhwizz*. *Fhwizz*. Several more deadly, sharp whistles struck.

Bodies dropped, and the panic began.

Artorian fostered patience. When only the occasional head peeked around the wall to catch a glimpse of where he was, the heat signature gave it away long before they’d fully craned their face around. A taut pull of the bowstring and a clockwork *fwhok* later, there was one less raider.

“Twenty-two,” he counted, adding to his tally for every heat signature that dropped away. It had been a surprisingly leisurely hunt. He doubted it would stay that way; so, with a full forty-arrow quiver expended, Artorian called it a night.

His eyes hurt, and this had been a very successful round of terror spreading. Packing up his other quivers, he brought them back to the makeshift camp and found something peculiar. A small, fluffy, little creature was using the tiniest tongue he had ever seen to lick at the inside of his discarded honey vial. “How endearing. Fond of sugar, little one?”

The small, fluffy thing darted for cover but didn’t go particularly far. It crawled up a tree and settled on a branch above. Artorian released a tiny chuckle and rested on his pillows at the base of the same tree. Pulling a sizable gray blanket from one of the sacks, he threw it over himself and called it a night. He was tired and made the gamble that no raiders were going to be sent into the forest to come check on the threat.

Wild animals? Different story, but he had no true recourse here. His refined sight saw the tiny creature glide down and *plop* back to the vial, which it took in tiny paws, trying to lick more honey from the inside. It was precious! Artorian had never kept any pets, but the drive to care for things called to him strongly. Since the small critter wasn’t deterred, he sunk his hand through his supplies sack and pulled out a full vial of honey.

Leaning forward, he scared the tiny thing off again just by approaching. That was fine; once again, it hadn’t gone far. The opened vial was placed next to the empty one, and he pulled back to sink against the tree. Lacing his hands, he watched the hungry, little glider waddle and bounce back to where it had been to cautiously indulge. “Haven’t seen something quite like you before, little one.”

Pulling the blanket up, he pressed into as comfortable of a position as he could on the padded roots, sleepily listening to the clinking of the two glass vials. Commotion at the castle grabbed his attention. With effort, he cycled infrared sight and saw an ant’s nest unfurl from several openings he’d previously been unaware of.

How helpful. He wasn’t cycling very intensely, so there was no visible component that gave away where he currently was. His attention returned to the little critter trying to cram its entire head into the vial.

“You like sugar, and you’re a glider. I’ll call you a sugar glider. Careful, sugar glider, things may get a little messy here.”

Chapter Forty-Five

Cozy, camouflaged, and under cover, Artorian studied his adversaries. There was an ant’s nest of activity in the hall of the second floor and a good number of people curving around from the opposite side of the courtyard and outer wall. Not bad, but that did give away all the avenues of approach he’d expect them to use in the future. The blurry, red figures didn’t particularly seem to know where to go, and the great majority had their arms outstretched in front of them.

Bows? Bows. He was hopeful they lacked arrows, but he’d given them at least forty to work with. Retrieving ammo from downed comrades would at least cause some additional morale damage. He’d give them the night and all of tomorrow to fret. The prepared hunter planned to cultivate nearly the entire upcoming day.

Once the night hit once more, the hunt would continue. Nestling the gray blanket fully over his body and face, he calmed his nerves by drinking some water; then he sank into much-needed sleep. Laying a one-man siege took the energy right out of you!

Unlike Artorian, the people in Duskgrove Castle weren’t getting a wink of rest. Between the stress, fear, and lack of something to target when they finally collected the courage to burst forth and strike… they had all but deflated. Not only did they not find a target, they couldn’t afford to go looking. Shooting something at the forest from range was one thing. Stepping foot inside?

All they would find was misery. Even after some vicious lashings and threats, there wasn’t a raider in the keep ready to risk that kind of certain death. Beatings were favorable in comparison to exiting the confines of the mostly safe walls. Roughly a third of Hakan’s people lay dead outside her keep. Numerous bodies had been retrieved and shoved on to a burn pile when there had been a lull in the assault. At minimum, they were going to wait for the sun to be up to light the fire, as no raider wanted to chance being an easily spotted, well-lit target.

While the night may have been quiet, it was truly taxing. Just leaving the keep was done in sizable groups, and patrols either went fully armed or not at all. All remaining shields found their way into wanting hands, which was admittedly few after the war party had been kitted with near all of those precious protections. When day finally broke, the raiders were tired, sullen, and bleary-eyed. They were kept awake by an unhealthy mixture of alcohol and the fear of what might be waiting for them the next time they set foot outside.

A door wasn’t opened without having shield cover. If you didn’t have one, you fetched someone who did. Defending this castle was not something the raiders had done before, and that reality drove Hakan up the wall. Her apprentices did what they could, but she wasn’t about to order any of her girls to go out and patrol.

The silence of the day was equally welcoming and dreadful, and many hushed whispers started more than one rumor that nightfall was to be dreaded. A fight even broke out on whether to have more torches lining the walls or none at all. The apprentices could not stifle the demoralizing air and conflict that rolled through the keep.

To Hakan’s relieved delight, at least one of her underlings was useful. Lunella had brought her a plan that would solve both problems in one solid swoop. By having all the raiders be armed and positioned outside the keep at all times, they could quickly react as a group to the mystery threat. Since the crimson light marked such a clear target, the raiders would know what to aim for.

A few arrows might miss, but at least one or two in a full barrage wouldn’t. This would be plenty to end the threat and raise morale. There was an excess of room in the courtyard, the tower, and on the walls for the raiders to set up. After the rough idea of the plan was spread around, Hakan’s command spurred it to action.

When Artorian woke up in the late morning, he had quite the surprise waiting for him—or rather, on him. There was movement on his blanket as the claws pierced through the thick sheet. From the feel of it, numerous minute critters were skittering about on top of him.

*Plink*. *Plink*.

The noisy clinking of glass made the old man stir. The shifting sent waves of scattered fluffballs scurrying from his bundled, resting frame. Rubbing his face with the inside of the blanket, he woke with a *nnffff* and a crick in his back. Artorian peeked over the blanket at a parade of mouse-sized sugar gliders swarming through his rations sack. “You little rascals!”

They scattered. His waking words were accusatory and pointed but soft and spoken with surprised affection. Nudging the heavy blanket further down, the critters all darted away further and clambered up nearby trees. So, they’re climbers, too? Precious… but… “You stay out of my food!”

With a labored stretch, he tugged in the ration-sack and inspected the damage. That’s odd…? Most of the food was still packaged and untouched, though they’d tried tearing their way into his cloth-wrapped fruits from the look of it. He had not seen much fruit on his trek so far. Squinting, he had a good look at some of the sugar gliders while he unpacked a small bundle of raspberries.

There was something wriggling in their tiny paws that they ate. Worms? Yes, it certainly seemed as such. Both of the vials he had left out the night before were completely empty and scattered several feet away from where he’d originally placed them. Looks like honey was popular.

*Fhwump*. Popping the cork on a third vial, he set it out a good distance away from him, sprinkling some raspberries on the root next to it. He had plenty, and he didn’t mind sharing. Getting looted was a different matter.

Cautiously, the gliders went to inspect as Artorian pulled out his own breakfast. Watching them, he tore away at somewhat crumbly, dry bread stacked with layers and layers of salted mixed meats. The resting Elder pulled the stopper from a canteen and downed half of all the water from it in a single draw. The relief of refreshment rushed over his body. “Ahh. That’s the stuff.”

He finished his sandwich, watching as a whole horde of gliders tousled and pushed to get their faces at the honey tube. Once they’d nibbled at a raspberry, the snooty rascals straight up absconded with them. The fruit made a mushy mess of their adorable faces as they dove into the berries like candy.

Oh, how he missed candy. The nostalgia was shaken off before it had a chance to root. Some bark fragments fell on him, followed by the soft *thud* of a glider. The impact caused a noisy *crunch*. The little thing twitched, whining as it relied on its right side to pull itself to safety. It was hurt?

*Oof*! Artorian tensed and blinked with surprise from the creature’s sudden drop. He remembered what pity felt like and didn’t like it one bit. “Oh no, now that won’t do at all.”

He reached over, grabbing one of the weak healing potions from a clipped-open satchel. The little glider lay unmoving, the little animal drawing labored, heavy breaths. Its tiny body shuddered from fright; Artorian was a big, scary thing, and it hurt all over.

The old man was focused, going into full healer mode. Applying more than a few drops of potion to the berry he’d been holding, he set the fruit down. Then he nudged it under the glider’s chin. He didn’t do anything more until that tiny tongue lapped at the sweet berry. The pulsating, little stomach slowed its panicked heaving. Breaths came just a little bit easier. With the tiny, precious fluff a little more complacent, the side of his thumb tenderly brushed across its twitching head and ear. He didn’t know how to soothe this animal, but tenderness hadn’t failed him yet. He considered more in-depth methods of restoring the fluff ball.

For a moment, part of him deemed it a waste to patch the soft animal, but that singular voice swiftly had the snot beaten out of it by all the other parts who ganged up as an overzealous, motherly mob. Shifting Essence sights, he had a look at the creature to get a rough idea of breathing pattern, circulation, muscle movement, bone positions, and what was out of place. Major bones in both the front and hind legs of the left side had shattered. From pre-present splinters, it appeared these bones had been fractured before. This little one must have been in pain and for much longer than merely today.

Brushing the flat of his hand across the soft fluff’s back with tender care, he filtered celestial Essence into the glider. His hand ever-so-barely brightened, and the fluffling hazily went limp as it drifted asleep… unaware of what would have otherwise been painful internal changes.

Artorian heard small *pops* as Essence was guided to break, set, then mend the bones while keeping the muscles pushed away. After the bones were whole, he relatched the musculature on before moving to lesser injuries. The careful ministrations and delicate Essence control made him sweat, and the pull slipped from his control as refined Essence was added to the mixture.

Whoops. He was going to lose some Essence… The thought was discarded; he came to terms with it. He wasn’t going to let the little thing suffer, and he wasn’t going to put it out of its misery. This sugar glider was minuscule in size compared to its counterparts. Little baby would likely have had a long, healthy life, despite being a runt. Still, the bones of this little one were brittle. Too brittle… A thought occurred, a dangerous one. One he truly, truly should not try.

“Maybe… maybe just a little?” Artorian mumbled to himself.

Hesitantly pulling some celestial corruption from his trapping circle, he bundled it in a minor weave to continue the containment. Sweat beaded on his face from concentration. It took patience and precision to maneuver the trapped corruption through the channel of his hand and into the no-longer-wriggling glider.

It was just pleasantly dreaming, mouth and arms moving as if munching and stuffing its face as little shivers of warmth rolled over and through its limited senses. Once the bubble of corruption had moved to what Artorian considered the Center of the creature, he took a solid breath and wiped his face. Keeping the main orb centered, he pulled smaller globes of corruption all along the baby’s bones. The bones sucked the corruption down, and Artorian didn’t have the focus to retrieve the weave, so he let go and let the glider have it.

Artorian was playing with an untested theory here and tried hard not to let his desire to heal the fluff dip over into academic curiosity. He failed. The natural immutable aspect to resist change was what he wanted here. Having that kind of energy reinforcing bones was a minor but positive permanent change. He needed to be certain ‘corruption’ was merely a poorly used term. Celestial also didn’t hurt like restoring with another Essence type did. ‘Corruption’ could not have its meaning skewed or identity bent, so he decided to work with only one type for the entire creature. Hours went by before he was done, needing to wipe off his forehead several more times in the process.

In only a few seconds, a full canteen and a half had been drained, and now, Artorian felt rather spent. Somewhere midway through the care, he’d bared his top half, allowing passive cultivation to hit him as the sun was crawling higher into the sky. “There we… go.”

When the snoozing pipsqueak woke, it was up and running immediately. He hoped there’d be no unfortunate side effects, and the health of the glider had visibly improved. This did wonders for his mood, as he was going to be doing terrible things soon. Hungry, he leaned over and unwrapped an apple, cutting off the slimmest of slivers to give them to the energetic sugar glider.

“Do you like apple? I hope you like apple. I’ve many of them.” With the speed the sliver vanished into the crunching, little snout, he’d take that as a positive. Seeing as how their companion had not been harmed, other sugar gliders had taken to crawling all over him and his blanket. They were coming to touch noses with their previously injured family member. Artorian moved his hands out of the way as the glider family nuzzled up to the runt and nudged, licked, and held the fallen fluffling. It was heartwarming. “I love these fluffs!”

He spent the next half hour snacking and carving slivers off his apples, feeding it to an ever-growing pile of gliders who grew ever less shy. He soon had them crawling up his beard, shoulders, and blanket. A few even nested underneath where it was warm, and others still were making his dropped robe wiggle as they walked through it. “Hmm. Big family.”

Artorian had a good-natured chuckle, happily discovering he could pet a few of them. This was nice, but the old warrior sighed as he took a stern Essence-cycled glance at the keep. Shielding his eyes from the sun, he took in the impressive numbers.

“Are they all just out and about? Why would they…”

His heart nearly leaped from his chest as his blood pressure spiked. There… against the wall near an open door… her back pressed to it—even clad in different attire and carrying a few years of age that had really done well for her—stood a recognizable Lunella. In fact, she was incredibly recognizable. You could see that position from absolutely anywhere.

“Ooh. Clever, Lunella, clever!” He punched the air with his free hand and rejoiced in the wit she was exhibiting without a single soul catching on. Several gliders discovered what being launched was like during his sky-punching exuberance. “You wanted me to know you were alive and fine! Oh, thank you!”

His breath hitched, eyes wet from emotion. Good heavens did he feel proud. He didn’t even realize he was nodding in approval until Wux joined her! His skin felt electric from sheer joy. “Excellent! Oh. Is that a scar? Oh my, it is.”

Still, it gave him some character, and hopefully, he could keep it at just one. Well… based on their proximity to one another, the boy’s knee was a valid target for an arrow. He hoped they hadn’t had any issues, but then again… it was likely that a romance was just budding. They did look somewhat awkward. Still, he certainly wasn’t going to tease them for finding comfort in such a terrible situation.

“Good show, my boy. Good show.” Now. Was it just the two of them? They’d been the oldest, and it was possible their younger Salt friends were kept elsewhere. “One obsession at a time, old man. Count your opponents.”

Something was… off. For some odd reason, a large chunk—if not the entirety—of the enemy force had exposed itself. He counted… fifty-seven. That many? That was an incredible number to remain behind. Just how large had that war party been?

The clerics would certainly have their work cut out for them; perhaps that bought him a day. The raiders he could see certainly appeared haggard… Had they slept? Didn’t look like it. That was excellent since Artorian wasn’t going to strike during the day; sunlight was too valuable to waste.

The sugar gliders around him appeared content. He ate a second sandwich and downed more water. The crumbs were plentiful, so the gliders made a game out of hunting the scraps down to eat. Artorian settled himself cozily back down and slipped into active cultivation. His Center exploded with light as energy crashed into it, the slow, passive spins tightening to crisp, controlled rotations. One ring helped move another, and soon, the entire Center mimicked a bright star.

With his intake settled, he got straight to refining. The purity of the light visibly lanced away minuscule amounts of gathered corruption. The corruption disintegrated at a fast enough rate to chip away at the stored excess as well. His Essence poured, and the ground around him gave a *thrum* as the overabundant energy radiated off his Aura. While minute, shadows in the vicinity retreated, and the local area warmed. He didn’t notice that the sugar gliders bundled up against his sides… He was also unaware of the free-floating Essence that built in density around him.

He provided comfort, and the gliders cozily lounged, basking in the Essence-rich dome. A while later, a few of them began to steal apple after apple from his pack, having figured out how to undo cloth folding.

The ground didn’t have any further reaction, and there was nearly no additional fluctuation in his surroundings as his pull went tall rather than wide. He didn’t bother pulling from the earth, avoiding it like a bad toothache. It only gave him corruption. Instead, his focus shifted to drawing purely from the heavens. Artorian’s surroundings thrived without his notice as his pull of Essence that couldn’t be absorbed spilled over.

The sugar gliders didn’t mind the extra comfort, and after such a big and easy meal, they all settled to nap on and around the long-bearded, friendly thing. He remained in that position until evening, when the sun dipped the last of its light back over the horizon. When Artorian came to—finally pulled from inward focus—he found that his beard had gained weight. Specifically, the weight of a particularly large and healthy-looking glider that had made itself cozy. The old man didn’t recognize this one.

It had stark white fur that matched his snowy beard instead of the subtle, varying dark grays of its companions. It was missing the thin black strip that ran down the spine of the others as well. The long, floofy tail was the same, just thicker and puffier. They were all sweeties as far as he was concerned, so as the bleached puff was healthy, he let the larger-than-average critter nest without concern.

Artorian slowly unearthed himself from the entrenched fluff-bunker. The number of furballs that leaped off of him was larger than he’d expected, but that was fine. He began his required stretches, and the gliders saw fit to use him as a living playset while he moved about. He left his shirt, under robe, and Lapis robe at his campsite to let the fuzzy, little sweethearts crawl around in it. It took some doing to string his bow with the little distractions, but that didn’t deter him from setting up his firing line.

“Let’s see now…” he muttered to himself as he cycled refined Essence, the darkness lifting to a far more visible view.

“Good number of obstacles. That’s a lot of raiders still outside. I wonder if they got a sunburn?” he mused as he counted again. Fifty-five. Stable enough when compared to his prior count this morning. He was going to give himself a world of hurt if he bolstered infrared again. Then again, with the additional torches and smorgasbord of targets, what he was currently using was enough. Setting his feet into the stable L-shaped position, he drew an arrow, aimed for a man at the top of the tower, and released.

*Fwiii*!

Chapter Forty-Six

Tumulo had been in a heated debate with his friend, who had resorted to quietly grunting as the southerner just kept on talking and talking. So, it didn’t come as a big surprise when his non-responsive conversation partner slumped into the corner with a sharp… snore?

Falling asleep in the middle of the conversation? That was a new level of rude. Moving the torch closer to nudge and wake the other up, the lookout’s eyes went wide in dread as he saw the arrow. Tumulo took a breath to scream the alarm, but a second *whizz* silenced the otherwise endlessly chatty raider.

After the seventh raider was counted under Artorian’s breath, questions started to be raised about the strange noises. Movement picked up in the keep, and when a replacement raider came to swap out the guards on top of the tower, he found that both were punctured. Someone had been sniping them, starting at the highest position and working their way down. Peering across the edge, the raider could see where people in lower positions were slumped. Panic jumped into his throat, his sudden attention letting him hear an incoming *fwiii*.

He reflexively ducked for cover, unwilling to take the risk that it might be something other than death. The arrow meant to slit his throat plinked off stone and his breath found words, “Alarm! Under attack!”

Additional torches were lit and raised to help pinpoint the position they were being murdered from. Unfortunately for them, without the obvious giveaway of the crimson light, they shot blindly into the forest, hoping they would hit something.

Artorian calmly pulled yet another arrow from the quiver on the ground, set his aim, and let loose. Raiders fell like chalk targets in a shooting gallery. They shambled with tired, lumbering, hesitant steps in straight lines. Not a single zigzag among them. They were too tired, stressed, and frazzled to consider tactics more complicated than ‘toss arrows into the woods’.

*Crash*! The sound of a door being kicked down caught everyone’s attention as Hakan punted it open. Her voice was shrill and full of threat. “Get into the forest! Get into the forest and kill that piece of lard making sport out of your brothers!”

There was going to be more to her speech, but a screaming arrow pierced the air, going straight for her throat. Artorian cursed under his breath as he was witness to unbelievable reaction time. Hakan snatched the arrow out of midair! Her head was tilted to the left, avoiding the sharp end that was currently where her eye would have been. He wasn’t going to be able to snipe this beast, hmm? Well, nothing was stopping him from trying a few more times. Only one had to succeed, after all.

Given that she matched Switch’s description, this must be Hakan. The raider leader was absolutely covered in blades. If there was room on her where another could fit, the old man didn’t see it. Picking a new arrow, he sent it through the jugular of a dawdling raider who didn’t know whether to obey or just aimlessly keep firing.

Unfortunately for the weathered sniper, that had been the last straw. The raiders with heavy axes finally disregarded the threat of the wood. They charged into the thicket wall and began chopping their way through. To the abyss with whatever horrors the forest held! There was an archer picking them off, and now Hakan was going to make mincemeat out of them if they retreated.

In her own words, “Cutting will continue until morale improves.” The raiders shuddered at the thought and began making their way through the wall of thorns. Artorian’s firing line was abandoned as he saw the charge. Hastily, he snatched the last full quiver on the line and hoisted it as he hustled back to the makeshift camp. A few dozen raiders were too much!

“I’m sorry, little ones, I need the protection.”

Sugar gliders went flying from his robes as a disorganized swarm as he snatched up his clothing and shook them wildly to get the infestation of fluffs out. Throwing his shirt on, he wrapped the inner gi over his shoulders and slid his arms in, hurriedly binding the front with the appropriate cloth belt before throwing the Lapis robe over himself. Sure, it was visible, but more layers meant more protection that needed to be stabbed through. He downed a full waterskin in one go, tossing it back into the sack he was abandoning.

In a rush, he scanned over his supplies. “What do I need? What do I need? Ah!”

The sack with the potion-filled bandolier made its way around the inner gray gi. The sturdy cloth prevented the bandolier from cutting into his skin, so he tightened it a good amount to prevent the potions from jostling. He was about to need them. Latching the quiver on to his back, he bolted for the part of the wood where he’d first entered between the hills. After only a few steps, however, he skidded to an ungraceful halt. “Oh, ho~o~old on. Mustn't forget.”

Refined Essence entered his eyes, and the energy lines serving as trip wires among the root system became visible. An extra second was taken to carefully step over those as he got back to hustling in the direction of the pass. He steadied his breathing as if on the morning jog, ducked low to avoid breaking branches, and stepped past the hole where the skunk lived.

Shoulder-checking the opening, he released a hiss as some thorns got him. Artorian tumbled on to grass once again as momentum carried him through. He’d outright forgotten grass was so abyss-blasted slippery. One day in the woods and he forgot about how things outside of it worked? That’s odd. He wasn’t usually so forgetful. Well, no time like the present to relearn.

Point of order, he had raiders on his tail. While they didn’t have his current position, his miniature camp wasn’t exactly hidden; they’d find that in no time. The right side of the woods was still claw-and-fang territory, so he wasn’t about to rush in there. For a moment, he wondered if raiders had entered that section, then heard the yelped screams coming from the appropriate direction. Looked like yes. They must be trying to flank him in the woods. “Haw!”

He needed to be where the raiders were not. That meant—he sighed, coming to terms with the truth—inside the keep.

He didn’t have the luxury of time to find an alternative, so he picked up his hustle. Climbing the second hill was still done cautiously, and he flattened himself atop it when he arrived at the crescent. His eyes darted across the landscape; barely a raider remained behind. He didn’t have eyes on his children, so they must have been inside. Then again… he also didn’t have eyes on Hakan. A bad feeling told him that monster was also inside.

*Thwip*!

Pain seared his shoulder, and he gripped it tightly with an, “Argh!”

Artorian’s face scrunched, and through wet eyes, he saw the protruding arrow. Swiftly, he ripped it free and checked the tip. No clear coating. No venom on this one. He rolled away from the direction of the attack and slipped a weak potion free, drinking it down before ditching the vial. A second arrow missed him, then a third went wide. Pushing from a roll into a stabilizing knee, he rose up, drew an arrow, and found the target immediately. It was hard not to as the impatient, distracted raider was charging straight up the hill at him.

*Fhwizz*.

“Hurk!” The pained gurgle preceded a twitchy slump on to the wet grass. Still moving, the raider tried to get back up but was met with a second arrow launched point-blank into the back of his skull before he could scream the alarm. The raider’s world went dark as footsteps hurried past him, headed to the right portcullis of the keep.

Artorian felt his heart race. He was thrilled as only an old soldier could be, completely engulfed in the pressure like he was back on the campaign trail. At the gate, two raiders who had just left the keep spotted him, drew blades, and rushed the unknown intruder with wild, screaming abandon. Luckily, their screams blended into the cacophony of screams around the area, and the raider in front was swiftly silenced via an arrow to the noggin.

The remaining rusher had more luck, sinking his blade into the strap of the bandolier on the bearded Elder’s side. The blade pierced! Showing his teeth in a dark grin, he believed the shallow cut was a kill, and the raider celebrated early, pushing to drive the knife deeper. At least, he would have had his spine not snapped from an inhuman impact. The lanky brute’s body warped in on itself as a point-stop palm strike struck him low and from the side. The impact hadn’t been powerful, but it had crushed the non-cultivator’s insides into twisted pulp, and several vertebrae cracked loudly as spinal discs shattered.

That was all Artorian needed to truly grasp the difference between a cultivator and a non-cultivator. He could indeed handle ten men like this at a time.

*Shwip*!

A point-blank arrow to the skull put the raider out of his misery. Artorian wasn’t having any of that ‘rise up to come at me again later’ nonsense. Rushing to the wooden door, he slid to a stop and lifted his bow as the door began opening again. Nocking an arrow, he drew the string taut.

“Elder?” Wuxius’s face was surprised, disbelieving that the old man was truly, actually here in person. Wux sprung himself forwards and squeezed the Elder, who eased his bow down and wrapped his own arms around his child. Artorian felt utterly destroyed, his resilience shattered; his murderous focus was gone in an instant. He was getting to hold his grandson again! Artorian’s chest clenched and his eyes threatened to water. The fact that he had no blood relation to this lad meant nothing. He had chosen to be family.

“My dear boy.” Artorian let free an *hrk* as Wux squeezed him too hard, and the old man had to firmly tap him on the back to make the youngster let go. “*Cough*. I’ve come to… *cough*… get you all. Just as I promised I would. I’m so sorry it took this long.”

Wuxius released his Elder and snapped to the business at hand, a trait he’d been forced to learn and master over these many seasons. “Lunella is still inside. The others were taken elsewhere years ago. We don’t know where… just that it’s some other raider camp.”

Artorian gave a sharp nod and pulled the boy along into the building, speaking quickly, “I’ll find them, just as I found you. Where is Lunella? Let’s get you both out of here. Salt village will be safe enough by the time you get there; it’s a cleric’s cloister now. When you arrive, ask for Tarrean.”

Wux nodded but saw something move in the hall and pulled the Elder back. Artorian tripped into position behind a wall like a falling child. Hurried footsteps shot past. Wux stood firm and raised his hand in greeting, but the sound of two raiders grunting at him was his only reply. Wux was relieved that his distraction was enough to make them look away from the Elder he was hiding but discovered immediately afterward that his Elder was not reacting as he thought he would.

Instead, Artorian dropped one of the raiders who had been walking away with an arrow.

Wux froze in place. When the other raider turned to see what had happened, he too slumped, landing face-to-stone with a new arrow hat. Wux just turned around and gave the old man a look, but his Elder wasn’t willing to tarry. “Where is Lunella? I want to be in and out.”

Wux didn’t have a good reply; he could only glance down the dark hall those raiders had just come from. “With… her.”

The difficult expression marring Wux’s face told Artorian everything he needed to know. “Go in there and distract her. I need that woman to not be looking at the door.”

A confident nod from Wuxius was all the reply he got, but between two men seasoned by hardships, that was all the reply needed. Wuxius didn’t need light to see in the dark passageways, being used to them. He didn't give thought to how the old man was not only keeping up with him but surprising each raider in their way with a close-range *fwiii* to the face.

The youngster from the Salt village quickly learned that his Elder liked to aim for the head or the throat and nowhere else. It made him shudder, but he ignored it easily enough since he was already having trouble reconciling his kindly, gentle-hearted, old Elder with this sniping shadow assassin. He could have sworn there was a light hiding behind the Elder’s eyes but didn’t have the time to bring it up as they reached a heavy wooden door.

“It’s this one,” Wux spoke under his breath as if he was about to enter a mausoleum. His bow-wielding Elder pressed to the wall so he wouldn’t be spotted when the door opened. Wuxius knocked. An infuriated gnashing came from the other side.

“Enter,” Hakan called out in a shrill tone, consulting three of her apprentices at once, Lunella among them. Wux’s secret love raised a brow at the entirely-out-of-character behavior; he never came without being called. The assistant hastily stepped in, leaving half the door open.

“Apologies, I had an urgent message.”

Hakan didn’t have time for his words and rolled her hand for him to get a move on. Her free hand covered her eyes as her head sank low. It was always distraction after distraction with these wretches! A drawn knife swung through the air.

*Shlink*!

Wux’s knife divided a feminine throat, forcing a gargled protest that gathered all of the raider leader’s attention. She dropped her hand, eyes wide in surprise as the low-class male offed one of her prized apprentices. Hakan was so stricken… she couldn’t believe what she was seeing! She would have butchered him, but a slimy itching on her spine screamed danger.

*Fwhizz*!

Hakan’s hand snapped up, and the tip of the arrow managed to cut her cheek as she caught it. Her lips curled into a cruel smile as she discovered the ploy. “I was hoping I would have the chance to hunt the hunter.”

Lunella and Wux didn’t hesitate, moving as Lunella drew her dagger. Ubana, the final apprentice in the row, prepared to pull her weapon as well. A traitorous male and a mysterious hunter needed cutting! Together with her fellow apprentice and master she could… *Shling*!

She could… A gurgle of blood left Ubana as it spilled from a sizable gash in the side of her throat. Her fanged dagger fell to the ground as she clutched her neck in utter panic, collapsing from the fatal wound Lunella had dealt her. Hakan’s attention was momentarily divided. Her heart thumped with rage and disbelief at the betrayal she witnessed firsthand.

*Fwhizz*!

Hakan didn’t catch this one, simply knocking it away. Still, she winced, raising her hand to see the leather on her glove cut open. Really? What was the ridiculous draw strength of that bow? She had to jump back, acrobatically circus-twisting so she was covered by a vanity dresser. One hunter was bad enough, but one hunter and two armed traitors?

She snarled and spat at the ground. “Lunella, you little cretin! You dare betray me like this with your pet in range?”

Wux turned red from anger. He despised when anyone insulted Lunella and doubly so when it came from Hakan. He spat back, full of heart-pumping adrenaline, “To the abyss with you, wretch!”

*Fwhizz*!

Artorian stepped into the well-lit room. Lunella pressed her hands to her mouth and was brought to tears as her Lapis-clad Elder strode forth and loosed arrow after arrow at the cabinet Hakan was using for cover. A sharp *hiss* let them all know that the shafts had penetrated.

The snarl of a wild animal sounded as Hakan countered. The three Salt compatriots didn’t expect her speed as the raid leader bounded to the far wall and used it as a springboard to launch herself at the primary threat. Surprised but expecting some suicidal attack that would bring a blade to his neck, Artorian let himself drop to the ground, forcing the leaping Hakan to fly right over him.

Her blade cut only air, but for a moment the eyes of opposing ideologies met. Hakan didn’t know who this old man was, but she knew without a doubt that she hated every. Single. Fiber of his being. She was going to lash and claw, rip and tear, cut and bleed him until the husk that remained was unrecognizable.

Dropping the bow, Artorian was quickly on his feet. Rather than engage in a one versus three melee, Hakan decided to bolt when seeing the armed traitor’s approach. She chose to not engage at such a disadvantage and took off at a full sprint down the hall Wux and Artorian had come through. The old man could give chase, but he didn’t.

He had his priorities in order.

Chapter Forty-Seven

Artorian’s arms opened to receive his children as soon as they had a reprieve. This was all the invitation Lunella needed to smash her face into her favorite grandfather’s chest. Bawling like the abandoned babe she was, the lack of threat made her need for support and family skyrocket. It was impossible for her to decipher her emotions; she could only describe it as being found again.

“My dear granddaughter…” Artorian held Lunella tight, not hesitating to pull Wux in with them. The silly lad had just been aimlessly holding his own arm, lost in the chaos of the moment after his plan had somehow worked. He was clever, but coming up with plans on the spot was Lunella’s gift, not his. His gift was seeing plans through.

Artorian held his children close, his breath breaking into staggers from the warm tears at regaining not one but two of his hearts. The hug was long and drawn out. His mind told him that tactically, that was an idiot thing to do. Physically, he didn’t care. His children needed this, and he did too. It had been years, and taking a few seconds to rekindle their hope into blazing bonfires was worth any additional hardship he was about to face while extracting them. When Lunella let go, so did Wux. Artorian quickly pried open the buckle of his bandolier.

“I have gifts for you. Here, take these potions. You’ll need them more than me.” He forced the weight on to Wux, but the boy didn’t mind. Lunella took three potions from the already opened pouch and stuffed them defiantly back into Artorian’s pocket.

“Take those,” she ordered him with stern directness. “No sacrificing yourself.”

Artorian beamed a misty-eyed smile and settled a supportive hand on her shoulder. “I shall not. I have the rest of our family to save when I find them. Also, it’s about time you had this.”

Without any fanfare, he took the Lapis robe off his shoulders and draped it around Lunella. She didn’t know what to say, and when she tried to speak, the words refused to leave her throat.

Her Elder addressed her directly, now with both hands on her shoulders, “Years ago, I told Wuxius that he was responsible for taking care of you all. He did his best and took care of you. I’m proud of you for that, my boy.” He gave his grandson a pride-filled nod; both of them were trying to keep their lower jaws steady. Artorian’s bright blue eyes settled back on Lunella, whose expression was full of concern… and a sparkle of hope.

“Lunella, my dear. You are the next Elder of the Salt village, and I name you as such, even if there’s currently a Church cloister on the land. I can tell when I see the deft hand of leadership at play. Rely on people. Wuxius will be there for you. Grandfather has a promise to fulfill.”

He took a deep breath, and his heart was in this next part. His voice was filled with power, and authority reverberated through the air of the Fringe as he gave the words meaning. “I hereby grant you my dominion in the Fringe, Elder Lunella.”

* * *

Far in the distance of the Fringe—in a small cavern under a village that used to gather salt—something underground rumbled to life. Vibrations transmitted through an interspatial web *thrummed* as the energetic brush of an oath being transferred caused enough of a disturbance to make waking worthwhile.

Mana pulsed and built as chaotic light gathered power, a mandible-clicking orb gaining awareness, filling the small space to the brim in a reality-warping, space-shattering instant of spreading influence. Two places across divided distances connected, aligning to allow for an exertion as the cascading waves of power transferred from the orb’s current position to where it needed to be.

Crystalline energy stretched and flexed like a waking muscle, reaching out to fill a previously flattened space, just as a bird would stretch every individual tethered feather as the entity re-established itself. An unseen, spherical bubble surged forth, rapidly expanding its area of influence. As there were no Mages in the area, this event went unnoticed.

Teleportation Mana sucked down ambient energy with enough pull to drain away even the clouds, clearing a dome of unmarred blue in the sky in a perfect cylinder above the Core’s location. The landscape took a deep breath as the Core of the Scar occupied this space once more. The water on the flats shuddered as if something heavy had fallen in the distance, and like creeping dread, the edges of the Scar’s tendrils stretched once more.

* * *

Lunella kept her hand on her mouth as she was bestowed the title and nodded through thick tears. She needed to hug him again. “Thank you.”

Artorian held her and gave her comforting pats on the back. “Let’s get you both home now. Follow the main road out, and veer left after the second hill. I left a merchant's cart and two horses behind. With luck, the horses will still be there. Do you remember who to ask for once you reach the cloister?”

Wuxius nodded and filled in, “Tarrean.”

The old man nodded sharply. “That’s right. Head Cleric Tarrean. Don’t rush in the approach. They’re likely currently fending off that raider party you sent. Don’t worry, they’ll be fine. They’re all cultivators. Keep that robe on tight, Lunella. They recognize it well. Heh.”

He brushed it over her shoulders to fix the fit. “Yell out these names Yvessa, Tibbins, Tarrean, or Hadurin if you start being fired upon. Avoid dying at all costs.”

He leered at them both and quizzed the duo, “What’s the single most important thing?”

They hugged him, and Wux replied, “Stay alive. Just stay alive.”

Artorian nodded and embraced them again, so proud. He released his sproutlings and picked up the bow, reslinging the quiver that had fallen when he’d taken the Lapis robe off. “You know the way. Ahead of me, you two. This time without disappearing into smoke?”

The duo nodded in sober recollection and took off down the corridor with their armed Elder in tow. His footsteps were so quiet that Lunella had to look behind her to make sure he was actually following. To her relief, he was right there, expression as stern as a battlefield ghost.

“Next door to the left gets us out,” Wux whispered, taking a sharp turn to shoulder check the door and fling it open.

“Go, go, go!” When the apprentice and assistant whisked out of the door, a gilded dagger piercing Artorian’s side informed him that he wasn't going to be able to follow.

“Argh!” he cried out, wincing as the blade pulled him back into the foyer. “Go, just go!”

He yelled the imperative at his grandchildren who hesitantly looked behind them. Wuxius was about to turn around and rush back in, but Lunella jerked his arm. Everything up to this point had been to get them out, and turning back might corner them behind a fence of reinforcements. Wuxius looked back and forth between the woman he loved and the Elder who vanished into the darkness. His hands balled up, his leg trembled, and he wanted to rush to the old man’s aid. A second, harsher tug from Lunella made him see the worried expression marring her face. The decision was heart-wrenching. He grit his teeth, and Lunella won out. The duo ran off together while their Elder bought them the time, holding off the terror incarnate that was Hakan.

Artorian had swung his bow wildly in an arc as he’d been pulled back into the dark building by the knife and had no choice but to turn with it to avoid being outright gutted. The slender, powerful, and agile woman curved with all the finesse of a snake as she twisted her body in an ‘S’ shape to dislodge her dagger, dodge the wildly swung bow, and cut the string all in one seamless set of movements.

The *clak* of severed string snapping against his fingers made the old warrior wince. Without a thought, he tossed the stick at her to buy a precious second, but the vile predator was upon him. His free hand slid into his pocket and thumb-forced the cork off a potion. He downed it with a hard swallow only to throw the emptied vial in the raider’s direction when his arm came back down. Hakan laughed at him—an amused cackle as she slid out of the way. The unimportant bit of glass shattered behind her as she moved with all the delicate swerve of sentient water.

The assassin knew she had the upper hand, and half a glance at this ancient relic told her that he knew it too. The venom on her knife had all but confirmed her victory with the sneaky strike she’d snuck in at the door. The gilded blade could afford to toy with her food before she hunted some traitors down. She relished in the opportunity of making a gory example out of them.

Artorian wasn’t in great shape; he fell back along the wall to keep distance while the predator eyed him up. She’d had plenty of chances to leap at him again, and those extra seconds were prized moments for him. His Essence was in a full swing of activity as his real focus was on pouring venom-hunting celestial Essence through his right hand which held the wound.

Venom expulsion was priority number one, or this was going to be a short bout. He’d gotten a good amount of practice handling the venom; so, while the deep cut was certainly painful, it had already ceased to be fatal. The minor potion was doing the patchwork and closing the wound while he was cleaning up. Keeping his hand over the wound prevented Hakan from spotting that it slowly healed, and if it left a scar… well, that would mean he had survived.

The clear fluid stuck to the inside of his gi, which he’d hoped was just a bit more cut-resistant than this. Thoughts for another time. He took stock of the situation and quickly deduced that she had him outmatched in all aspects of this fray… save one.

He was a cultivator, and she was not.

Unfortunately, Hakan was a creature whose profession, passion, and self-assigned purpose were to slaughter and kill. Her skill with the blades was practiced and well-honed. Her body was young, trained, and in amazing condition. She had the muscle, the confidence, and the equipment all going for her. While she didn’t wear armor, all those metal blades covering her were an excellent deterrent. A direct strike without a weapon was going to cut his own hand up, possibly doing more harm than any he’d inflict on her.

No, the survival plan was going to be biting a cost he’d hoped to avoid—a colossal waste of Essence. It was time to do or die. He sharply exhaled through his nose at her, eyes remaining locked as they slowly circled in the lavish room. Artorian knew she was just playing with him; he was a toy already wounded and about to fall. She just wanted to see his suffering.

Her face was full of malicious delight. The ear-to-ear smile indicated she would savor and relish the impending kill. Still, she could strike at any moment, and he needed to buy time. With some refined drama, he frowned and coughed extra loud and pretended to stagger, as if the venom was doing its work. His voice was hampered, and he hid the intake of a breath under it as he got to work spending a ludicrous amount of Essence.

“Two,” Artorian muttered wetly. Hakan’s eyebrow perked up as her game suddenly included killing him in a fashion that matched his own words. Two stabs? Two lungs ripped out of him? Oh, choices, choices!

“You only kept two of the children from my Salt village. What, were the other three too good for you?” His expression was reddening, his appearance that of a frustrated, angry, dying, old man.

What Hakan could not see was a swiftly diminishing Aura as his Center chugged refined Essence faster than a Dwarf in a drinking contest. Artorian was taking entire cultivation circles apart in a hurry to have enough *oomph* in his body. Refined Essence flooded his system, and with all the charismatic leadership of a seasoned commander, he directed it to his heart meridian to surge into his bloodstream. There was no way he’d have the concentration to cycle his Essence to his whole body at once, and he needed a comprehensive boost to everything just to keep up with her. So, that’s exactly what he was going to do—let his body do the work for him.

It most certainly wasn’t without risk, as he would be slowly filling up the maximum capacity any muscle of his body could take. This was an awful, crude, idiotic, on-the-spot technique that had zero finesse. He was throwing refined Essence straight at the problem because his expertise was required elsewhere. If he couldn’t keep up with her, this was going to be a one-sided slaughter. To his dismay, he needed time for the torrent of Essence to actually cycle through his system.

Hakan didn’t understand why, but she could feel the presence of the man in front of her shrink as the pressure of his Aura lessened. It was a pressure she hadn’t even noticed before it started failing. So, he was dying? Swiftly as well, it seemed… too bad. She was having quite the frustrating day, and playing with her meal was exactly what she needed to relieve stress.

“The runts? As if I would keep the toys that didn’t have potential. I’m running a Queendom, not a daycare, you worthless old fool. I need servants to make sure my future troops grow up to properly serve me.”

The twirl of her knives glimmered in her vengeful smile. “However, if you’re so fond of them… I’ll find them again and slowly cut them to pieces in memory of your lovely contribution today. Rooting out traitors so close to my person and relieving me of incompetent apprentices was very helpful. I’ll ensure their suffering is deep… and well-explained.”

She would have devolved into a set of bitter laughter had the old man not looked like he was getting more vibrant by the second. Without another word, she charged right at the unarmed problem. Her instincts screamed that something was wrong. Her slash wasn’t wild. It was a pointed, directed, and lethal swipe that was going to sunder his jugular and carve out a significant portion of his throat.

Her footsteps were light, and the carpet beneath her boots shifted from the force of her launch. Her blade was so cold and swift that the tip of the knife made a telltale, metallic, cutting *zing*.

He was dead. She was certain he was dead… He should have been dead.

Chapter Forty-Eight

*Thrum*. Artorian watched the raider charge. A golden ring surrounded the outer edge of his bright, cyan-shining irises. The circular movement of his empowered arm was reminiscent of the smooth roundness of a rising moon. His cloth-covered arm suddenly occupied the location her strike should have landed.

Hakan’s killing blow was beautifully deflected. She was struck with more than enough power to make the blade miss his neck entirely, his palm guiding the gilded blade off its destined path. Defying an expected pattern, the rest of his body filled the empty space with the grace of ritual tea pouring into a cup.

She’d expected a dodge, a sidestep, or him to move away in reaction to a lethal blow. Instead, the entire right side of Hakan’s face became aware of agonizing, broken, pained stretching. It was the herald of a shattered cheek and jaw. That infuriating fool had twisted on the back of his foot, spun with his shoulder inwards, and bashed his elbow into the side of her pristine face! Somehow, the old man had hit with enough force to make her vision blur, mind go starry, and break several bones.

*Scrack*! The sound caught up to the feel.

With rage suffusing her blood, Hakan felt her now-deformed jaw quiver as the muscles no longer connected correctly. The bone that kept everything neatly in place was either no longer there or shattered beyond recognition. A crushing headache—a sickening concussion—struck her senses, and Hakan had to back off, an unplanned shuffle to assess the damage and dodge a follow-up punch by a hair. That strike whirled through the air with such strength that it made a whirring *vwup* on passing.

“Imhossihle!” she shrieked her unwillingness to accept that she’d been hit. All she had available to her were broken, agonizing sounds. The pain kept splitting through her entire face. How? One moment, she’d been lined up for another of her patented, flawless kills… and the next, her strike had been deflected. Her opponent had spun the same arm into the side of her skull with an elbow strike, then stepped in, spinning the other way with the intent to crush the other side of her skull.

Ridiculous! No elbow strike could do this kind of harm to her. Hakan began to seethe, and the dominoes fell as she swam through the effects of her concussion. This relic was a cultivator! She threw her gilded, venom coated dagger at him with uncanny accuracy, forcing a sidestep from the old man. Her woozy senses informed her that he’d seen the attack coming. That had been the point of the throw; it bought the raider time to down her own potion. This potion was of far higher quality than the one the old man had sipped.

As compensation for his earlier slight, she dropped her arm and launched the bottle at him. *Clash*.

Hearing the glass shatter, she watched as he deftly moved out of the way with agility and flexibility an old man should not possess! The pain in her face ended abruptly, and the visual of her face knitting back together under the skin was stomach turning. “Muchh etter. Back to torturing the truth out of you.”

Hakan’s words bubbled, and she drooled as she spoke. Still, she went from needing interpretation to abject clarity as she finished her words. The old man winced and closed an eye to rub it. A weakness!

Another blade found its way into her hand so swiftly that Artorian couldn’t puzzle where it came from; he also didn’t have the time to. Being temporarily evenly matched brought a different factor into the combat equation. Hakan’s blade didn’t miss, but it didn’t reach its intended target either. Blood splurged once more from her mouth.

*Crack*.

The old man’s back-kick very much found its target. The bottom of his sandal exploded into her ribs upon impact. His stabilizing foot that had been steady on the wooden floor twisted, and the floor itself erupted into splinters with an unhappy screech.

The difference between standing and not standing on the lavish carpet had made all the difference for his support, and the rotational power whirled up his frame with a well-positioned pivot. The sandal was cut deeply by Hakan’s knife-armor protections, but his tabi stopped the blade-clad leather from reaching his skin, preventing those deadly knives from actually slicing into his foot. A victory for socks!

Hakan’s ribs followed the cruel fate that the side of her face had tasted a few moments ago. The shockwave immediately returned her nausea to her as her breath belched out. Her heart was forced to miss a very harrowing beat. Not only had her ribs shattered along the entire surface area his rectangular tabi struck, but it was particularly damaging where the heel had impacted. Her cry of pain came out as a blubbered gurgle, and for the second time in one day, she was forced to back off and cut the air between them with an expendable knife.

Artorian had no choice but to dodge, needing to pull back from the stance without being sliced. That motion had to be followed up with a sequential dodge when a second potion bottle crashed on the wall behind him. An arduous set of blood spittle coughs later, Hakan was once again in top shape. Her words were back to her usual shrill of hatred. “You’re going to die slowly, you cur.”

She was done playing. She drew larger blades from her hips as the internal damage patched itself up. Hakan was no stranger to potions nor the addictive qualities of the stronger ones. Who would have guessed that her secret, little pleasure was currently saving her hide? Boro’s special ‘bigger on the inside pouch’ was a marvel for storing the stronger variants she savored.

Artorian took an Irene-copied martial stance and a very firm breath. The golden light surrounding his irises faded, and Hakan knew he didn’t have access to his special trick anymore, even if she didn’t know how it worked. He wouldn’t be the first low-class cultivator she’d carved like swine!

The pair circled until Artorian was in what Hakan considered a poor position—having a fat support beam against his back. He’d be forced to dodge left or right since going backward wasn’t an option. To her disgust, she saw him partially disrobe as he unfurled his cloth belt and wrapped it around his right hand and wrist. He was going to block her knife with his main arm? That meant he was going for a counter after she swung to kill.

“No more games, old man. I’m not having fun anymore.” The cut would be a feint, and she’d return that kick right to his gut. She could spin kick too and better than this lucky, long-bearded wreck. The carpet mushed up behind the toe of her boot as she launched herself, her smile failing to hide the malicious intent of her little plan.

Artorian wasn’t doing well. The strain on his eyes had pushed him past the limit he could force, and his Aura was quickly faltering as he fueled his entire being with refined Essence. His body was utterly devouring the nutritious power. Nearly every muscle and tendon were slurping the meal to perform at the level he needed it to, and his aged body simply wasn’t fit for continuous usage like this.

His bones reinforced themselves to take the additional strain his muscles were putting out, and his senses sharpened to keep up. The additional mental clarity was letting him keep on top of things, but just those few strikes had dropped his entire remaining Essence reserve by a full third. He didn’t have the option to stall, to drag this out. This awful creature had been hiding some powerful potions, and he’d launched his new attack twice.

The cost of all the little techniques needed to perform his attack was awful, especially when he correctly used it. ‘Correctly’ using it meant that using the attack that didn’t harm him. For the proper strike, he needed a high enough Essence investment in his eyes to see at the speed he moved while bursting; his normal vision couldn’t keep up.

Celestial Essence was needed to patch him up since he was accumulating stress fracture damage. A coating of water Essence needed to be lathered ever-so-barely over his skin to deny the heat damage that built up from the acceleration. He didn’t understand why he got so hot that his skin burned when he moved at such intense speed, but he didn’t have the time to ponder right now.

Imperfect tools were all he had, and his best one was now expended with hardly anything to show from it. His eyes could handle the use of more Essence, but the predictive sight took a special kind of toll manifested in the form of a nose-bleeding migraine.

His eyes might be able to take more, but his head couldn’t. The dim lighting in the foyer helped, but that was a moot point when faced with this still-very-much living murderbird. His eyes narrowed as a bright idea formed, and he carefully positioned himself so his back was close to one of the support pillars of the room. He couldn’t go blow for blow or afford to get caught in a flurry of punches; as much as he wanted to pummel this monster, her armor would shred him.

Artorian’s expression hardened as Hakan stepped in and attacked. The carpet didn’t have the required stability of his technique, but a sturdy, thick support beam sure did. His cut sandal fell from his foot as he planted it firm against the beam, setting his Essence in a controlled motion.

With a booming *ka-snap*, the beam exploded into splinters where his toes had been, covering the back wall in a shrapnel cloud that eviscerated two raiders who had been hustling over as backup. The old man temporarily vanished… or so it would seem to eyes that weren’t used to keeping up with obscenely fast-moving objects.

This was nothing like keeping up with an arrow. Hakan couldn’t alter her trajectory as the tens-of-times faster Artorian moved. It was a pure, direct shot that moved on a flawlessly straight path. The explosion of the beam had not been the desire of the technique, merely the side effect of the sheer amount of power he’d propelled himself with.

Not a part of him.

All of him.

All of Artorian’s weight accelerated to the absolute maximum that it could handle without ripping apart, which it had happened plenty during sparring. Hakan’s second step had not even completed when the furious, focused eyes flickered back into existence in front of her. She could feel the *hum* of power pass from his lower half, up his spine and back, across the arm, and into his flattened, belt-covered palm… which struck her square in the chest, immediately beneath the sternum.

*Boom* was all Hakan heard before her hearing faded to absolute silence.

Artorian always had endless questions. One of them was being answered right now—what happens when you strike a non-cultivator with a full rail-palm?

The answer was… memorable. Hakan spilled—or rather burst—blood from anywhere that could expel it along with any air she had within her.

*Scrackle*!

Inner organs were crushed, and several loud breaks highlighted her brutalized spine. With a twist of Artorian’s wrist, she corkscrewed into the air and slammed against the far wall in the foyer. The juicy impact was followed by an aftershock as the blow thundered through the room. Her travel time couldn’t be counted in seconds… that would have taken too long.

*Whap*. After completely destroying the art piece on the wall, Hakan collapsed to the ground in a bloody mess beneath it. Artorian staggered backward and heaved in a necessary breath. Abyss… he was out. He ceased pushing additional refined Essence into his heart meridian—half because his body could not hold more without backlash, and half because he was teetering.

His Aura wasn’t just diminished; it was empty—completely, unpleasantly, painfully empty. He’d not realized just how vulnerable not having an Aura made him feel. Still, the battle was over. That was the end of it. With shaky knees, he sunk to the ground, beading sweat and heaving heavily as his sparse remaining Essence patched his body up.

His heart sank as he jerked his head out of the way. A third large bottle flew past where his face had been.

This was ridiculous! How many of those potions did she have? How strong were they? Hakan was giggling as she got up, her movements as jerky as a marionette. Her eyes were so bloodshot that no white remained, and actual tears of crimson lined their way down her cheeks. She couldn’t stop giggling, outright could not stop as the side effects of potion addiction kicked in.

Euphoria. Forced, unbridled, unforgiving euphoria.

Artorian forced himself upright as the power in him ebbed. The reviving Hakan sputtered out a phrase that she must have thought was one of hilarity. “Ah… aha… ahahaha! I’ve… got a lesson. For you to take to… heart. Victim!”

New blades were pulled from her thighs as Artorian watched as all the damage he’d done to her regenerated in record time. Everything except for her eyes. Blood sloshed out of the corners, and whatever the potion was doing… those kept bleeding.

Artorian staggered back, pressing his hand against the broken column for support. The maniacal giggle-laughter only got louder, and Hakan sliced her blades over each other. *Zwing*.

Common sense and reason were leaving her for… some kind of murderous joy. Hakan moaned as she saw her staggering, end-of-his-rope prey take another cautious step back. Nobody challenged Hakan. Nobody threatened Hakan. She was the Incarnate Blade! The laughing executioner. The new Queen.

She would carve her way through any and all obstacles to assure that position, and sacrificing this pawn was just the next step. Giggles still gurgling through her blood-drenched stupor, she copied the foolish man and blindly bounded straight ahead. A perfectly straight attack? No, you over-aged mole, this is a straight attack!

“Hurkkkll!” Hakan frowned as mystery pain bloomed from her chest. Her movements slowed… stopped. Thick gouts of red liquid left her in a hurry as she looked down, stuck at an unwanted standstill she had not intended.

The thick, sharp, splintered beam angled from the ceiling… pushed through her now-impaled chest. Artorian had put one hand over the other and forced the beam to crack forwards. Wood fragments pierced the huntress right through her heart.

Her vacant, uncomprehending gaze met his, and only then did she see the fierce and remorseless soul hiding inside of the man. In her mind’s eye, she saw two little souls running far, far away… and he was standing guard over them. Her stupor broke when he spoke with a dark rumble, “I shall, indeed, take your lesson to heart. You’ve shown you’re not very fond of learning, so I took the more direct route to yours.”

Hatred welled in Hakan’s expression. The old man dared to sass her in this moment? He sounded playful! She needed another potion. Another… empty. Her digits found the hidden satchel pouch that rested above her rear but found no further chances within it. “Agha…”

Panic drooled from her mouth, and she would have spat at him if possible. Her rival had twisted on his heel around the now-bent beam to get behind her. She was going to have revenge for this! She was going to recover and hunt him until–!

With her chest pierced, body shattered, and a direct blow to the base of her head that made movement impossible, Hakan died with her eyes wide open, mouth still spewing profanities until she couldn’t speak.

It was unclear if the blood loss, injury, or inability to breathe was what finally did her in. Artorian didn’t have the luxury to stay and find out. He unceremoniously dropped the woman who had caused him years of grief. Ripping the potion satchel from her waist, he checked for additional major potions but found none. What he did find was that his entire arm could vanish into this strange satchel. That was a good enough reason to keep it. The sound of a door slamming open a floor above him spurred an immediate retreat toward the open door.

It was time to go.

Epilogue

He’d gotten so close. So close.

At the last minute, his heart had made him slip up and choose his passion over his logic. Weakly, he trembled to reach out and picked up the crushed, motionless, fluffy, white sugar glider. It was still breathing, but this time, he had no hope of helping it.

“Oh… my sweet little child. I’m so sorry.” Artorian blinked as the events of the last few minutes played through his mind.

Only a few minutes had passed since then. He recalled that an arrow had sliced along his thigh the moment he passed through the open door. They were waiting for him. Such an unexpected attack made him slip and fall in the wet grass. His second clog flung into the air as he tumbled. Taking a potion from his pocket, he downed it. The raider sprinting at him didn’t quite have their leader’s reflexes; the tossed glass vial bashed right into his eye.

“Ack!” The distracted and dazed raider dropped his bow to hold his face, his prey already up and moving, running off in a zigzag pattern up the hill.

“Found him! Over here! He’s going up the hill!” The raider, to Artorian’s unlucky stars, was loud. Multiple arrows whizzed past him once he gained the attention of other raiders, but he didn’t let up on the run at top speed. Once over the crescent of the hill, arrows continued flying, but he had already veered off at his enter-the-forest spot. Running to the first hill was just going to give the raiders a clear target when they got atop the second one. An arrow passing his temple made that point exceedingly clear as he flung himself through the thorny passage.

He fell into the dim darkness of the forest, and his hands chafed over hard roots. Abyss, he’d forgotten it was so dark in here! Another refinement ring was absorbed just to have the Essence to cycle into his tired eyes. Artorian heard the burly men break through the same thorny spot behind him but kept going even as the migraine made itself known.

His lungs burned, his legs pumped, and his arms swung. By his beard, he was going to make it out of this alive! That promise to himself was called into question as an arrow pierced his calf, dropping him face-first on to the root-covered ground. The *baff* of his head hitting sounded worse than it actually hurt.

Pulling the arrow out, he cried out a pained *nngaaah* and dropped it, stifling the sound by drinking his last potion. Pushing up to hobble forwards, he rolled over the Essence trip wire rather than messily fall on to it, avoiding the trigger. Artorian got up just in time to wobble around a tree that took the next few arrows for him. He could not tell just how many raiders were hot on his tail, but as always, the running continued. He pushed from the tree and ran deeper into the woods along the path he sort of knew.

Dumb idea? Absolutely! Better alternative? Non-existent!

He needed the trees for cover. This was being hunted, and he could hear arrow after arrow *whizzing* past. Screams behind him were cut short as a volley of roots rose and sliced raiders into chunks. Looked like they had triggered the Essence trap. From the awful coughs, someone had also angered the skunk.

A little more and he should see… the camp!

“Oh, abyss,” Artorian muttered mid-breath. A raider was waiting in it. The strongman was holding an axe the size of him! Artorian was going to jump out of the way, but then saw something that he was unwilling to live with. There, near the roots, crushed beneath the axe-man’s feet… were several stomped sugar gliders.

Artorian’s stride didn’t stop; his anger overrode his senses. With a *giyah*, he charged the axe-man while unfurling the cloth belt on his arm. The raider thought this was wonderful and swung his axe to bisect the easy target. *Thnick*. “Hrm?”

The raider felt his axe get stuck in the tree branch above. He’d swung too high, then followed it up with the fatal mistake of letting one of his arms drop to deal with the charging non-threat. It was more than enough for the old warrior to wrap the taut, sweat-soaked belt about the murderer’s neck—which was promptly squeezed shut. Artorian crossed the cloth along the big man’s spine and hung from his back while pulling on both ends to tighten the makeshift noose.

The strongman’s face quickly turned purple, and the massive brute swung around to no avail, crushing the old man between his back and a tree, throwing himself back since he had little else to fight with.

*Thud*. To the raider’s displeasure, it didn’t force the old warrior to release his hold, but it wasn’t going to matter. Another crushing slam, and there wouldn’t be an old man! Who cared that he was getting a gentle neck massage? The blueberry raider fully let go of his axe and reached up to clamp on to Artorian’s wrists.

“I gots a surprise for you, fellah!” the man choked out. *Crunch*. The tree shook as the brute threw his whole back into it, but this was insufficient to stop the chokehold that was now actually starting to affect him.

*Fffhwizz*. *Chonk*. An arrow hit flesh, and it signaled the limit of what a very tired Elder was able to bear. His arms were twisted and spent, his back hurt terribly, and at least a few of his ribs were cracked. When the brute hit the root floor, he couldn’t hold his grip. He let go. “Oo~o~oh… abyss.”

He’d gotten so close. So close.

At the last minute, his heart had made him slip up and choose his passion over his logic. Weakly, he trembled to reach out and picked up the crushed, motionless, fluffy, white sugar glider. It was still breathing, but this time, he had no hope of helping it.

“Oh… my sweet little child. I’m so sorry.” The last few minutes had finished replaying through his mind.

The glider wasn’t happy about being held, but there was no escape to be had. It came to a rest against the Elder’s chest. More arrows whizzed by… but not from the direction he had come running. They launched with a frightening *zip* past the tree he was slumped against. He didn’t have the strength to do anything except rub his thumb over the little fluff’s head to soothe and comfort it. At further cost of his own progress, he broke down cultivation rings and poured the Essence into the still creature. “Rest, sweetling. Rest.”

He couldn’t bear to let it go. Artorian also couldn’t feel his legs very well. The shakes had returned—the same shakes he’d felt when he’d had no Essence and bundles of corruption in his Center. Worried, he took a moment through the volleys of arrow fire to look inwards. Sure enough, several of his ring-weaves had cracks, and their contents were leaking. He unfurled another refinement-ring and got right to patching those problems up.

That much, at least, he could do. Artorian hated to unfurl a near-empty tank, but he needed the reclaimed Essence to live. His meridians required a certain amount of juice to be present in his system, and the cultivation technique wasn’t allowed to rupture. In a hurry, he patched it.

He came back to himself as he heard the draw of several bowstrings in front of him. Tired, injured, and out of hope, Artorian looked up. “Ah. Looks like I’ll be joining you, my little, white fluff.”

Blazing, forest-green flames took the position eyes should have held. All the beings present had beautifully ornate bows aimed at him. Each of the weapons seemed grown, as if directly from a branch. Not a single cut or unnatural notch was visible. The figures themselves were strangely obscured, forms blending with the forest as if they were part of the landscape. Aside from the blazing flame—which reminded him of the trick that he’d done with his Essence sight—frightening masks and exposed weapons were all that could be seen.

Ah. Here were the real phantoms of the forest. Artorian closed his eyes, prepared for the end. So, he didn’t believe his ears. The phantoms spoke in harmony, in unison. The language was forced but contained a flawless pitch. Their in-unison accent was airy as the wind, which seemed to blow specifically to carry their every word.

“The Eldest Mahogany demands your presence, Starlight Spirit.”

Alumni

Artorian’s Archives Book 2

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Epilogue

Prologue

*Caw*! The oversized infernal corvid impatiently made its presence known. Its beak flicked left and right as it hopped about on a gnarled messenger post, eager to see who would come today. The sharp sound of glass clicking against marble caused it to flutter its wings, and the raven once more screeched into the room as the *tick-tack-tick* of high heels approached ever closer.

The bird stilled when the sound stopped, cowering as the tall, slender, pointy-eared figure halted before its outstretched leg. Manicured fingers slid the missive from the corvid’s foot. With a puff of icy breath from the attendant, the bird was blown from its perch. An upset *Caw*! screeched back at the creature that took its delivered message. So rude! At least when it got home it would receive shiny trinkets.

The faux High Elf clicked her heels back into the glittering hallway, holding the diminutive furled message with both her spotless hands. The pristine structure she traversed was vast and lavish. Luxurious paintings and ostentatious drapery lined alabaster walls. Numerous beast furs laid underfoot, helping to mute her rapid motion. She turned into a corridor where suits of polished and posed armor lined the walls, her destination at the end of this nearly endless hall.

Guards adorned in full plate mail barred double-set elephant-tall doors, their grip tight on crossed halberds. As the attendant approached, they pulled the weapons apart and cleared the path with a *shink*. Upon hammering a fist against the reflective bronze doors, tightening chains started sounding as the grunts of a dozen men pulled the links taut on the other end. Mechanisms in the wall creaked to life as the pathway opened inwards to the buckling of metal, the snapping crack of a whip forcing the ‘servants’ to keep the path opened.

A heady scent of lavender burst from the throne room as animal-skin flooring was replaced by a padding of fresh violet petals. Lit braziers filled the room, heating the area while illuminating the expansive space. The faux Elf bowed without stepping further onto the carpet of flowers. Harp plinks droned in the background as uncountable, scantily-dressed bodies made themselves comfortable near the centralized elevated seat.

Some carried urns filled with wine; others held bound sets of peacock-tail feathers repurposed as cooling fans. The fanning servants did their work methodically, not making a sound as other servants drew intricate patterns of charcoal across their mostly exposed bodies. With the agility of a boa constrictor, a tall and lanky man adorned in rings and bracelets of refined gold slid his way forward to the awaiting attendant. His hands steepled, and his hovering steps disturbed not a single petal on his passing.

The Elf bowed to the approaching Vizier, lifting the furled message in offering. The slithering man broke his steeple and pressed his palms together, accepting the writ before dismissing the servant. The messenger vanished as swiftly as she’d come. With their task seen to, the halberd-armed guards knocked once more on the elephant doors. A dozen shackled men on either side of the mechanism ceased their activity keeping that monstrously heavy contraption open. The doors shut with a hefty *clung*.

Men groaned from the exertion, but weren’t afforded the liberty to complain. Heads had rolled for far less. Returning to his assigned post, the Vizier took a seat on the stairway one step below the throne, and unfurled the text that was at an appropriate size for ants. It soured his face to read the message, but he wouldn’t let the Royal on the throne see such distasteful expressions.

When he spoke, his voice rang as deeply and spacious as the void. It carried an unnatural depth, as if his throat ran the space of the mansion’s halls. “An update from conquests, your Majesty.”

The barest motion of a gold-painted hand upon the armrest of its cathedra: a signal to relay the report. The Vizier did as commanded. “A Daughter of Wrath has fallen. The western front has collapsed, and the outpost has been eradicated.”

He paused as a frigid glare forced his gaze over to his opposite, the Royal Advisor. Like him, she was clad in thin silken fabrics and rich elegant finery. Golden accessories littered her body, and her diamond-studded succubus tongue berated the Vizier. “You dare give such slanderous news to our Mistress? You shame your position, Vizier.”

The tall man lifted his significantly-sized nose up at the Royal Advisor. “Perhaps if the lady would find the stones to deliver such news herself, one would indeed find the position of the Vizier unneeded. A curiosity then, that my station has existed longer than yours.”

The silent electricity between their eyes was palpable, but without further retort coming, the humanoid continued his report. “Duskgrove suffered utter defeat. The blasphemers are responsible, and it appears…”

The Vizier sneered at the mention in the tiny report. “Cultivators are heavily involved. The region is a total loss, and operations cannot continue.”

He crumpled the note in his hand, and threw it at a servant, who promptly cleaned it up. How irritating this news was. Meanwhile, the Royal Advisor snootily beamed at him. “Oh, how cruel the world must be. What a shame that my ventures see such success. Perhaps it is your devotion to the Mistress that is lacking, Vizier?”

She received only a sharp inhale in return. His hand only barely needed to extend for a rolled-up vellum to be placed into it by a waiting servant. Unfurling the document, he used sharpened nails to cross the Fringe operation from his ‘books’. Other ventures in service to their divine would need to see greater success to amend for this setback. The Royal Advisor’s snide voice clicked in bemusement.

“That’s what you get for believing ventures can be completed with but hundreds of the flock. The Reaper faction? More of a sheep-shearing collection with how they’ve been snipped from their purpose. Didn’t your groups in that region fight each other previously? A power grab?”

*Tsk, tsk*

“Now, the wishes the Mistress bestowed upon me are going to be a delectable pursuit.” Her eyes hungered, daring him to attempt a clever response. She had the upper hand here. Steepling his fingers once more, the Vizier craned his neck with sickening flexibility as he looked directly behind him, leering through the ostentatious windows. Behind the repurposed mansion, leagues of land had been tilled and converted to ‘training camps’. The area collected the unceasing flow of refugees, lost warriors, survivors of calamity, and individuals merely seeking to escape other plans that ‘the Mistress’ had set in motion.

Through some deal with another being, the influx of raider-recruits had flooded their lands. The war-forces the Royal Advisor could now field—given appropriate leadership—was sizable indeed, whereas he himself had hundreds of the older, patiently built forces to place on the game board of conquest.

The Vizier preferred to grow their forces from within; to build power and efficiency through sustained fear and lessons of pain. The salacious Advisor opted for quick-gathered troops that hadn’t grown up with the ingrained fear and understanding of their hierarchy. She instead claimed that stacking enough grief, coupled with the chance for hope, would turn scores of men into willing sacrifices for their cause. Once outcasts, the lost and abandoned could easily be convinced to cast others out as well, for misery loves company.

Where he sought quality, the Advisor sought quantity. Distressed, his steepled fingers twisted once more to trace along the flesh-altered pointy-edged ears he now sported. A minor sacrifice for the will of the Mistress. His views had come into question, and he could not chance showing weakness while before their divine. “I do have three positives to present to my Queen… but perhaps I should learn from victory rather than simply working smarter and harder like I have been. Tell me then, Royal Advisor, of your successes.”

It wasn’t the concession she was hoping for, but the pleased Advisor would certainly take the win. Her words flirtatiously traveled the distance between them. “While you trudged in the salty muck at the edge of the map, I have laid the cobblestone path for a great conquest. A conquest designed and crafted by our blessed Mistress.”

The golden figure on the throne stirred, clearly pleased with the interactions of her two most trusted and faithful servants. One of her legs shifted across the other, and the entire servant group surrounding the throne swiftly re-adjusted. Dozens of people moved in order to prevent a stray ray of sunshine from stabbing the divine in her eyes. Her silky voice was a mixture of wine and oil, sultry and self-assured. “I desire the tallest mountain.”

The Vizier and Advisor stood, only to turn and take a knee before the throne. In unison and without missing a beat, they both replied, “A mountain the Mistress shall have.”

The throne’s occupant extended her hand, and a multitude of servants set forth their offerings even as their heads remained bowed, vision downcast. One held a fine crystal flute filled with sparkling wine; another held a bowl with the most exotic of finely cut fruits. A third offered exquisite paper, while a fourth held a pure silver-wrought cup in her hands, filled with water. Her actions minor and deft, the Mistress accepted only the flute. Servants stepped back, as their task had been fulfilled. A replacement flute was prepared, as the Queen may want another after this one was dirtied.

Regal words were spoken with narcissism that could curdle milk. “You speak of gifts, my Vizier. Lay them before your divine.”

The Vizier remained prostrated, and motioned out an arm below to signal obedience. “Your will be done, my Queen.”

He stood and turned, clapping his hands and motioning for some of his own personal attendants to bring out what had been prepared beforehand. It was wise to cover one’s scaly rear in the event of foul developments. In fact, today had been the second time he had read this news. Upon receiving it the first time a full day before, hasty measures had been taken.

Bound in weighted shackles, three stumbling figures were pulled forth. They were dragged up to the bottom of the throne and kicked to their knees. They hit the marble ground hard, but otherwise didn’t falter. With a tug, the Vizier's personal servants removed all three hoods at once. The young figures winced from the combination of heat, harsh smells, and flickering light as they squinted around to take stock of where they were.

Grimaldus, Tychus, and Astrea each took a breath at the sights they took in. The trio forcibly hissed in the next second as gruff servants grasped the back of their heads. Unwelcome hands pulled on chestnut hair, forcing them all to regard the near flawless golden figure resting upon an equally lavish throne. They hurt from long journeys, but remained steadfast. Their bodies ached from being tossed around like expendable goods, more bruised and battered than bananas that had tumbled down a hundred steps. The children of the Fringe had seen and survived many an encampment while kept prisoner.

Even though each was a few years older, the lessons of their youth were firmly ingrained in their hearts. Unlike the haze of broken cattle, a true fire burned in their bright gazes. The Vizier swaggered down to them with peacock-like flare. Swaying his arms, he flourished and introduced his ‘gifts’. The interest of the golden lady on the throne immediately piqued. Her practiced skills saw the absolute rarity within the offerings laid before her, discerning the traits unseen in her lands. She sensed natural strength of character found in none apart from the most gifted of individuals.

The Queen’s immaculate smile betrayed how roaringly pleased she was, something the Advisor silently caught. The prostrated woman held her disdain, as she too could not find a fault in the truly unique gift the Vizier had just planted down.

Abyss. She’d better hope her thousands of raiders got the job done. Speaking with all the pride of a political victor, the Vizier rubbed salt in the Advisor’s fresh wounds, lauding his win. “I present to my Queen three flawless sets of Emerald Eyes.”

Chapter One

Artorian woke to the taste of deep smog and burnt soot as he stole a hasty gasp of air. A crackle of fire snapped in the background, burning somewhere out of sight between the banks of fog that rolled through the shady, incomplete landscape of the Salt Village. Clangs of metal and the falling homes stabbed at his senses. His shaking hand reflexively clenched around his sternum while his soul twisted within.

“You let us all die.” The words had no discernible point of origin until the billowing mass of smoke parted. Hibiscus and For stood there, hand in hand. The duo faced him as standing grey corpses. Their wasted, smoky bodies only served to further confuse his mind. Trying to focus, he noticed pinpricks of ashen light fill the vacant void where their eyes should have been. Attempting to speak, Artorian found he had no voice; the pasty smear of mist in the village stifled his breath.

The awful reckoning made his head throb, and the forms approached as he collapsed further into himself. The old man did not notice that the surroundings darkened as they moved. Silently he wept, holding his head as the recollections taxed and drained him. He felt cold. Oppressively cold.

“You didn’t come for me.”

Caught between a cough and frozen sniffle, Artorian frowned. He recognized the tone, and felt a lurch of love tug his soul as he heard it. The Elder found his voice, since this one was out of place. This voice did not belong in the mixture of people he’d not been able to do anything for. “Ch… Choppy?”

His words were brittle, but the swarms of villagers ceased their approach as he managed to speak. All were a dull grey, forms wavy and incomplete at the edges. Trails of smoke flaked from their outlines and extremities. Their details were strangely obscured, as if the figures themselves didn’t know who they were supposed to be. Artorian could only place a face if he focused on a particular form, then realized that he was the one giving very vague bodies the faces he tortured himself with.

“You weren’t there.” The smoky bodies spoke in staggered disharmony. Repeating the phrase, they surrounded him, ready to reach out and pull him into their grasp. Artorian turned too quickly and nearly fell over himself as he tried to keep track of what voice was speaking. It was a cacophony until his eyes met with the woodcutter’s.

He stilled, and so did his panic. “No. I wasn’t.” The reply had energy restored to it, even if the dread in his undertone allowed the entire shadowy congregation to move a full step closer. The correlation did not escape Artorian’s notice, and he straightened himself. This was all too hazy… too incomplete. “And for that, I am dreadfully sorry.”

Artorian could feel a pressure buildup in his surroundings, as if the shadows in the smog took a breath preceding their speech. The old man didn’t give them a chance. He had internalized and accepted this blame. He was aware that something was off, and this wasn’t merely his personal ghosts at play. “I wasn’t there, but I did come for you.”

The smog-forms staggered. This was not the response they had expected. It was too firm, and spoken with a distinct lack of trembling fear. The previously collapsed man wiped his face with the sleeve that simply appeared over his arm, because he believed it should be there.

“It is my people that I let down, but not you, my boy. Not you.” The smog shapes disincorporated and took uncertain steps back, some receding fully into the shadows as their forms collapsed into indistinct clouds, unable to keep their shapes as the free access to fear, dread — their nourishment — diminished by the moment. “This loss plagues me, and it is mine to bear. Mine alone. It is not yours to exploit. Whatever you are.”

Artorian was in no mood for this grievous transgression, even if he didn’t understand it. His body flickered, and for a moment he radiated a consistent, resplendent starlight. “Be. Gone.”

The smell of soot vanished as if it had never been present. The macabre, ghostly landscape of his village retreated into the dusk. Masses of smoke and shadow hastily whisked back into the edges of obscurity as the whole… constructed… scene was erased. Only the cracks and spitting *pops* of fire remained.

What a terrible dream. Artorian wished to live it no further.

Awake enough to realize he was asleep, the old man opened his tired eyes and found an unknown ceiling. One made of crisp leaves and traces of thin light that bounced and broke through numerous layers of thick canopy. The combined smells of cashew and acorn punched his large nose, his fingers experiencing the padded grass that lay in packed clumps beneath him.

Other light flickered in his vicinity. “Nnngg!”

It hurt to move. Immensely so. Cracked ribs reminded him of their presence. In fact, several pressing injuries were all blaring their pained signals of attention now that he was conscious enough to receive them. Artorian attempted to move some Essence, but he found… nothing. His Aura was bone dry, and his body craved the malleable energy.

Frowning at the odd thought that he didn’t have any when his Aura should have been abundantly full, he managed to turn his head enough to see a ring of fat candles surrounding his resting form. Easily a hundred odd-shaped flame sources flickered and burned in his vicinity. The smells of a forest—already heavily present due to being in one—were released by these candles. How strangely pleasant.

“Does our little starlight awake?” The old man was startled at the multitude of voices speaking in the harmony of a Gregorian chant. Each word was spoken melodiously and slowly. A natural unity was present in the pitch and tone that only a set of seasoned bards might hope to match. Artorian could swear he had heard this kind of speech before, and recently. His head blurred too much; he couldn’t place it.

“Art… orian. I am Artorian.” The injuries wrecked him, but the longbeard did his abyss-blasted best to introduce himself. Broken ribs and being old only let you do so much. Still, a response seemed to be enough for the combined voices to continue the conversation.

“We are Birch.” That was an odd naming convention, but sure. “Birch hears your chosen name, Starlight Spirit. We will remember this, but must continue to call you what you are. We sense your pain, but cannot do more than dull the experience.”

Their voices twisted from their calm melody, and for a moment sounded pained. “Deep confusion, we feel from you. Answers, Birch shall give.”

Several footsteps approached. While he heard the marching steps, he did not feel a vibration on the ground. They must have been moving with the lightest of step not to cause a disturbance. Stuck looking up, Artorian managed to tilt his field of vision enough to see who—or what—was coming toward him.

Around him stood stark, long-eared, near identical figures. All had alabaster skin, and were sporting organic black lines that etched in unique patterns. Dark wounds were carved across the entirety of their features. This was all he had to tell the five otherwise mirror-similar Elves apart. Based on the locale, he knew these must be Wood Elves.

“I need… sunlight.” The five Elves all closed their pewter eyes and faintly dipped their heads in unison. Above Artorian, the birch tree canopy spread and parted with buckling, wooden croaks. Sunlight rippled over him, and relief spread through his fingertips. The prickling waves of comfort soothed his aching frame, and the old man swiftly drifted back to half-sleep.

“Rest well upon our roots, Starlight Spirit. Birch shall remain, and relay the will of the forest when your star burns bright.” They went still after that, kneeling in a circle on the outside of the candle ring. Thanks to their stillness and alien features, they appeared as trees in their own right. Fading to slumber, the old man could swear their ‘hair’ resembled moss, and skin that of a birch’s bark. An academic topic to pursue… another time. His heavy eyes fell to a full close.

Artorian’s consciousness ripped inwards, and the cultivator made himself fully present in his Center. Body and Essence required immediate tending. Ring after cultivation ring stirred into motion with the grinding efficiency of a rusty clock. A few scraped against one another as the system began to turn; that required mending. Rings of corruption were woven as the technique began to twirl and spin, drawing in trickles of Essence from the sunlight bathing him. It was a weak seep at first… then a dripping line.

When finally the Essence influx churned into a solid stream and struck his refinement Core, the entire technique flickered before flaring to life! This development significantly relaxed the Wood Elves that surrounded him. Relieved, they looked at one another and spoke without words as they descended a layer deeper into their communal mindspace. When speaking within their own network, their voices had distinct individualism. A collected feminine tone opened the conversation. “Spirit Hawthorn spoke true. The starlight surges strong in this one.”

“You are being too sappy.” A deeper, male tone questioned what he was seeing, a touch impatient. “The host spirit is weak and brittle. I am uncertain if he would survive. This one is but a sapling, when we need a grove of oak.”

The third voice didn’t like what the second one said, and snapped a rebuttal. “It is by the grace of the Fire Soul that we can have this conversation, and cease providing Oak credit for that which it does not do. This spirit is not theirs to claim; many blossoms accomplish more than that self-entitled piece of bark.”

“Oak is acorn-y group, but does stand steadfast.” The fourth voice—feminine and sweet—chuckled in amusement, agreeing with the statement. “Weak or no, young or not, the spirit surges to life and clings to it. Even now the bones within its being are mended by its own will. Question not the life of a creature before one has seen it live.”

A feeling of assent emanated from the consciousness of those who were one within the birch. The fourth spoke once more. “Agreement is reached. We are blessed by the grove to have such a spirit stumble upon our roots. May its light relieve us of our curse.”

The communal conversation ended, and the Wood Elves were of singular mind once more. In unison, they raised their left palms. Several variants of titmouse fluttered down from the canopy above, perching on their extended palm branches. Resting there a moment, the flyers shimmered with a runic glow, and were imbued with the message they were to deliver to the rest of the grove.

The Starlight Spirit lived, and would be guided to the Eldest Mahogany when able. Their mutual problems were dire, and needed to be addressed. As the birds fluttered to fulfill their tasks, a shadowy presence could be felt sludging against the edge of their joint consciousness. With vast concern, the five Wood Elves leered in unison at the edge of their mutual vision. Given they could see as if the trees were their eyes, this covered a sizable distance. They found the disturbance easily enough. Today, the dark did not hide.

Caliginous smoky fog roiled. The sapient mass was a thick paste; it shimmied as a slug afflicted with geriatric churn. Noticing a consciousness nearby, the blight ceased roiling, and certain murky blobs turned to regard the observing mind.

It could tell. The shadowy phantoms could always tell. Intimidated, the birch consciousness shuddered as a whole, deeply uncomfortable by how its main predator was endlessly able to do that. Trees in the immediate vicinity of their distanced consciousness experienced a visible trembling that ran up the trunk. Bark split, suffering a wound when the blighted mass lurched at their location. The disquiet was palpable as they mentally broke away from the assailed trees. The Wood Elves hastily retreated their strained senses into their physical bodies as that part of the woods became… obscured.

Their pewter eyes snapped open at the same time, relieved to be back in the safe Center of their Birch grove. ‘Safe’ was a double-edged sword; in reality they felt trapped within their own home. A careful observer would note that their Elven bodies were now marred with an additional black carving.

An unexpected feeling of warmth and comfort washed across them. Uncertain of the source, they looked at one another, eventually settling on the thin and frail body of the old man Hawthorn had picked up. That prickly hick practically had trouble making skills in place of roots, but they had to admit that Haw’s ‘hunch’ had been spot on.

Refined Essence filled the Starlight Spirit’s Aura, and the passive effect it had soothed them. Shadows in the immediate vicinity fled in response. Each tiny additional trickle that filled Artorian’s Aura pushed the dark backward an extra inch. It wasn’t much, but it was enough for Birch to come to terms with the decisions that had left this broken soul on their doorstep.

At first, they had been as thorny as Hawthorn himself at the idea of accepting a non-Elven into their forest, much less their private grove and fold. They’d fought Hawthorn branch and bark on the idea, telling him to leaf and take the meat with him, but that sharp-spined willow hadn’t relented.

Haw had seen and spoken the truth. It was necessary. Birch knew the spirits inhabiting the forest could not keep the phantoms at bay forever. Yet, if they nurtured this sapling properly… instead of fended off, the phantoms might be defeated.

Chapter Two

*Crunch*.

Hadurin tugged his bloodied weapon up. Freeing his hammer from the flesh-sheath it was lodged in with a Dwarven grunt. Today was a great day! Barely a cloud in the sky, soft salty-smooth breeze on the air, the wailing of broken and battered foes underfoot. Truly, this was the life!

His hammer swung and flew once more, en-route to a new target. A flash caught his eye as it spun in an arc, launched directly into a fleeing remnant’s poorly timed pause. Hadurin had to wait only a moment before he enjoyed another audible *crunch.* One less foe from what had once been a respectably-sized raider strike force.

The Choir hymn still hung in the air, and a celestial sheen of power lingered on his form as he trudged through the field. Weapon stabilized on his shoulder, Hadurin took in his surroundings. Pressing a stubby hand above his blood-soaked brows, the Head Healer squinted as he saw a rider in flapping blue approach. It had been a few days, and the hit-and-run tactics adopted by the raiders had been treated as sport rather than the nuisance they’d expected. Under Jiivra’s guidance, the Acolytes had made a game out of it. ‘To teach them tactics’, she’d wistfully explained.

It was effective.

The raiders had nowhere to go after their attack force had been crushed to bits, and their base of operations in the grove captured. Expunging remnants was just part of the joy. He waved a hand at the incoming riders, and greeted Tarrean with a smile. “Ya made it! Missed mosta’ the fun, but ya made it.”

Tarrean dismounted, sour as a freshly-squeezed lemon. His ornate helmet was pulled from his head, and the man looked around with distaste. He was looking for a target. “Did you find the old man? I want to wring his wily little neck.”

Hadurin doubled over in laughter, needing to hit his knee a few times before catching his breath, then wiping a tear away. “Yer gold, Tarry. Comedic gold. Finally figured it out, did ye?”

The cloisterhead threw his helmet to the ground, where it got stuck with a wet *fplut* in the mud. “He lied to me! That daft old man lied to me! I was supposed to get the village, something to make a home for my boy. Then those two younglings arrive at camp on their oversized goat, and… ow!”

The horse Tarrean rode in on bit him. “Daft beast!”

The armored man nudged the animal away with his elbow, and Hadurin did his true, absolute best not to keep giggling. “I can guess the rest. The girl is head o’ the village now, and while it ain’t yers, she’s lettin’ ya live in it. Ya ain’t happy with that, and want a wee bit more. Ya done went and also found out that what ye want can’t be taken. It hastae be given.”

The healer’s calm recollection just set Tarrean further on edge. He had not gone so far down the path for this result. “Where. Is. He?”

The cloister head did his best to control his weary rage, but it was a poor show. With a wave, Hadurin called some Acolytes over. After a few words, they returned with a wooden crate. “Here’s everythin’ we found. Have at it.”

Tarrean hurriedly took the crate, and his frown caved into his bottom lip. “Broken sandals, a snapped bow, and some dirt?”

The last bit made the healer peek over and check the box. “Oh, look at that. Aye. Looks like some dirt.”

Before Tarrean could decide whether the twitch in his left eye was grounds for him to put hands on his supposed healer, Jiivra hurried up to join the huddle. She saluted and turned to address Tarrean, but the man deflated. His irritation bled away to resignation, and he addressed the issue of rank, making the wrist-flop motion to indicate that she should address Fellhammer first. Jiivra lost some of her balance from the motion, but continued like the trained warrior she was, saluting Hadurin first. “Sir.”

He waved it off. “Aye lass. At ease.”

Jiivra didn’t budge an eyelash, and revealed a familiar, squirming bag. “A few initiates found… this.”

The bags Jiivra still held looked similar enough to Choir standard fare. Some items Hadurin recognized the smells of. Honey vials. Fruits. Minor potions. Things he’d given his carefully groomed distraction. The old man had been an excellent addition to their little game. At times he hadn’t even been able to tell who was playing who.

Unfurling a satchel, Jiivra tenderly pulled a sleeping white puffball from it. The napping bleach-white Sugar Glider stirred, and further curled up in her hand. “A spot Acolytes passed by before, which previously had nothing, had all these supplies present when they did a recent perimeter round. They’re Artorian’s goods, Sir. Though I don’t know what to do about the critter. I’ve never seen one like this. It’s harmless, and adorable.”

She flushed when she realized her non-detached statement had been said out loud. “We believe the old man was swallowed up by the woods. He was not inside the building, though we found the handiwork he left behind.”

Hadurin was all smiles as he peered off in the castle’s direction. “What a beauty. Wish I had a hundred of ‘em.”

Tarrean cut in to clear away his confusion. “The critter, or the castle?”

“Nay lad. The old man.” With a grumble, Tarrean threw his blue cape over his shoulder just so he could hide his face in it. “Ah ain't jokin’. Tell me how many of yer lads can pick up cultivation that quick, and get summat done with such single-minded devotion, maintaining the effectiveness that little project o’ mine managed? We gave ‘em some food, some guidance, and just let ‘em loose.”

Hadurin walked a few paces with his arms out to either sides, motioning at the bodies they’d collected. “I want a hundred o’ him. I knew lettin’ him in that raider’s tent was the right call. Just look at this conquest. Judged and executed. As I wanted it. I couldn’t have planned it this well!”

The Dwarven-raised man was chipper as a chipmunk. Jiivra shuffled over to Tarrean, a finger rubbing over the little fluff’s head. She was clearly keeping it. “Sir, I’m confused. Weren’t you in charge?”

Tarrean dropped his cape, and recalled she didn’t know. “Did you never question why the Church did not send anyone after receiving years of letters on Corruption research? It’s because they quietly did. Paladin-aspirant Jiivra, allow me to introduce to you one of the ten most frightening men in the Choir.”

Hadurin turned while keeping his hands behind his back, a smile gleaming in the rising sunlight. He did love a well-wrapped ending, and remained silent as the cloister-head introduced him properly.

“Grand-Inquisitor Fellhammer. Executor of the Inquisition, Lord of the Azure Jade mountain, and slayer of a thousand traitors. It was he who authorized the great plan, and has allowed events to come to pass as they have. Apparently, including keeping me in the dark that I was never going to get my own patch of land. Currently incognito as an expedition healer.”

Fellhammer felt such mirth as he was addressed. “Aye lad. Ye’d have been in great trouble with the Choir otherwise, especially thinking ya got away with it. Granted, I love what ya did in building the place up. The few structures the region has ain’t gonna cut it anymore. I went through the records, and agree with yer Lady that it’s time fer a change. We’re finally gonna put a proper Cathedral in the Fringe. Lun’s gonna let us! Once we’ve got the scar secured, a plan several hundred years in the makin’ sees fruition.”

He playfully nudged Tarrean in the ribs, causing him to drop his arm and get bit by his horse once again. The man yowled from the bite, then grumbled, “How did you even find all of this out?”

Hadurin shook his head at how flustered the Head Cleric turned proper father had become. “Who was handlin’ the old man’s paperwork all this time?”

He slapped the dejected cleric on the shoulder, still in a great mood. “Ya did good! Was a wee bit suspicious when a request for a cultivation technique came in those few years ago. An’ when the intelligence started comin’, I just had to see it for myself. I’m saddened at the loss of mah wee project, but the old fox did what we groomed ‘em for.”

His attention turned as he caught a glint from the corner of his eye, gazing at some swaying trees while thick digits sunk into his pocket; thumbing a rolled-up piece of paper. “I hope he’s well, and knows that his sacrifice let two of his children safely make it home and didn’t go wasted. May he dream of the meals they eat, the laughter they have, and the life they’ll build in a little corner o’ the Fringe, safe an’ away from the miseries of the world.”

The tiny scroll was freed from his pocket, and the Inquisitor glanced at the five names scribed upon it. Two of them now had check marks. He hushed his breath, and mumbled to himself. “Three ta go. Get ‘em home, Arty.”

Chapter Three

“That looks much better.” Artorian mentally wiped his forehead while floating inside his Center. Had he been able, very satisfied hands would be pushing into his hips. Not having a physical body here did come with limitations. One of these years he was going to get used to being a disembodied persona. Pushing up his sleeves to get to the next part— right, he’d forgotten again that he didn’t have any sleeves.

The old man had gotten hours—or what he’d thought were hours—of clean, crisp, stable cultivation time. The healthy influx of starlight had dimmed and strengthened about three or four times while he was working, but that was a minor detail. The Essence flow was steady, strong, and bountiful. It was everything he needed to repair the internal train wreck he’d caused in his struggle to escape Duskgrove castle.

It had taken him a while to recollect himself and recall what happened. Now that he did, Artorian was kicking himself for ever thinking his tactic had been an idea worth considering. Flooding his body with Essence? It had trashed his system. You’d have more luck getting a ballista to work better by drenching it in oil and somehow hoping the javelin it launched shot further through the air! No, you old fool, he told himself; all you end up with is a dirty ballista that takes forever to clean, if it doesn’t just catch on fire and destroy everything!

On the plus side, having had to inspect every. Single. Ring provided him a count. Four hundred and twenty rings in total—corruption containers included—all cleaned up and formatted to his latest containment design. His skill at modeling, molding, shaping, and establishing Essence designs had greatly improved over the years, and the results were speaking for themselves. Next was that spider web layer occupying the indistinct space between his Center and what lay outside.

The natural Essence channels were originally indistinct as well, but with the binding and opening of Meridians… that changed. Similar to the cardiovascular system a normal body had, this secondary system was equally as intricate and complex. The Essence system—for the most part—overlapped the existing design a body already sported. If you had veins going into your hand, you also had Meridian channels that copied and overlapped that pattern.

The ‘Center’ on the other hand was ‘something’ that was present, yet not physically. The peculiar space had a unique, individualized connection that didn’t adhere to any sort of pre-existing bodily structure. His studies in anatomy had proven him correct on that topic, and he held the fact with certainty. With the addition of Essence, the Center became a more defined part of the overall whole, and connecting it to the body was a challenge in its own right.

To his grumbling satisfaction, he was finally willing to admit that the ‘spider web’ surrounding his Center had been helpful. Rather than some ungraspable barrier between two different varieties of empty space, there was now a very distinct ‘inside’ and ‘outside’ to his Center. This allowed a very significant increase in his ability to measure and estimate future ring additions. There was only so much space, and he hadn’t forgotten some of the mentions his Choir friends had let slip.

At a certain rank—C, he believed—one’s cultivation technique would ‘solidify’. He didn’t have the details on that, but it was an eventuality that had to be planned for in case it was true. Especially for his particular mechanism. A fractal technique wouldn’t have the problem he was envisioning; those interconnected spirals cleanly worked together while focusing entirely on draw and separation.

Their function seemed to be to ‘pull in’ refined Essence by virtue of spin-direction. The heavier elements—the corruption—couldn’t handle that movement and were rebuked in the process of what was considered ‘refining’. Actively refining had more to do with spinning your technique faster without it shattering or fracturing on you. Faster spin, more Essence of a cleaner and higher purity. More spirals? Better results. Simple, direct, effective cultivation technique.

Most cultivation techniques still relied on the use of a single, flat plane. Nothing moved up, down, or in a direction other than circular. The raw material comes in from the top, goes through the filter, and comes out at the bottom. It was a sieve. Refined Essence is stored in the body of healthy cultivators, since their cells can handle holding a certain amount.

“Healthy cultivators, my foot.” Artorian grumbled at the thought, though he didn’t notice. Health while cultivating was a precious luxury that he’d never had, and therefore he couldn’t access that body-storage feature. It was akin to having a house, except he couldn’t put anything in the building. All his furniture just ended up on the lawn. Sure, it worked, but who is comfortable leaving all their possessions out on their lawn? He certainly wasn’t. “Ah well, gotta do what I gotta do.”

Essence gets refined, open the window, and punt. Out you go, Essence! Stay on the lawn! Or in this case, his version of an Aura.

*Sigh*. Back to the work at hand… Artorian floated up to the barrier’s edge and prodded at the ‘web’. An unpleasant mental shudder ran down his imagined shoulders. *Argh*. Why did it need to be sticky? Of course it was sticky. It couldn’t just be silky soft, now could it? No, that would have been convenient.

He pulled on it, and the entire web bent and stretched like the goop that ran from a child’s nose. It was sickening in the sense that he wanted to berate the small child responsible for this. Oh. Right. That would be himself.

Artorian rubbed his metaphorical hands together and pulled Essence from his Aura. It was surprisingly easy to do once he’d gotten used to it, so long as it was just push or pull. Aura had this handy benefit of speed. He didn’t need to unfurl a ring to access the stored Essence, and didn’t have to struggle with his own body just to get Essence out of the cells where it was stored. Positives, negatives, it was all just one more thing to work on.

“Right…” He regarded the mess of his ‘fence’ for lack of a better term. This haphazard, slimy mess was just… ew. Why? Why did he have to think of spiders during the moment he was opening the first of his Meridians? Why not bees? He liked bees. Artorian worked with those in the apiary, and oh the pie! Nice, clean, hexagonal shapes. Stable and sturdy.

Well… why not bees? He knew how hives were constructed. He’d seen it happen for years, and he’d certainly eaten enough honeycomb to feel guilty about it. Maybe he could make this a tribute to the bees? Tribute to the bees! Yes! Those little critters never did get the praise they deserved, and he could swear that bees were better mathematicians than some of those old fogies back at the Academy.

Artorian waxed nostalgic. He really did want to go back there; it was the second closest thing to a true home before the Fringe, though the Fringe itself… well, he was a visitor now. A basic land rule in some places was that once you abandon an area—or give away a titled dominion—you’re not welcome there anymore. Not that the people wouldn’t try to go back, but the place feels… different. He’d experienced it before in the Socorro desert, and he’d never had the stomach to even consider returning. The very place rebuked him on principle, and he never did understand why.

Distractions! “Come now, old boy! Back on task. Remember that it’s the beeswax’s consistency that’s important.”

It hurt, as usual. Making alterations in your Center—or near it—always hurt. Essence work was a growing pain he’d become accustomed to. Unlike ordinary discomfort, this was not a ‘rip the tree sap off’ kind of injury. You had to make this one last. It was important to go slow when making alterations inside oneself. Gather Essence. Loop, twist, loop. Shape, bend, shape, bend.

Artorian made a prototype hexagon before committing to the concept. Nitpicking some details such as size, density, thickness of the shape, and a bit more that only a grumpy old man would care about. He whined about it in a you-can’t-quite-hear-me yet still ‘I’m-displeased-and-fixing-it’ tone. Which could mean anything from ‘it was actually improved’ to ‘oh heavens, no, it was improved! Promise!’… complete with the horror-stricken faces of onlookers.

The latter didn’t happen in this case. Plain and simple honeycomb patterns were pushed into the space that the sticky spider web currently occupied. He ran into a snag immediately. The space separating inside from outside was too indistinct for precision lengths of honeycomb. He could make them sturdy, but they would rip as the space wavered and stretched. The spiderweb did not, simply moving and stretching along with the minute movements of the space it occupied.

Some chin-scratching later, and the idea was adopted. Why make hard honeycomb when it could be more gel-like? Beeswax was important for structure, but not all parts of the structure needed solidity. No reason the pattern couldn’t breathe. Actually… was it important that the web was sticky?

It could be just a momentary annoyance, but it was worth a test. Artorian took some refined Essence and haphazardly tossed it at the webbing. Some of it did what he expected, and it stuck to the webbing, then was… absorbed? What? Was he losing Essence to this contraption? Oh, please no.

In a tizzy, and moving with a speed that would have made him lose his hat. The old man zipped after the tiny mote of light that was bouncing through the webway network. It eluded him like a feisty chicken that wasn’t having any of his cluck today. “Where are you going, you snooty little… oh.”

Artorian found himself at the connection of where his Center connected to his heart Meridian. He rubbed some shadow chest pains away at the memory, and observed as the mote of light… returned to his gyroscope-style cultivation technique.

“Huh.” He scratched the top of his head, an odd sensation when he had neither fingers nor head in this space. “Just like that?”

Artorian waited there and watched several more of the previously tossed motes copy the behavior. They bounced through the network, ended up at a connection point, and were drawn right back down into the refining process. That wasn’t what he expected at all. He thought he was going to lose the… wait a minute. Did that mean that all Essence that passed that midway space point didn’t come back?

Where did it go? Well… now he just had to know. Nearly giddy from the thought of figuring out something new once more, he zipped back to his honeycomb. Now… what to test? He took some refined Essence and tossed it through a region without the spiderweb present. It went, and went, and went. *Pop*.

It was gone.

“Where did the motes go?” It couldn’t have just vanished, could it? Slapping on his investigation hat, he zipped about a short while only to come up with nothing. Well… that was uneventful. Perhaps he should toss some Essence while far outside the Center and see what it did? Why not?

He fetched some, bundled it in a woven orb, and off he went. He passed through several Meridians because it was faster to mentally move through a pathway that had Essence-channels built. He unfurled the woven containment back into refined Essence by bathing it in some starlight Essence, wiping the orb’s identity from it… then he watched.

The Essence did nothing at first. It just moved around and stuck to cell walls, being harmlessly absorbed into them. He lost the refined Essence, but on closer inspection had a hunch that this particular set of cells was ‘fed’. They had greater vibrancy than surrounding cells. It was, after all, always important to eat. Speaking of: when was the last time he ate? The thought provoked complaints from his physical stomach, and he wondered why a few hours would have reduced him to such a state of physical complaint.

This half-sleep had gone on long enough, and the honeycomb project wasn’t a huge rush now that he knew where the Essences went. The spiderweb gave existing Essences more chances to refine further, while escaped Essence fed the body. This must be why cultivators didn’t need to eat as much, and could do more with less. Essence was substituting their previous primary intake source. Good to know, but it still didn’t beat a real meal.

Unfocusing from his inner work, he returned to the normal mental space where he lessened his awareness of the internal. With his refinement Center up and running, he let it do its own three-dimensional passive refinement thing. Artorian took a deep breath, and woke.

Chapter Four

*Cro~o~oak*. Artorian’s stomach rumbled loudly as he came around. He patted the painfully empty space, feeling both weak and in need of water. A headache built as he pushed himself up against the base of a tree. Artorian remembered something about a tree. Deep breaths disturbed the passive pattern of his nearly unmoving form. His stomach started complaining louder as it realized he was awake.

Night already? Must have been more than a few hours. The sound of a vast flame flickered nearby. The clicking pitches of large, dry logs being flame-licked came to mind. Wiping the shmutz from his face and eyes, he also felt the dire need for a bath with hardy scrubbing. *Cro~o~oak*.

“Mm… mmm. Excuse me… is anyone around?” His voice was hoarse and paper thin, hand sliding up to his neck for a quick rub. This wasn’t quite what he’d expected. He tapped around with the other, and his fingers dipped into some water. A curious glance at why his digits were wet allowed for the discovery of a water cup. Several, even. “Don’t mind if I do.”

He drained them. All of them. As soon as he started drinking one cup of the crystal-clear spring water, he had a second in hand. Then a third, and fourth, as he glugged them down, not having realized how awfully parched he was.

“Starlight Spirit, you wake! Birch had deep concern when you remained still for many moons.” The Wood Elves—which Artorian could have sworn had been trees a moment before—moved with their uncanny unified grace. They approached him, took a knee, and gently touched him to look the human over now that he was awake.

The old man didn’t fight or resist the head tilts, nudges to his legs, or puppeteering of his arms. He was quite used to being manhandled during medical checkups. The Elder had had years of it in the village when the clerics were screaming at one another during his days of Meridian opening. He smiled fondly at the recollection. What pleasant rabble-rousing that had been. The Wood Elves silently concluded that their charge was fine.

“Told you,” an unexpected and exhausted voice thrummed in reply to the calmed Wood Elves. It carried the same undertone of age Artorian himself possessed, and his ears followed the sound to the flickering of the nearby bonfire.

Squinting to see, Artorian could faintly make out the form of an armored figure that was slumped into itself. It sat with arms crossed on its knees, leaning forwards so the head was pressed to the wrists as a makeshift resting perch. The figure exuded tiredness. Long fingers on the gauntlets hung feeble and loose, and lengthy tresses of dull grey hair hung without a care in the world from the bottom back of the helmet. Now… the armor itself was exquisite.

At least, it would have been… had it held any of its original luster. The design screamed Masterwork, but the suit was coated in the kind of soot one saw when you left something in a kiln too long. This person had either stood, or had their armor interred in a place where constant furious blazes happened with great frequency. A myriad of battle scars emblazoned the plate. It wasn’t in disrepair, yet the history of war was so obvious on the exhausted figure that there was simply no question where they had spent most of their life.

The old man looked the other way, back to his caretakers. “Hello, Birch. Did I introduce myself? I’m a little foggy on if I did so.”

The calm Wood Elves smiled at him in unison. “You require no further introduction, Starlight Spirit. Birch is aware. We have kept you safe from the hungry Caligene, though we requested the Fire Soul be present.”

They motioned at the slumped individual to introduce the Fire Soul, but there was no response. They dropped the subject and awkwardly returned their gazes to the old man. “Please do not feel slighted at her… peculiarities.”

“Quite alright, lad. Lads? How…?” There was a mix of genders in the group and it was tripping him up. Some gears turned and fell into place, and Artorian thought he might understand the method Wood Elves used to refer to themselves and others. “Birch?”

The Wood Elves nodded in unison when the old human grasped their meaning. “Worry not, Starlight Spirit. Our speech may be difficult, but we are trying our best to speak… human?” They looked at one another and broke unison for a moment. Some of them raised their hands in an ‘I don’t know. Why do you expect me to know? I know what you know’ motion. Their unity reformed after they had their private conversation.

“‘Human’ is the best we can describe your language. We are doing what we can to converse in it. Ordinarily we speak Elven, or a long-winded dialect of tree. There are many of those, before the spirit asks. The questions you form can be seen from how your face does the… scrunching… thing.”

They clearly didn’t have the most polished social skills, but that didn’t matter one whit to Artorian, who had pulled out his ‘this is fine’ bucket and was cramming their insecurities into it as if he were thieving bread off a table. He’d treat them kindly no matter what, so long as they were making the effort.

*Cro~o~oak*.

Speaking of bread… “Don’t worry so much Birch. You’re doing wonderfully, and I appreciate the effort you’re putting in. That’s very kind of you, and I think it’s delightful. On the topic of signs my body is giving off… would there happen to be anything to eat? That noise will continue until I do, and if I deduce correctly, your ‘many moons’ mention means days. I will require quite the amount, if possible.”

Birch was having a tough time. There was a lot that needed explaining in a quick timespan, and they weren't the best at this. The unison of their bodies remained, but a notable pause occurred before the group of Wood Elves spoke again. A whirl of wind cut through the area; it didn’t have a discernible source, air was just sucked from the region. Branches fluttered as the surrounding air tore into the vacant space. The bonfire flame flared to life as the excess oxygen allowed it to powerfully spike. That same spike gave away that the Fire Soul was no longer slumped next to the flame; the figure missing entirely.

The momentary distraction held all their attention, but it did well enough to snap Birch out of its quandary. Who knows what the Fire Soul was up to? If it was anything relating to food, the human would need to know in a hurry. “In this forest, the entirety of it, there are rules one must follow to not draw the ire of regional spirits. These may be beast spirits, tree spirits, and the like.”

“While there are many species within the forest, there is a bark-clad rule that we do not kill to feed ourselves. If a creature falls from age or accident, it is free to be taken. That which grows endlessly may be taken in moderation, so long as enough remains for the plant or being to create more of itself without concern. As a human, you may be tempted to destroy what exists in order to create something else. This is taboo here. Those who violate the rules are free game to be hunted by others. Also, the first to take a prize owns it.”

*Bapf*. The meaty sound of a hefty weight hitting the ground reached all their senses, and with a glance they could see a sizable doe. It didn’t stir, nor breathe. The full-plated figure casually kept her steel grip under its chin, effortlessly lifting it. An animal that should have required—in Artorian’s estimation—three to four full grown men just to pick up, was one-arm hoisted by the armored figure. Artorian deduced this must be a seriously powerful woman.

Opening her free hand, gouts of Bordeaux flame spewed forth. Artorian went wide-eyed, gawking as a child watching a firework wonder. The flame sputtered before focusing. Raw power being controlled and conglomerated into the shape of a… broadsword? He knew this trick!

This was Essence shaping, in some form anyway. The energy the armored figure was doing it with was on a whole different level. Nothing he had would remotely allow for an outflux of power that mighty, and his shoulders shuddered with a childlike mixture of awe… and fear.

Artorian’s hands shook, momentary flashbacks of the Socorro War plaguing him. The memories fled away, though his eyes were glued to the sight of molded fire. Honest to goodness fire, solidifying into a set shape. The blade was unceremoniously thrust through the animal’s neck. Had it not been for the afterglow of the strike, he would never have grasped the path the weapon might have taken. Much less that it had moved at all. The speed in which the pinning stab had occurred easily outstripped his rail-palm attack, and he truly had not experienced something that could possibly have been faster… until now.

Artorian’s academic mind was on its knees, ecstatically screaming, as its arms dramatically rose and dropped. The fire had not only formed into the shape of a sword, but remained entirely stable as she placed the creature into the bonfire, hanging the body over the flames to cook.

With the flaming weapon acting as spit roast, the armored figure pulled an actual knife free. Using skills that would bring a professional butcher to tears, she took the animal apart like it was a work of music being deconstructed by a seasoned bard. Each movement was flawless. Perfect. Every draw of the blade sang without wasted movement. The display was an artform by itself, and all of Artorian’s enhanced senses were glued to the spectacle. Words Birch spoke went entirely unheard in favor of taking in the most detailed version possible of this… moment in the sublime.

Time passed in a flash. The doe was processed, stripped, cooked, and served on a piece of hard bark. His mouth gaped, barely aware of his hands taking hold of the bark with finely cut meat on it. One of the Wood Elves tapped the bottom of his chin, and his hanging mouth snapped shut as he broke from the dazed stupor. His cheeks were wet.

Dabbing his face with the sleeve, he wiped away evidence that he’d been profoundly affected by the entire performance. His hands were shaking as he lifted the bark plate, taking a hefty bite out of the surprisingly tender and well-prepared venison. The juices came to life in his mouth, and he scarfed it down like a starving rat, making all the appreciative noises he could as he lovingly choked down the delicious meal.

Half a flank later, Artorian was sucking his fingers clean and slapping a well-fattened belly. He’d chowed down on meat, meat, and more meat! Birch had refused the offered meal, having mumbled something about preferring fruits and tubers. With a filled stomach and a relaxed countenance, Artorian tried to stand. He was so sore. His joints felt stiff, and it took both cycled Essence and stretches to loosen him up. He tried to get his arm behind his back to stretch it out, but an armored glove grasped him with surprising gentleness. The hand closed around his wrist as a weary, breathy, sleepless feminine voice spoke.

“Not like that.” She was short on words, but effortlessly twisted and bent Artorian like a cheap marionette doll as he oof’d and ahh’d through what felt like advanced military stretches. His muscles were forced to their utmost in poses he’d never have considered, and the armored figure handled him with all the difficulty of a sock-doll paperweight. He was spindly, sure, but in her hands it didn’t matter in the slightest what he might weigh, nor how much stronger his body was by virtue of being a cultivator. He was powerless to resist the handling. That made twice today. Something made him feel like it might not be the last time this was going to happen.

When she was done and released his foot from touching the back of his shoulder, Artorian wobbled. He felt rubbery as he got up. Even with some military background, he’d never felt so flexible in his life, and the added limberness was making him flop around on his feet like a fresh-born foal. Abyss, a fresh-born deer would have more stability than the improvised dance he was currently performing by just trying to stand. His muscles felt wonderful and his bones had never been aligned quite this well, but ooh-wee was it an adventure.

“Better?” The Fire Soul was curt and to the point, and Artorian grabbed and hugged a nearby tree as he fell, catching himself to remain stable after the stumble. One of the Wood Elves tensed up, and flushed violently as their white-bark skin turned a solid pink. “Could you… not?”

Confused, but not about to fight the matter when one of the Elves spoke rather than in unison, he managed to get to his feet. Upon releasing the birch tree, the Wood Elf in question took a deep breath. The other four surrounded her, keeping her upright. Artorian wasn’t about to ask what happened. He had a decent idea that Wood Elves might have connections to trees, and this Elf may have a close bond with that particular tree. As a potentially touchy subject, wisdom dictated that it was best to apologize instantly.

“Oh. Yes, much better. Thank you, Fire Soul. Also, apologies, Birch. I didn’t know that would. Well. Yes.” He stammered out what mentally had been an easy apology, and physically turned out to be an exercise in how to embarrass oneself.

“Ember.” The tired woman immediately corrected him. “It’s custom here to be called as what you are, but I prefer Ember to the Wood-Elven vernacular.”

Artorian knew better than to do anything but what he was told here. “Ember it is. Thank you kindly for the meal, I feel much better.”

Even though he attempted to be jovial, it didn’t trigger a similar response in the figure, who slumped back down next to the fire. The *thunk* of her helmet once again bumping her gauntlet knocked some soot off, but otherwise Ember returned to mute unresponsiveness. That was not the reaction he’d been hoping for. Still, work with what you have, not what you desire. He’d learned a plethora of things in quick succession, and it was all a bit much. That didn’t mean experiencing new things was over for the day. Clasping his hands together, Artorian faced Birch and asked the question that was at the front of his mind.

“Right, then. So… who is Mahogany?”

Chapter Five

Mahogany was one beefy boy. Not that there was a large amount of beef on the lanky Wood Elves, but the simple fact was that both the Elves and the trees they were named after were stacked. Teak, Rosewood, Cedar, Alder, Banyan, and Pine were also present, each in a group of two to five Wood Elves ‘representing’ the name.

Artorian hadn’t yet wrapped his head around how the name-to-people connection worked. The Wood Elves had an appearance similar to the referenced trees in question, but while his tree-lore was good, it wasn’t this good. What also didn’t help is that their conversations were either in a slow language he didn’t comprehend, or boiled down to intense staring contests during which only their bodies reacted.

Teak especially had some wild facial animations while in a staring-contest conversation with Rosewood, who was keeping her collective calm like a prissy Princess. All five of her Elves’ noses were in the air while she took whatever message Teak was trying to get through to her with crossed arms. They appeared to be on extreme opposite ends of their invisible argument, and it mimicked their appearance. Rosewood’s lengthy dresses of leaves and luxuriously colorful petals were well-managed; Teak’s outfits were disheveled.

The Teak Elves looked twitchy, as though they hadn’t slept properly in a while. Acting very high-strung in both their tone and stilted manner of movement. Artorian had sat down next to a spent Ember, who was currently resting her head against a balled fist while slumped next to another bonfire. One she’d made in the span of a moment after they’d arrived with Birch. A hefty flare had erupted from an empty patch of forest dirt, and it somehow just kept burning. The Birch Elves had communally jumped in panic to escape from the spontaneous blaze. Most of the other tree types already present had no reaction whatsoever, clearly used to the antics of the Fire Soul.

Mahogany was calm and collected in both stance and actions, entrenched in silent-speech with Alder. This had gone on since they’d arrived, and it was likely neither of the two Elven groups had noticed the addition of Birch, Ember, and one small human. Artorian twiddled his thumbs waiting on the various groups of Wood Elves, who spent their time having angry staring contests with one another. Given this was going a whole lot of nowhere, he tried his hand at striking conversation with Ember. He scooted himself a touch closer, and folded his hands.

“That flame of yours. Was that by chance an Essence technique?” A grunt was his only reply, and he wasn’t quite versed enough in the Ember-grunt dialect to have deduced what that meant. Silence followed, so he pursed his lips and looked around for something or someone else to speak with. He would have sodded off to Birch, but those five Elves were currently surrounded by Banyan and Cedar.

He groaned and rubbed his forehead in frustration. “This is giving me such a headache. They pull me into their forest for help with something or another, and then completely forget I exist the moment they can talk to one another.”

“Common.” Ember’s half-asleep grumble-grunt turned into words. Progress!

“As in, they do this often?”

A deep inhale came from the armored form, and she raised her head up with a throaty noise that signaled she really didn’t want to be doing anything at the moment. The kind of croaking rumble one hears when they needed to wake in the morning, and it was clearly far too early for such Celestial Feces. With a whine of frustration, Ember knocked Artorian off his seat from the sheer force of exhaling the primal noise. Once she’d gotten everyone’s attention, Ember dropped her head right back down onto her gauntlet.

Birch extracted itself from entanglement and hurried over, still in unified step as they each bemusedly smiled. They helped Artorian stand, and he noisily brushed himself off, getting the forest floor off of his robes. “Starlight Spirit, apology is given for our social customs. We realize now that the situation has not been explained to you.”

The old man nodded thankfully; he had been a little flustered. Still, he pressed his fists to his hips. “Now, give me a moment to explain why in the future you should take time to explain first thing in the future. I will be as cordial as possible since you were kind enough to let me nap after getting my keister kicked all the way over the hill, but others might not be.”

“First of all, we walked for days to get here, and the trip was as silent as an empty grave. Anytime I asked something, it was ‘answers will be given when we arrive’. To another human, they would have likely started fighting you, thinking that they were being led to their death… no matter what assurances you gave them.”

He sternly crossed his arms, allowing his frustration to show. “Then we arrived, and off you went into staring contests with your peers. I’ve no idea what’s going on, or why you’re calling me a ‘Starlight Spirit’. Why in blazes are there four to five of you doing identical things? How do you lot seem to be able to talk without… talking? I’ve no idea what you need from me, and the last thing I recall before passing out is several angry bow users pointing arrows at me, their eyes blazing with turquoise flame.”

“Another human would think that they were losing their mind.” His foot tapped like a rabbit on the ground, impatient and huffy. “I don’t know who Ember is either, except that she’s apparently the problem solver and caretaker of haphazard children. She is also the resident body re-aligner; and I’d even venture to say she’s a cultivator, but given I haven’t the Essence to have a look. Someone else would be furious at this treatment.”

Mahogany had the grace to look slightly embarrassed. “I… see. Well, it is a good thing you are so-”

Ember rose a single finger without otherwise budging. A small orange-red lighter-sized flame *fhumped* to life atop her single digit, and the surroundings lit with more brightness than even the bonfire was putting out.

“Thank you!” Artorian threw his arms up. Even the sassy reaction by Ember was more helpful than the whole mixture of all the plant people within this overgrown garden. He squeezed the bridge of his nose, needing a moment to collect himself.

Mahogany became aware of their surroundings after Ember had done her thing. That congregation of Wood Elves made hand motions to their previous conversation partner, signaling they would hold their discussion for now. To get the still-distracted Wood Elves on track, all four of Mahogany’s Elves clapped their hands with air Essence-enhanced power, creating a shockwave that had Artorian press his hands over his ears. His head rang like a gong. Why did they do that? Surely that hadn’t been necessary to gather further attention.

The four Wood Elves had begun speaking before he had a chance to recover his bearings, his ears needing some tending before he started actually hearing. He shot up a hand, and noted that the Mahogany group paused their speech as he opened his jaw wide, trying to get his ears to pop. “Alright. I think I can hear again. Would you please be careful with that technique? Had I been any less of a cultivator, that would have deafened me permanently.”

He made a face, closing one eye while tilting his head, rubbing the opposite ear as if trying to get water out of it. “Abyss, that was loud.”

“We shall begin again, Starlight Spirit, as you then did not hear us before.” Mahogany spoke with the depth of a Sultan, placing their hands horizontally as if in prayer. Rather than anything of the sort occurring, the surrounding groups of Elves each took hierarchical places within the vicinity. Distance and cluster-density must have had something to do with it, but the true details were obscured from him.

“We… are Wood Elves. That is the most common term the trees hear whispers of when it comes to outsiders referencing us. In our language, we do not refer to ourselves based on the crude outer matter of our bark and bodies. Instead, we utilize a naming convention based on inner truths. Your name is derived from the star that shines within you, and the peculiar energy it embodies.”

Artorian made himself comfortable on a fallen log as explanations finally began. He gave a nod that he was following, and folded his hands.

“I, or we, depending on your perspective, are referred to as Mahogany.” The Elves motioned to each other to show they meant one another. “I am aware that it is common for humans to consider a person to be a single individual, in a single body. This is not true for Wood Elves, as our cultivation follows a vastly different path than the development of any other.”

If Artorian had pointy ears, they would have pointed to the sky in interest. There was some displeased murmuring that died away during another vicious set of staring contests, but Mahogany repeated a much softer version of their earlier clap to return them to reality.

“The human cannot converse as we can, so we shall keep our conversations limited to the mundane while he is present. We did wish for his Presence, and the very nature of our conversation creates exclusion when I’d prefer an extended invitation.” They returned to their communal gaze at the old man, who felt a shiver crawl up his spine at how many quiet eyes were all locked onto him. This was nothing like the eyes in a classroom. It still felt as if they expected something from him, but this time… he did not know what.

“As a general basis. You will not find a Wood Elf that is not a ‘cultivator’ as you refer to them. To you, it is a method of longevity and strength. To us, it is a way of life. The murmuring you just heard was disapproval from those who do not wish me to tell you these secrets, but long debate has deemed this to be necessary. Especially if we are to ask for your aid in a matter that haunts us. Birch has informed me we have used candles in an attempt to protect you from hauntings, and we hope you have not been poorly affected by the roaming blight.”

While bursting with questions, the old man held his tongue. His hand was waywardly stroking his long beard as his interest continued mounting. When the Elves noted he was not speaking against the presented ideas, they continued.

“The cultivation of a Wood Elf is not individualized. It is communal. Rather than to internally cultivate, as you do, our refinement Centers are instead present in a ‘core tree’ of a specific type. Once bound to that source, a Wood Elf will plant an individual sapling of said tree to anchor their growth. It is not merely our cultivation that becomes tied to this main tree; our minds do as well. When a second Wood Elf joins to the tree, their minds become one. The planted sapling is what allows us to differentiate when we ourselves are within the communal mind space. Those of the ancient civilizations had more… refined words for it.”

The Mahogany Elves glanced at Ember for a moment—who remained in her lifeless defensive curl—with one of her raised fingers still sporting that tiny sass flame. “The ancient civilizations called it a ‘Gestalt Consciousness’, which is a complicated manner of explaining ‘many minds as one’.”

Artorian rolled his hands forward with a ‘go on’ motion that must be universal with how easily his hosts understood and interpreted the reference. He didn’t want to diminish the moment they’d given Ember, who they clearly held in some greater regard. Yet, the Fire Soul herself was not all that present in the current conversation. Something else must have been at play.

“In this group consciousness, we can speak as individuals. Outside of it, this is… considerably more difficult. I will reference the mundane ranking system: we are vaguely aware of how the other races measure progress; however, this is complicated with us. Our cultivation technique begins as a solid form, therefore would wager that the C-ranks is where we both begin and end. Our progression differs vastly from yours, by how it is counted in increases.”

“We neither ascend, nor descend. It is our skill that must be polished, otherwise our ability is as constant as the forest is vast. You will find no Wood Elven ‘Mages’ as you may be aware of them. Within the bounds of all the lands that make up our forest, the Fire Soul is the only one of such title and caliber.”

There wasn’t a response from Ember, as much as Artorian was hoping for one. A Mage-ranked cultivator was handy to have around, but this was not how he’d expected them to act. He’d made the assumption that power also grew arrogance and self-importance. If she was a Mage, Ember was… the most deflated Mage he had ever heard of. “Fire Soul, not Fire Spirit? I recall that’s what my classification was.”

Mahogany paused for a long look at Ember, but when no response was forthcoming, decided to simply tell him. “Your progress in cultivation, the growth into a higher existence, is at the ‘unformed spirit’ stage. When you reach your ‘C’ rank, you will become a ‘formed spirit’. Usually just referred to as ‘spirit’. You have currently been allotted that designation, as you have performed some kind of trick to make your method—however impossible to understand it may be—physically present without solidity.”

“We would ask you explain this to Mahogany and others when there is a chance. We have been speaking on the topic during the few moons of your travels, with Birch facilitating. Now is not the best time; let me finish the prior answer.”

Artorian smiled, and gave a very appreciative nod. He did so enjoy a proper explanation that didn’t wildly veer off target; though he was horribly guilty of doing just that. The answer also explained Birch’s questionable silence on the way here, they had been speaking elsewhere.

“The Ascendant of Flame has reached the highest grade of purity in spirit. Was she able, she would have ascended into the Soul stage of spirit-hood. We will speak of that no further; the color of her flame has darkened, and we shall not upset the Fire Soul by overstepping the boundaries of her comfort.”

Glancing over, the grip on his beard tightened as he found that the previously warm orange and red flame had altered to a combination cyan, purple, and black flare that overpowered the original flame in length by at least a full hand. He found it prudent not to press the current topic further. “I understand, please do excuse my question. Could you continue to tell me more on why you’ve invited me? While I have some guesses as to your problem, I can’t say with certainty I have a grasp on everything.”

Mahogany motioned for another group of Elves to step in. Alder, the group of Elves Mahogany had been silently conferring with earlier, stepped into the light created by the Mage’s finger fire. Had Artorian not been used to battlefield injuries, he would have recoiled at the sight as only two grievously scarred Elves came before him. Their voices were cracked and hasty, lacking the sonorous calm Mahogany exuded in spades.

“The Phantoms of the forest haunt us and devour our kin. We can’t kill them, merely keep them at bay with the Fire Soul’s tireless help.” In unison, they pointed their fingers at him.

“But you, Starlight Spirit. You can kill them.”

Chapter Six

“I can do what now?” The old man was furious. He did not intend to fight a war for a people he didn’t know, especially when he had personal issues that needed to be taken care of. They had a Mage here! They couldn’t possibly need his help when the living embodiment of fire was traipsing around their forest! He turned red in the face, fuming as he formulated what was going to be a long tirade. “You have a Mage-”

“I can’t kill them,” the tired voice mumbled from behind the full-plate helmet that remained pressed to its matching gauntlet. Artorian deflated, as that was just… such a defeating thing to hear. Her, a Mage, higher in power and rank than even a C-rank cultivator, which he was certainly not… was unable to handle the threat this forest was facing?

Artorian was going to press for details, but it dawned on him just how much somber emptiness those words contained. Age and defeat lay heavy on the tone, and it was a feeling that he certainly did not miss. He would also rather not be reminded of constant failure day in and day out, in this case the secret that she was unable to ascend.

He chalked that up to two reminders of a challenge that even someone like her was unable to overcome. What was he supposed to do? He didn’t match Ember’s power, and he certainly didn’t possess the combined knowledge and intellect of Wood Elves that lived who knows how long. Having risen to commence a tirade, he instead fell back on the log. His pose copied that of Ember’s, head resting upon his pressed together thumbs.

“I really don’t see how an old man that’s barely a novice cultivator is going to be of any help here.” His tone was equally as unenthusiastic as Ember’s, and it unsettled the Wood Elves. They looked to one another and conferred with other groups present.

An undeterred shuffling waltzed up from behind him. Branches cracked underfoot as a group of Wood Elves approached, clearly not intent on being gentle to their environment. It made other groups wince in agitated dissatisfaction. Pine commented with brazen dislike, “Hawthorn, could you not…”

“Shut up.” Pine was taken aback by Hawthorn’s stern and volatile words. This group of Wood Elves was biting back rage, and it showed in their speech as the trees around them wavered. Plants bent and grass furled from the energy released as the upset hunters spoke their piece. “You didn’t see. You’re not out there on the border keeping track of things as more and more unwelcome visitors dance through our lands like it’s another logging site to chop more of our sisters down.”

“I saw him, Pine. I saw him lying under an Oak, of all things. Surrounded on all sides by masses of…” Hawthorn was snapping fingers to recall what the man had said, having preferred the name to what they had termed the creatures. “Sugar Gliders. Whole families of them bundled together as this human’s Blooming Spirit fended off the dark. His Blooming Spirit outright blocked the phantoms from approaching. When he focused inwards, it seared the landscape of their Presence.”

Artorian wanted to get a word in edgewise, but was all sorts of lost in this shouting match. Aware that he wasn’t going to get a translation fast enough as things got worse, Ember mumbled the words under her breath. “‘Blooming Spirit’ means ‘Aura’.”

She was present in the conversation… sort of. Hawthorn’s statement settled her in a state of minor waking. If what they said was true… then it was possible there was something about fire she didn’t yet know… as unlikely as that may be.

Haw’s specific mention that the old man’s Aura had successfully ‘seared’ away an enemy that had been dragging her through the mud for the last few decades, made her heat up as a whole. Parts of her full-plate flickered, flaring a dim yellow fire that raced across her form. The flames were minor at most, but they signaled the waking of a volcano.

“My Aura?” Artorian was kneading thumbs into his temples. “All that does is store the Essence I can’t keep in my body. It doesn’t do anything else.”

The silence that surrounded him after that statement made him look up from his temporary disheartened stupor. Even the full-plated woman had her helmet up, and he could correctly guess her hidden eyebrows were equally raised. He’d probably just said something foolish, and was the only person present not aware of that fact.

“Does it… do something else? I’ve been figuring everything out by myself for the most part. I may have written a manual for what I’ve discovered, but I certainly did not have one for the learning process. I’m rather… stuck, in fact. All I’m able to do at this point is to increase the potency of my Core cultivation technique, since that determines the influx of energy I’m able to work with. As to what else this ‘Aura’ thing might be… I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage.”

“You did all of that without help?” Ember was quick on the uptake once she pushed her weariness to the side. One of her gauntlets actually raised to point at his chest, so Artorian’s assumption was that she meant his cultivation gyro.

“Well, I had help not dying when I did my Meridians, fairly certain doing that alone would have offed me. I also had frequent checkups to make sure nothing went awry as I was figuring out Essence cycling. I made a disastrous mistake in flooding my system with all my Essence shortly before I arrived here. So I don’t have any Essence to work with at the moment. It’s all going toward getting me up and running again. Otherwise… yes.” He made fingers motions from both hands at his chest, twirling them. “I did all of this by myself.”

The stunned silence continued a moment longer, but the old man was surrounded by a far more gleeful Hawthorn. Some of them had slung arms across his neck and shoulders, while others were patting him with enthusiasm. Artorian looked around at the elated faces, who praised him in return. “Fantastic! Well done, human! That’s amazing… all of that progress, look at how far you’ve come!”

The Hawthorn Elves only stopped being supportive so they could leer daggers at the others present. “We told you we had a good hunch. If none of you wants to make a trade with this human, then we certainly will. That is the way humans do things, is it not?”

Not having anticipated this concession, Artorian worried a moment if he would set a terrible precedent on a whole species if he answered this poorly. “Ah. Erm. Well. Hawthorn, was it? May I begin by thanking you for not applying bowstrings to me when we met? Even a single arrow would have been the end of me, and as your kindness is a large factor of why I can be up and standing today, I’m more than willing to just hear you out. Trading is… yes, it’s something humans do. However, that’s certainly not the only way to come to an agreement. I will admit It’s a common method, but on the whole I still don’t see how I could be of any help. I know nothing of this… Blooming Spirit.”

“True, you seemed to be all aquiver already, I saw no need to strive to make you a quiver.” The Hawthorn Elves were unperturbed, and didn’t give anyone else the chance to push into the conversation. “This is only a minor setback, Starlight Spirit! If you would be willing to use your bloom to cleanse my home tree of blight, we would gladly teach you the Essence techniques we know to aid you on your path.”

“I offer to teach you more of the bloom as well!” Birch cut in without further hesitation. This was not how they did things, but any more and Hawthorn would steal this boon away from them!

“As do I.” Groups of disbelieving Elves snapped their heads to stare at Mahogany. None had expected the sonorous sultan to join the clamor. The Mahogany Elves simply shrugged at the reaction.

“I was never planning to request something as heavy as our lives from the spirit without equally aiding his growth in turn. This is not the path I had wished we would need to take, but so be it. For the Starlight Spirit to aid us at all, given what we have learned… it is requisite that we provide him the proper tools; if only so he is able to perform the task we would ask of him. I believe Hawthorn when they say the spirit’s Bloom removes the phantom blight, and it did not escape me that the spirit does not desire to remain here.”

Mahogany placed their hands together, and made a gentle bow towards the old man, who still had Hawthorn’s multiple Elves hanging all over him like a cheerleading squad. “We are aware this is a large and sudden request. There is no group of Wood Elves within this forest that would not jump at the chance to have their Home-tree, also called a Core-tree, relieved of the lurking phantoms.”

“While we are one people as Wood Elves, we all have a collection of differing skills we refine and polish. As I can currently speak for the others, it is my hope that you would be willing to remain and provide aid in recompense for the knowledge we offer.” Mahogany nodded respectfully to Artorian.

Artorian was more comfortable now that he wasn’t being discounted or treated as a tool, but he didn’t know what to do about his cheerleaders who had turned the conversation into something fruitful. “Ah. Well, I do certainly appreciate…”

He stopped himself from declining. No, you old fool! You got your rear handed to you at full juice, and a single raider leader just about finished you off! You’re not helping your kids if you can’t survive getting through the front door. Take the silver plate, at worst it will eat a few years… it’s worth the few years.

“If I may be honest. I was going to decline. There are children I need to rescue, and that’s my life’s work. So that we are on an even slate, I have reasoned that in my current state this is simply not something I can achieve. Therefore, I would very much like to take you up on your offer to grow. I feel that I may be a freshly sprouted sapling in your midst, but you’re treating me with care. After thinking about it, I do very much like that you explained the Wood Elven conundrum to me. I wouldn’t recommend doing that with most other humans, but you’ve put me at ease with the trust that you have shown me.”

He turned to face one of the other groups. “Birch, I’m terribly sorry for the falling incident. I know I’ve apologized before, but now that it’s been explained I have a firmer understanding of what exactly I… *ahem*… grasped when I took hold of that tree. That Birch was your real body.”

He pointed to the specific Elf, who was pretending to be the most stoic of rocks. “If I understand, that body's what was left behind when your mind moved to the Core-tree, and those…”

He pointed up at the canopy, motioning at a congregation of silent birds that had just been observing. “...are other Wood Elves who are inhabiting a body that wasn’t their original one.”

A flurry of chirps and tweets called back down at him; a moment of congratulations for figuring that out so quickly. Artorian had a smile on his lips as he clapped his hands together. “Beautiful. Just beautiful.”

His head dipped low, his mirth fading. He was puzzling out the situation, and it was strange to consider that these were creatures more mental than physical. It meant that this predator they faced, the one they kept referring to as shadows, phantoms, and blights… must be a parasite that consumed the mind rather than the body.

How horrifying. Artorian recalled his odd nightmares that first night deep in the forest. How the smoky figures had a mind of their own and sought to destabilize and demoralize him for what must be their own ends. Glancing at Ember, it now wasn’t such a mystery what could be eating away at the willpower and well-being of an entire people. This forest was haunted, blighted, invaded. The myths of the forest he knew were either false… or incomplete. It wasn’t the forest itself performing horrors upon those who stumbled through, but the phantoms that hunted here.

“Here I thought that the phantoms of the forests were the Elves. Huh.” Artorian got himself out of the rut by slapping hands on his own cheeks. It was easy to fall into melancholy beneath the soft gloom of the canopy, and he needed to find structure in order to maintain his mental state. “Where do we start?”

Chapter Seven

Ember pulled herself upright, out from her perpetual slump. Celebration might have begun since the Starlight Spirit had accepted the task, which guaranteed he would be around for quite a while. Yet the rising presence of the flame-coated figure made many of the Elves take cautious steps back. “Come with me.”

Alder stepped forwards after the initial startle of seeing Ember move, but a glance from the Mage rooted them to the spot. Fear didn’t make them halt, the pressure of Ember’s Presence did. She locked Alder’s actions down, and it was clear that the Elves were deliberating about ditching their bodies and retreating from the Mage’s pressure. Luckily, they were released after a long moment. The message was clear enough: no interrupting.

Seeing that none of the Elves were going to risk getting another word in, Artorian cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Ember. Could you clarify what you mean?”

Her gauntlets rose to her helmet, pressing clasps that detached with the properly applied pressure. *Clink*. A mess of rough silver and grey hair fled the confines of its shape-molded protection. It fell along the back and sides of her torso, hanging easily to the length of her hips. What it was that surprised the crowd was up for debate. There was just so much to process.

Ember had thin, long ears, clearly marking her as one of the Elven races. Yet her face was thin, nearly gaunt. The wrinkles on her face put Artorian’s apparent age to utter shame. ‘Ancient’ may have been used to describe her civilization, but not even the Eldest of Wood Elves held a candle to the era that Ember must have been from. She was a silver grandmother in appearance, and large black circles hung under her gleaming, tired eyes.

The helmet disappeared into a pocket that shouldn’t have been large enough to hold an item of that size, but that was a detail ignored at this point. Artorian couldn’t discern what color her eyes were… not silver, but they appeared as such. A flush grew on his cheeks when he realized he was staring.

“Efficiency.” Short and to the point. Sounded like Ember’s modus operandi so far. “The residents here all have cute and clever tricks that work after you know what to do with an Aura. They practice control, skill, and finesse since their power is never in question. So long as there is a forest, the power of their cultivation is set. When it comes to your progression and growth, they’re overlooking several important aspects.”

She raised her hand up and counted on her gauntlet, speaking with the cold detachment of a logistician ordering wipes for a latrine. “One: Your Core itself is incomplete. Two: Your overall Essence density is insufficient. Three: You need knowledge and practice in basic Auric skills. Four: It doesn’t appear you actually know what you’re working with.”

“Five: I have the best control of any in the region, so the task of training you would fall to me regardless.” She dropped her hand, undoing latches on the gauntlet. That too vanished into her spatial bag. Her face promised him that any retort was going to fall on deaf ears, and questions would have to wait until her lessons had ended. “Lesson one: If you can’t, don’t. If you can, do.”

The yellow flame gathered around her exposed hand without harming even a hair. Ember’s hand was dainty and thin, muscles clearly visible, lacking the barest hint of fat present between her joints. The Wood Elves startled, recognized the fire, and decided it was a great time to make themselves scarce. This was not an arena they could stand in, and no amount of honeyed words were going to make a dent against Ember’s apathetic demeanor.

The time for deal making had ended. Artorian’s cheerleaders released him, a few pats of support on his shoulders as they hurried to escape as he snuck in a question. “Was that show of force really needed? I’m certain they would have gone if we’d just asked. Some diplomacy isn’t bad for health.”

Ember’s yellow flame just kept growing in intensity, and a clean beam of it split up through the canopy, piercing the sky. The fire was… odd. Under the canopy, it was clear as daylight, but the line that cut above the verdant barrier was ethereal. Unless you were specifically looking for it, he was certain you’d not spot it.

“They’re not running because I’m being abrasive.” She pulled the beam back in as the surroundings spiked in heat, Artorian clenched and tensed from the sudden unsavory feeling. He began to sweat as lines of flame raced across the ground in complex runic patterns. “They’re running because we have incoming.”

“We have what now?” Artorian blinked. The old man wiped his face off, tempted to bolt along with the fleeing Wood Elves that were… gone? How was everyone except him so abyss-cheating fast? What were the tricks these Elves were using, stepping into trees and transporting themselves through the roots?

Bah! His paths of escape were non-existent once he took a moment to turn about and look for them. The large open space felt cramped, and not due to the lines of hot yellow fire surrounding them. Had it always been this dark?

“Yellow means ‘caution’. They know this; you will learn. My flame will become white any moment.” Any follow up questions Artorian may have had were removed at the root. Pudgy, roiling masses of smoggy black tar whisked across the landscape and bashed into Ember’s purifying barrier with staccato *thuds*. The flame didn’t seem to purify much, but it at least sizzled the ‘creature’ and forced the incomprehensible, shapeless mass to recoil. The screeching wails that bubbled from the caliginous thing were as clear and crisp as a town crier’s calls, to the point that it took Artorian a moment to understand. He didn’t hear the sounds with his ears, he heard them in his head.

There wasn't an escape from this sound. You couldn’t cover and hide from it. Hands clamped on ears or not, the hunched old man fell on the stump he’d been sitting on. With a movement of her hand, Ember carved a pyroclasm through the landscape. The searing flame acted as a wall that went on for… well… he couldn't see the end of it. Panic gripped his heart, and he pressed himself to the log as the Mage threw Mana around with scalpel precision.

He was unutterably powerless here. Artorian’s sight registered the colossal blights as they kept pouring from the forest’s depths. An entire cardinal direction was hidden behind phantom smoke that shifted into mocking, poorly-copied shapes of living creatures that whispered heartrending lies. He couldn’t properly hear them between the roaring of fire that separated his ‘safe’ log from the living nightmare that occupied an amount of space he couldn’t properly conceive. Ember’s blazing wall may have gone on and on, but the ‘creature’—for lack of a better term—had massed itself against the hot semi-structure. It blotted out the sky, and Artorian was struck with terror.

He had signed up to get rid of this? How? How would a ‘Blooming Spirit’ be a functional weapon against this? Doubts began to spring up, and Artorian slapped himself on the cheeks again. No. Not this. Doubt was the real threat of the creature. Like the Wood Elves, the bodies he saw weren’t the real thing. They were just… conveniences. This living blight was no different. The visible body was a vessel, yet it wasn’t the real danger. It popped, bubbled, boiled, and burned off against the shearing blaze-wall, but it was for naught.

The screeching went on and on as the body of the blight threw itself at the barrier. Artorian glanced over at Ember, or he tried to. His eyes had flicked past her on first passing, as she looked no different to an unmoving statue. Her arms weren’t up. She was making no energetic motions. Her eyes were locked onto the threat, and she just… stood there. She was molding the shape, size, and power of her Mana to continue holding the miscreant at bay, all without any way to show that she was doing anything at all. Every now and then, he heard her sigh heavily.

“Told you I couldn’t kill it.” Artorian’s mental picture of the scene fractured as she casually spoke without turning to look at him. Looking about again, he found that while the threat was in fact incredibly vast, it had failed entirely to gain even an acorn’s worth of ground past Ember’s roasting field.

Pushing himself from the log, Artorian weakly brushed his robes off. With uncertain steps, he made his way over to stand next to the Mage, who appeared just as sullen as he imagined she might. “I… I don’t see how anyone expects me to… it just goes on forever.”

The Elven words nudged him away from that assumption. “It doesn’t. It just looks like it does.”

The old man nodded, not sure what else to do at this moment. “So… you’re a cultivator, then? A Mage?”

Ember shrugged in response. “A crude term for an elegant idea that was lost to time.”

She bit her lip, opening her mouth as if she was going to speak more. She didn’t, but the old man next to her was quickly regaining his confidence and poise. It soothed Ember, and she found her words. “In the new tongue, ‘cultivator’ is likely correct. At least, it may have been before my primary Ascension. In my language, I am an ‘Ascended’. In yours, I am a Mage. While I use what you refer to as Essence, it is only to convert into a superior version of power.

“You would know it as Mana. I know it as the ‘Energy of The Between’. I do not often speak, and when I do, it is limited. I enjoy being short, to the point. You are wordy and long of breath. Since I have taken the mantle of instructor, I will explain in length… when able.”

Artorian folded his hands behind his back. Comfort and stability were coming back to him moment by moment, as he could clearly see that the threat was not only failing to make gains, but could feel Ember trying to break away from her consistent depression. What an odd sensation, to feel the intent of another so clearly. It must have been a combination of local factors he didn’t have the time to puzzle out right now, but it was an uncanny experience. “May I safely infer… not a Wood Elf?”

Ember grunted. Ah! He’d heard this syllable before, this one was ‘confirmation’. “I’ve had innumerable names, but none I wish to recount. My kind went through many naming conventions. Now that all is lost, I am merely a Wild Elf. As are all Elves who lose their heritage. It is frustrating to truly understand how diluted the ‘Elven’ honor has become.”

Artorian mimicked her own grunt back at her, which made the corners of her mouth twitch towards the faintest hint of a smile. Progress! He was going to make this sentinel crack with laughter in no time! “You know not my history, human. Why do you agree with me on something you know nothing about?”

The Academic squeezed his chin, brushing a hand down his beard. “When the best source of history tells you something is true, it must be so. Therefore, if it is your account that something has occurred to ‘Elves’ over time, then it is not debate. It is merely true.”

A sage nod followed, distracting him from the horror that still writhed and raged on the other side of a paper-thin wall. “I will certainly admit that I know nothing of Elves past what I have learned in the last few days. It will not be my intent to step on toes. I only have hearsay that it has something to do with ear shape.”

He pointed to his own, eyebrow raised at the Ancient Elf currently trying her best to be a mentor; a personality that didn’t play to her strengths. Anyone could tell that Ember was a warrior. One created, tempered, and hardened in endless battle. Her words were abrasive by impatience and irritation, but the source seemed to stem from unending exhaustion. If the threat could come from anywhere, to anyone, at any time like this… he too would fear the call of sleep. That the blight seemed to have free access to you if you did sleep… certainly did not help the prospect.

“To be an Elf, back when it was more than just a thing to lord over one another… it meant to dedicate yourself to the eradication of conflict by waging an endless war. The reasons are long lost. While I knew once, I know no longer. The ears are a reference to the oldest of traditions. In those early days, we needed a way to easily show all who saw us what we had come to do. Our ears were a symbol to the upholding of an ideal. We forsook family, community, and companionship in favor of the pure pursuit of the power that would let us eradicate the endless threat that is…”

She stopped herself, and a heavy sigh fell from her lips. “Now, being an Elf is a species reference. The purpose was lost over time, and some instead became obsessed with their appearance and self-importance. Their superiority, since some of their skills were better than that of another. Some put their status above all else, such as High Elves. Pride and hubris rule their rotten hearts. Some became lost and found a new path, such as the Wood Elves. They discovered an abandoned cultivation method, and threw themselves into it fully.”

Ember shook her head as a mother would when disappointed in her children. “That flawed experiment in unity… I am one of the last of the Elven line that knew of the originals. When the mountains were green and not a road cut the land. My path is one of endless wars, and I wander from one field of battle to the next. I can find no rest in times of peace so long as I cannot fulfill my original purpose. I fear I never will.”

Her hand rose, and opened slowly. It was difficult for Artorian to discern what occurred on the other side of the blazing barrier. When he did, the comfort he had gained shattered to fragile, fearful chunks. Torments from his past freshly found their way to the surface at what he saw, their cold claws digging into his heart.

“Oh abyss… no…” Glowing orange and matted black swirled on the ground beneath the roiling blight. It started low to the ground, turning in on itself as it spun, forming a miniature whirlwind that—for now—did nothing. “No… no… no…”

The telltale sound that had haunted his nightmares for decades started dreadfully low, like thunder heralding a storm. He knew this; he knew it well. It was the sound of fiery death. Hands clamped to the sides of his head, and he dropped to his knees, unable to turn away as he received a refresher on something he’d hoped to never see again. Visually, the air seemed to coil and birth a telltale familiar, horrifying orange glow from the swirl of ebon particles that mixed together in the air.

*Boom*.

If his mind could make a sound as a piece of it shattered, it would have done so with the crackle of sand as it snapped to become glass in the sudden conflux of torrential heat. A pillar of twisting flame eradicated entire columns worth of blight.

The creature recoiled as an expressionless Ember watched the carnage she wrought. Retaliatory waves bashed and broke against the pyroclastic wall. The phantom-smoke didn’t retreat, the mass just dissipated into itself, becoming nothing. Within moments, the distance-spanning tarry cloud was gone. Having expended their mass, the shadows retreated. The only sounds remaining were the hot crackle of a flame wall, and a collapsed old man sobbing on the ground.

Chapter Eight

Ember stood over the weeping Elder as he rocked himself. She was uncomfortable. She was accustomed to war, and the agony and horrors it brought. She could handle herself, surrendering everything to the apathy and letting it all drain away into an endless void of nothingness where it couldn’t get to her.

Watching someone else go through it… that was difficult. If she let this drain away, it would be difficult to teach her student. If she tried to handle the situation herself, she would fail. Lesson one. If you can’t, don’t.

Conflicted, she stood there and squeezed her hands into fists as she emotionlessly watched him cry. Why was he in such a state? The phantoms were temporarily rebuked, their hold should be at its weakest. To confirm, she ascertained the current location of the lesser Elves in movement. She corrected herself. Wood Elves. No falling into the same trap of those whose pride ate them alive from within. Yeesh. This human was putting her on seriously shaky mental ground.

She was content to feel that the Wood Elves had passed the distance threshold where the blight could no longer sense them. She’d known having such a large congregation was going to be a beacon for the Phantoms: it was a promise of a sizable buffet.

Abyss these Wood Elves and their particular vulnerability. Gestalt consciousnesses were strong when unified, but collapsed if pushed into disharmony. The blight would swallow them up whole, as it had done to numerous other groups of Wood Elves. They’d lost the entire Elder grove just a few months ago, and had she not arrived in time, Alder would have joined them.

Her hand twitched. She’d forgotten what to do. Unable to ascend further, unable to finish the blight, and now unable to support a single human? Ember’s hand spasmed harder. All the power in the world didn’t help her here. She could flatten battlefields, break proud castles to crumbling ruin, and turn vast armies into glowing dust motes. Yet if a child were to hug her leg, she’d stand there clueless as to how she should act. Should she pick it up by the scruff of the neck and return it to the mother like it was part of a cat’s litter? Should she shake her leg to try and get the little creature off?

A similar discord struck her now. The human was just holding his head as he sobbed, trying to cope with something awful it must have experienced. Again, she looked around for lingering threats… yet still sensed no shadows that had remained nearby. If it had been something as simple as a phantom, she could have chased it away and the crying would have been over. If the outburst wasn’t from an enemy… there was no reason that this should be happening.

Ember reached down slowly; shaky hand outstretched. She had only just barely touched his shoulder when he violently recoiled, rolling away and getting to his feet. Then taking off in a thoughtless sprint. “No! Not again!”

Her hand clenched into a fist, and Ember winced at her failure. Of course that wasn’t going to work. When had anything she tried that wasn’t killing ever worked? She straightened and frowned as she watched him run. He clearly didn’t know where he was going, sprinting at full tilt through the trees. Her frown remained, and she took a single step. The force it propelled her allowed her to catch up to him as if she’d never left his heel.

Artorian didn’t have the time for rational thought; he just ran. His hand remained pressed to the side of his head as his vision overlapped with memories of a desert and swirling masses of ebon orange that tore the battlefield asunder. Pillars of flame that took from him one of the families he’d spent years getting to know.

He stepped on a root and tripped, but rolled up and kept going. The luminous outline of his younger self passed him, the one that didn’t trip in Socorro. That young commander with eyes full of fright, shouting orders to retreat so people would live. He didn’t feel the forest floor crunch and snap beneath his feet. He felt only the push-and-give of gravelly sand.

Unlike last time, he saw no cave.

No hollow of respite.

As the forest endlessly flew past, so did the loop of the desert sands as the surroundings exploded, burned, and broke. He remembered and tasted the smells of men cooking, armor melting to flesh, and endless eye-raking winds cutting across his vision. He was in two places at once and wasn’t able to distinguish either one as real while he ran.

Where in the desert he had never seen the culprit that had turned his friends and fellow soldiers to crumbled hunks, now Ember was there. Vivid. Real. He could swear that when he looked over his shoulder, she was right there. It spurred his mad dash forwards, and his foot caught again. This time, he didn’t catch himself.

In the desert there was vast open space, in the forest… there were trees. His head bashed into one at full speed, and the dizzying blow shattered his illusion as he fell onto his back. It didn’t quite feel like he hit the ground? Only half-conscious, he felt dazed and as if he was being moved around. Did it just get brighter?

Ember caught the human as he ran into a tree and practically knocked himself out. A flutter of her hand forced a plume of flame to burst from the ground, a bonfire settling into place. She laid the old man against a tree, where his body remained slumped. It was good enough, so she sat near the flame herself. She considered if she could have done something different for him, but her eyes glazed over and dulled.

Her forehead found the exposed support of her arm and dropped to a rest. Once again defended by the curled-in position, she checked out of reality, the lack of answers fueling her depression.

Artorian hazily saw a bonfire before him. Blinking owlishly, he thought he was in his failure space. “Drat. Did I do it again? Have I failed so badly that another plans to take the mantle?”

After a few moments of contemplation, he noticed that it just didn’t feel the same. No stumps surrounded this flame, and there was no shrill sound of whetstone rasping over metal. Pain stabbed his forehead.

His hands came up and he felt the bruise. No wonder his head felt like it was splitting, that was a big goose egg. He attempted to pull from his celestial Essence, but there just wasn’t enough of it to go around. Artorian would have to let this bruise heal the old-fashioned way, or he’d need some starlight to cultivate. Glancing up, this canopy didn’t have a big hole in it. It was gloomily obscured, and attempting to cultivate in this was only going to make him slurp up corruption.

Because Ember was just so darned still, he didn’t notice her at first. Odd how a Fire Mage could somehow manage to not be seen next to the only light source for leagues. He spoke his heart without his mind acting as a filter. “I can’t learn from you.”

Ember twitched, her head raising as her eyes flickered back to focus. She’d neither expected the response, nor its contents. A word she didn’t use came to the tip of her tongue. She didn’t like the word. The word meant something wasn’t simple. It meant she had to do something she wasn’t good at. “Why?”

For a reason Artorian simply didn’t understand, the bonfire turned blue. Light to dark cerulean hues and tints flickered before him where oranges and reds previously lived. He deeply wished that he understood. He’d said the words without thought to them. Raw emotion brought to his tongue and needing to be spoken. Diplomacy had no place here, and her retort set his mind abuzz. Excuses and reasons piled from his mind like someone had knocked over a scroll case, and all the vellum and rolls were flying everywhere. He ignored his scattered thoughts, and did his best to get a grip.

No amount of side-stepping the topic was going to be helpful here. He had to take a page out of Ember’s book and just slap it directly to the face. No finesse, just drop the tome on the table.

“You’re… you.” He steadied himself with a breath. “Decades ago, I was a soldier. The campaign took us to many places, but in the end, it took us to a desert. There, all the people I had come to grow fond of… died in flashes of fire. Round, conical, swirling towers of orange and ebon. Whirlwinds of flashfire that removed anything it got caught by, turning it to ash, dust, and cinders.”

He pulled the side of his robe away, exposing his woeful artwork of sandpapered skin. “Outside the radius of those pillars, the wind picks up what’s nearby and shears people to ribbons. I was on the outskirts of that effect as I watched some of my best friends at the time just… disappear.”

Artorian folded his robe back in, biting back emotions with a stiff jaw. “I never had a face to place onto the source of the losses, and now…

“Well.” He looked up, locking wet eyes with the Ancient Elf. “Now I do.”

It had been centuries since Ember had felt prickles on the back of her neck. She’d forgotten it was a sensation that she could have at all. Her hand waywardly rubbed the feeling away. Her ascended body shouldn’t be feeling that, though she couldn’t put out of mind that she just had. “I…”

She frowned, turning to face her cerulean fire. “I remember none of that. You speak of actions which are clearly mine. Yet I cannot place them. Recall them. Feel them… I… apologies are useless, and I do not know what to say when being faced with your loss.”

Artorian wrung his hands together, trying to cope with reality. “You mean to say that someone as wise and powerful as you, didn’t know any better? Not a willful act?”

Ember felt a tinge of irritation, but controlled herself. She waved the mention away. “I am not wise. Do not refer to me as such. Being old has merely made me forgetful and regretful. Age is not important to an ascended… no, Artorian. I did not willfully murder your people. Even my best guess says that I, at best… just happened to be passing by.”

While she’d used his name, and that was appreciable, his hands squeezed together so hard they turned white. That had been a biting indictment of her actions, and yet he could not find the anger within himself to hate her for it. Her words were so flat and empty that even notes that should have been somber were swallowed by a pit of apathy.

It was just too much, and he laughed through the tears in not knowing what to do. “Ah. Ahah! Passing by, she says! My fourth family wiped from the plane, because someone passed by.”

His face fell into his cupped sleeve. The wet stains would find no foothold on his cheeks, and he did not wish his expression to be visible. Even to himself. This was a revelation he wished had not come. A truth he wished not to be. At least as a formless threat, it would have been an unanswered question. Now the person he was supposed to learn Aura control from — the only one, with the Wood Elves scattered — was someone he didn’t know he could look at without hearing the screams in his head.

“Here I had so many questions. Now I can’t recall a single one.” Ember didn’t move closer next to the blue fire. She silently watched it, lost to her own demons as Artorian spoke. “My hope had been to make a friend.”

The Ancient Elf nodded lightly. “That would have been nice… I am sorry.”

The old man wiped his face off, and frowned at her as he slumped back against the tree. “What happened to apologies being useless?”

The Elf moved her shoulders. It could have been a shrug, but it was hard to tell. Her voice was the usual monotone flat, and while it didn’t sound sad, he heard the deep undertones anyway. “A useless mention from a useless, outdated Elf.”

The old man bit the side of his lip. This was normally where he’d fight the very notion anyone could be useless, but his personal pain was getting in the way of that kind of support. “Don’t… nobody is useless.”

What was he doing? He should be enraged at this person, not building a foundation for someone to pull themselves back together! The shattered portion of his mind whispered to him, and it stung. Because it was true. Without that cornerstone, he would be someone else. From the bonfire space, his own words echoed. ‘We hold to principle’.

Artorian squeezed his hands on his knees, and drew a stern breath. Doing just that. Holding to the principle. “Nobody is useless. Not a one. I may be old, falling apart, and not be up to snuff. Yet I have things to accomplish. People to get to, people to save. There’s good to be done, and I can do it.”

The old Elf tilted her head towards him. Half-watching the old fool as he went on about something that seemed important. It was hard to tell, her eyes were glazing, and she was fading. “Teach me something.”

The words were bitter and deep. Artorian’s face twisted into a contortion of defiance, consternation, and resentment. He mocked her words in the strongest accent he could muster. Ember’s eyes brightened to life as he took one of her axioms, and twisted new meaning into it. “Lesson one. If you can’t… try anyway!”

Chapter Nine

“You and what Essence?” Ember spoke curtly. It wasn’t an admonishment, but it sure felt like one. Stagnation in harmful ways of thinking had been the end of him in the Academy. Her pose hadn’t altered from the over-the-shoulder look, but she was at least conversing now. “What do you need in order to enlighten yourself?”

Artorian regarded her quizzically as his mind fell into an existential crisis. Her question held many possible answers for an academic, that wasn’t just something you could throw-

“What do you need in order to gather Essence?” The rephrasing of her question made him feel silly. This was so difficult. He felt terrible, and this living wall of a person wasn’t making it any easier. He could understand intellectually that Ember did not hold a grudge against him, and that her cold tone wasn’t meant to be scathing.

Yet the emotional distance… he squeezed the bridge of his nose and tried to get a grip on himself. Better to just go with it; this kind of rift wasn’t something that healed in a day. “I need direct contact with starlight. Birch spread the canopy for me before, but I don’t quite know how to do that myself. I suppose I could clamber up those trees and use my dirty clothes to tie some branches apart. Even a small gap would do.”

The blue flame of the bonfire sizzled and dimmed. Ember rubbed her temple, regarding her free hand while the flames turned back to their common orange-red. They would have shifted through the full set of colors had she not gotten up and removed whatever was fueling the fire. In an instant, it stopped burning. The entire bonfire simply vanished with a sucking *Fhwop*!

She marched to him, and the ground-thumping approach made the old man tense up and press his back against the tree. Ember was an intimidating thing, and with her tendency to brush shoulders with the edges of social convention—by which he meant bulldoze through them with the subtlety of an elephant tumbling through a straw house—she was the silent person to watch out for in any bar.

Her hand tensed. This time rather than try to touch him, she merely extended her palm. This was another difficult moment for Artorian, and he blinked at the offered hand. On one side of the coin, it was a welcomed offer. A bridge to cover the pit that years of resentment had dug. On the other, that gaunt palm had cost him a family. Ember saw the hesitation, and swallowed her social anxiety, risking a few words.

“There is a saying an old warrior-mentor of mine used to have. ‘Onwards and upwards, to the stars’. Seneca-il-Yaran used it in times where he had fallen, and even though he had the strength, told me he could not get up. I did not understand at the time how such a thing could come to pass. Yet, having lived it, and seeing you on the ground… I hear his voice as clear as a chiming crystal.”

Ember hesitated a moment, her fingers curling in to momentarily retreat. “You remind me of him. He was something I am not. He was… good.”

Their hands clasped as Artorian took her wrist-to-wrist. He recognized a mind that was also just trying its best to move on. The lightweight elder was pulled up without any effort on the Mage’s part. She moved, and up he went. “I… thank you, Ember. I’m sure your mentor was a good soul for you to say that of him. I am still… incredibly torn. On you, and what you’ve done that I remember. Even if you don’t.”

He frowned, exhaling hard through the nose. “I don’t believe I’ll be able to hold it against you, but the memories will plague me. I fear at times it will make me fall where ordinarily I would not. I will keep your words in mind… he was wise, your mentor.”

Artorian nodded in recollection of the specific phrase. ‘To the stars’. As if it was some destination to be reached. A flicker twitched on the edges of Ember’s mouth. The second motion of a possible smile that didn’t see fruition. Her discomfort was skyrocketing at the sudden silence, so she killed it. “If you are dirty, we will clean. To learn the ways of Presence, you must be full of Essence. When you are, we can begin.”

Artorian looked down at his wrist when he felt her grip tighten. He tried to budge, but no amount of flexing was making any of her thin fingers budge. Artorian couldn’t gain the space of a quill tip! Heavens this woman was strong. “Did you say… Presence?”

He didn’t receive an answer. The philosopher only felt the pull of gravity change its direction to sideways as his velocity altered from standstill to an eye-squinting zoom. To the Mage, the trip may have been a brisk walk to work off some stress, but Artorian was holding onto his socks. His feet didn’t touch the ground at all during Ember’s ‘walk’. Artorian flew as she whisked by the flickering green-brown landscapes, the armored woman fully in control of this wild dash that could have really used some cushioning.

He tried to call for her to ‘slow down’, but the attempt only spurred an increase in speed as Ember tried to escape the skin-crawling discomfort of needing to speak further after that moment of awful tenderness. The flutter of his robes became so loud that it was all he could hear over the whistling of wind.

When he finally did settle feet back on land after a journey that could only be described in colors and lines, he shakily fell and half-splashed into the edge of a stream. His shoulder was sore, but that was an insignificant detail in comparison to prized stillness. “Oh, blessed ground, how I’ve missed you.”

He would have kissed the dirt if it didn’t feel so awkward with Ember watching. The rough journey had left him shaken and sickened, but the old man was starting to feel better as his passive cultivation kicked into gear. Only then did he think to look up, realizing there was no canopy above the space the stream occupied. The flow of water was too minor to be considered a river, but only just. Looking across to the other bank, Artorian blinked as he saw an equally confused red-chested bear staring right back at them.

“Erm… Ember? Bear.” The D-rank creature made of muscle, claws, and fur sliced its claws into the water, fishing out a sparkling indigo salmon the size of its forearm to show off that this was its hunting area. It didn’t take kindly to them interrupting its business lunch, and so roared at the intrusion. Rather, the bear tried to roar, but its head soundlessly slid off the rest of its raised body.

*Splop*.

The disconnected neck space didn’t bleed even a little as the entire head dropped into the water. The Fire Mage corrected him as she watched the severed component bob down the stream, body finally collapsing with a weighty *thud*.

“No.” Only after the body had dropped did Artorian notice the flashing movements of a yellow string dancing through the air. The mana-created culprit behind the decapitation re-spooled around hand, as another flick of her wrist flash-carved the creature into diced chunks. “Food.”

The longbeard snapped his gaping mouth closed, and just nodded when Ember said it so matter-of-factly. What Birch had mentioned about the rules of the forest came to mind, but he decided that, for the moment… he was going to conveniently forget he’d ever been told. “Mhm. Yes. Food. Of course. How silly of me. It even comes with a bonus fish.”

He tarried no further and got to bathing, stripped down to his skivvies. To get his mind off of things, he hummed an old tune while pondering how wonderful sleep was going to be. Oh. Right. Phantomblight. He sighed hard in the middle of his wash, and kept scrubbing himself with part of the robe. He needed something for it after all—and when you had nothing—one improvised. The memory was unsettling, but not as much as the chunks of bear meat moving about as the Ancient Elf separated edible from inedible.

“Are you planning on bathing? That armor looks like it hasn’t seen a brush in years.” A blood covered Ember popped her head out from the inside of the carcass, stopped butchering the bear, and looked at herself. Completely perplexed, Ember reacted as if she had forgotten physical bodies required maintenance.

“I…” She didn’t speak another word as she kneeled next to the stream and looked at her reflection. Her frown and despairing facial expression made the old man stop what he was doing.

“Are you alr…”

“I’m old?”

Artorian pursed his lips together in a flat line, an expression he’d picked up from Tibbins. “Isn’t that… normal?”

The Mage touched her face. Running fingers over her wrinkled, aged, gaunt cheeks. She prodded at the dark bags under her eyes and didn’t recognize the woman in the wavering reflection. Ember snappily bit the words away. “Ascended don’t care about age. Only function.”

She spoke with rote, mechanical certainty. Her actions didn’t follow the automated response that fell from her mouth. She looked genuinely distressed.

“Maybe a wash will do you some good? Could just be soot like on the armor.” The Elder’s words didn’t need repeating. The Mage tore her oven-torched armor off, and it fell to the ground with a dense *gong*. The chest plate alone was so heavy that it embedded itself halfway into the hard-packed ground just by being dropped.

Artorian didn’t believe his eyes. “What is that thing made of?”

The response was another mechanical matter of fact rebuttal. “Iridium.”

She’d said it like it was the most common metal ever, but the academic had never heard of that material before. Was it just a different name for worked bronze? Who knew? The woman had been mixing the tongue of the current age, Wood Elven, and Ancient Elven the entire time he’d been around her. He dropped his hands into the water, not even sure how to articulate what he wanted to ask.

“I have as much idea of what Iridium is as I do ‘Presence’.” He adopted a dramatic pose, as if he were performing in a play. “Do you be, Artorian? Why yes. I bee. Buzz buzz.”

“What language was that? To me it was nonsense.” Ember cocked her head at him, the last of her clothes falling away. The old man had never turned around so fast. Thoughts ranged somewhere between ‘I don’t want to see that’ and ‘I am about to die from looking’. He faced away from her, and that was just jolly. Was turning around the last thing he’d ever do? Probably. Was he going to? No~o~ope.

*Kasplash*!

Several high waves went in every direction as she cannonballed into the water. He would make no mention that the water downstream of her was dyed pitch black, as years of soot were finally released from her surface. That was another one of those ‘end up like the bear’ scenarios. Her voice reached him as she came back up from a dive, seemingly not remotely bothered by her state of undress.

“Iridium is a type of metal my people had great skill in. It is impressively heavy, and used primarily for its density. I haven’t seen it in….” She got quiet, cutting off that part of conversation. “‘Presence’ is the true name for the misunderstanding currently termed ‘Aura’. The word ‘Aura’ was originally meant to reference an external function of something Presence does. It has been muddled by time, and now Aura, Blooming Spirit, and the like, are used to reference the three parts of a person’s Presence. The art of the three has been lost.”

Artorian scrubbed, really getting the grime off his face as he puzzled out that explanation. When he added the details gleaned from the Wood Elves, he concluded Aura wasn’t merely a storage area. Rather, it doubled as a ‘field’ around a person that could be altered and manipulated. This likely meant that Aura was an area of space where one could impose an effect upon the world, and that the areas were split into three distinct sections.

Due to time and misunderstandings, these sections had all been smashed into meaning the same thing. Taken as a single entity, it was instead named ‘Presence,’ and he assumed that the whole could do far more than the individual parts. Especially if those parts were either derived from it, or functions of the main ability.

The academic considered her mention of how this application was a lost art, and addressed it. “Do you know it? How to teach and explain it?”

A grunt was his reply: the affirming kind. Ooh, goodie! “Then the art is not lost. You carry it with you, as knowledge of an age I wish had never been forgotten. Never in my time at the academy did I encounter scrolls containing the details you continue to casually espouse, and dazzle this academic with.”

Ember felt… nice. She didn’t know why, but she did. A snappy comeback followed all the same. “You seem to despise me. Why do you treat me with reverence?”

At risk of instant death, Artorian turned around and pressed his fists to his hips.

“Young Lady. I may be one opinionated, mouthy, set-in-my-ways codger with enough baggage to sink a boat. Yet never, not once, have I despised you. Just as I do not revere you. I am giving you the due you deserve for knowledge you have, and the wonder such knowledge brings. That you continue to beat yourself up like you’re on the losing end of a war is your perspective on the matter.”

“Personally, I see a lovely lady who has had it rough, could use a friend as badly as I need one, and keeps putting herself down about things one shouldn’t. For all your doing to uphold the shtick of efficiency, you seem to me as a warrior who has forgotten the other half of what being a warrior is all about.” The old man splashed some water in her direction, getting a grip on his irritation mid-vent.

“I am an Academic. While, yes, my personal losses haunt me, and they always will, they are also not something that I can do anything about. It’s done. They’re over. I live, and I have to live with it. No amount of feeling sorry for myself, whining, wishing things were otherwise, or putzing around will make it so. I’m not trying to forgive you for past transgressions because I’m the fool who just forgives people; I’m trying to forgive you because I think you abyss-well deserve it.”

He threw his robe into the water at the end of his words, heated from needing to explain himself. He of course quickly scrambled after it when it started floating away, and held it to his chest. Glancing at Ember with a look of ‘that didn’t happen. You didn’t see that’. “That wasn’t at all embarrassing.”

Ember smiled. An honest-to-goodness smile. It has been eons since someone had been that straight with her. Without fearing the retribution someone armed with the immense power of her caliber could bring. Everyone tipped on their toes around her, and then this… human just explodes all over the place. He couldn’t begin to bring her harm, and even though he knew, had seen, and had memories of what she could do… he still spoke his mind.

She despised politics. Outright could not stand the tap dancing it required. If it was to be done, it should be done directly. They could either tell her the issue to her face, or they could tell it to her fist. Somehow her fist ended up being the gentler of the options. “Do that again.”

Artorian raised an eyebrow at the request. “Be an upset, annoying old man?”

The Mage shook her head. “Speak your mind. Directly. Without filter or fancy words. Your spirit, in that moment. It blazed. I found it… beautiful.”

Artorian froze. The warmth in his cheeks did otherwise and puffed them pink. “Oh. Well now… don’t say that. You’re making me flush.”

Ember had forgotten what it was like. The feeling of having a ‘good moment’. Everything had been dumped in the void for the duration of history she could easily recall. Her apathy was strong and vast, and it ate chunks out of her well-being. The presence of blight had only made that worse. “When you are clean, eat and cultivate. You will do little else until your external Presence begins to have an effect on the world around you. I will explain Essence combinations shortly thereafter.”

Artorian perked up. “Hmm? Combinations? I believe I’m aware of a few of those already. Stacking increases effects, and mixing certain Essence types—in rather specific amounts mind you—produces entirely unique effects. It is even possible to skew the intent of the effect, based on deliberation of identity, and…”

He trailed off hard as the stare he was getting from the Mage felt like it was digging right through his body. Her irises burned orange and red, rather than their ordinary si… ah. That’s what their normal color was. Iridium. His momentary distraction didn’t save him, as he felt a terrible pain in his cultivation technique. The pain vanished as soon as he clamped hands to his chest, Ember’s gazing eyes returning back to normal. “What did…”

“I just had a look. You’re using the Bernoulli principle of containment, seventh tier binding, rotary gyroscope purification, and have the beginning of a gathering webway. A strange mixture of options. I didn’t expect to see them attempted in that combination. It functions… barely. But it clearly does.”

The Mage frowned; her shoulders pressed together in discomfort. “I do have one… question.”

Artorian just heard a lot of things he wanted full months of lecture on, but decided it best to press the immediate issue. “That is…?”

Ember nodded with grave concern. “Your gathering webway. Why is it… sticky?”

Chapter Ten

“You don’t just ask someone why they are sticky.” Uncomfortable questions should receive uncomfortable answers. Leaning forwards, Artorian made a face as if he was about to speak of the world’s most hidden secrets. He pressed the back of his hand next to his mouth, and conspiratorially whispered. “Spiders.”

Ember’s expression went from interested, to concerned, to aggrieved, to horrified. “I hate those things.”

She squirm-shuddered in the stream, causing great banks of steam to roll off her body as the water touched her. Her hands flexed opened and closed as she scrunched her nose up and went ‘ewww’ on the inside. “All crawly, and multi-legged, and just…”

*Nnnjjj*.

The old man was elated! “Me too!”

How surprising to find something in common with the overpowered Fire Mage. An intense dislike of spiders! Who knew it would make her skin crawl so much, but honestly he was pleased as punch to have gotten such a human response out of her. The stoic, stone sentinel shell was crumbling. Perhaps all she’d needed was some lively company that wasn’t all bite or bark.

He didn’t get to enjoy it much longer. Noticing his good mood, she took exception to his enjoyment of her discomfort. The stony demeanor returned in a landslide, and she was gone from the stream with a burning trail. He could slap himself for idiocy. Back to square one...

Done with washing, he worried about drying off since his robe was soaking. Artorian shouldn’t have. The moment he stepped onto the bank, a flaring field of Mana left him dry as a cork. All the water in the vicinity puffed into a hazy cloud as the heatwave flashed through. The steaming Elder dunked his head right into the stream to immediately rehydrate while the Mage watched in bemusement; her mood tempered as she settled an imaginary score.

After gulping down whole mouthfuls of spring water. Artorian spent the next hour taking mini-lessons on which parts of ‘bear’ were not only edible, but genuinely tasty when properly prepared. Since cooking was just a measure of heat over time, Ember was the picture of a chef. If it involved fire or heat of any kind, this lady was Queen.

She had encapsulated chunks of meat in overlapping bubbles of thin Mana. The inner bubble formed a vacuum seal around now seasoned steaks, while the space between the inner and outer bubble filled with spring water. Ember raised the water temperature to the boiling point, only to keep it there so that the meat would be perfect to eat at any time.

Ember had a name for it, but Artorian just didn’t understand when she kept repeating ‘Sous-Vide’ at him. All he knew was that it was delicious. He nodded at her attempts to explain fine dining, swallowing down another chunk as he did his best to feign attention. With the clothing cleaned, dried, and once again donned, Artorian saw Ember pull a fresh full outfit from her tiny satchel. She changed on the spot without a shred of thought to her decency. The old man gave her some anyway, suddenly even more interested in the piece of meat he was chewing on. He was really engrossed by thoughts of the… err. Texture. Sure.

After dinner, he got cozy against a tree. It was finally time to relax and sink into active cultivation. It got warmer a moment before he did, and he opened an eye to see a palisade of fire surrounding them. That’d keep the dark out. “Show me your process.”

His eyes opened fully at the mention, eyebrow raised. This time he noted that Ember had copied his way of sitting, facing directly in front of him when she sat. He blinked at her, not understanding what she meant. “I mean, surely, you can see as you did earlier? Refined Essence cycling?”

She shook her head ‘no’. “Not without injuring you further. The gap between us is too vast, and you have no control over the passive Aura protection you’re putting up. Anything more than a glance and I’ll burn a hole right through you. In terms you know, I am cycling Mana, not Essence. It would only hurt you, like before.”

She extended her hands towards him. “Unless you let me see.”

Was this a test? “Ah, Center connecting? That’s not terribly safe, but if you’re certain we’ll be alright… then I’ll leave it in your hands.”

Without another word, he placed his hands into hers. What a metaphor for his life that currently was, as even a slightly miscalculated nudge would make him go up like an oil-soaked torch. It was the first time he’d felt more than just his own consciousness present in his Center as he worked it. He could ‘glance’ over and notice the very distinct orange Mana fireball with a mind in it. It was no bigger than a mote, but it had a luminosity to it that was difficult to ignore. At least he was unharmed.

He’d expected the connection to be more dangerous. With someone that lacked the control this Mage had in spades, it likely would have been his death. As it was, she prevented any influx of Mana from leaking into the D-ranked cultivator’s system. Only the mote of her thoughts made it in, and Artorian was glad for it. Some innate sense of danger screamed at him that adding Mana to his Essence system would have ripped him apart like a rock crashing through rice paper. He worked through his nervousness by trying something new. Conversation always made him feel better. “Can we… speak here?”

He could swear the round mote of fire turned to face him. He’d made no physical sound, rather had done the equivalent of think out loud with Essence as a medium.

Letters of flame appeared in front of the mote. He still heard no sound, and figured she wasn’t speaking. Yet found he could ‘read’ what was written regardless of where he was floating about in his Center. A bonus perk for home field advantage, perhaps? He’d certainly take it, and noted that interactions within one’s Center were peculiar. How did something manage to be aware of everything happening in a given area, all at the same time? He shelved the question as he read the reply.

“This will work.” The letters were clear, defined, and easily legible. They disappeared a few seconds after they’d come into existence, but that was more than enough.

“Indeed, it will! I don’t quite know how this all works. I’m hoping you’ve quite the explanations for me. Bernoulli, and tiers, and… the sticky place.”

The mote of light buzzed in irritation, burning words carved into empty space. “I’ll try language you know. Your cultivation technique is a mess. Half of these mechanisms are unfinished, and are only applying part of what they’re meant to do. You’ve augmented the parts you’re missing with incomplete chunks of entirely different methods. I have no idea how you made this jumble of a webway, why you even thought you needed one, or why… why are there random hexagons in here?”

He shrugged mentally, pushing his thumbs together while mumbling. “I was… y’know. Improvements. Things were working, and I’ve been trying to make them work better.”

The mote of light stopped its irritated glowing, mulling something over. “I’m approaching this… poorly. Let me try again. What is it you are trying to do?”

Ah! Now this conversation was something he could put some real backbone into! “Keep it short.”

Crackers. Killjoy. “Well. The original cultivation technique I saw was a spiral. Lots of pull and separation power, but didn’t allow me to remove corruption. Having no other way to get rid of it, I wanted to put something together that would not only fulfill the basic function of the cultivation technique, but one that removed more non-malleable Essence that I gained. Err… corruption.”

The mote was irritated again. “Cultivation techniques don’t work that way. There is no safe method to remove corruption from a system without external purging. Such as messy techniques or Beast Core idiocy.”

Artorian frowned at her, mental hands on his hips. “Yes, there is! I’ve been doing it for years!”

The mote ceased its irritating color, instead glowing a curious gold. “Show me.”

It took a few hours, but Artorian showed her exactly what he’d been doing. He didn't know if Ember’s mote had been quiet because he’d shut her up by showing her up, or because she was silently raging and preparing to punt him across the sea when he came out of active cultivation. Fifty-fifty?

“I understand now what Hawthorn meant. Though it is not ‘sear.’ It is ‘lance’.

The old man shrugged. “I don’t grasp the difference, but I’m listening.”

Ember considered how to word her new understanding. “Searing is a reference to burning. Something is left behind, usually the substance that has been burned. Lancing is the lethal version of gently moving over something with a brush, if that brush was made of light. That which is touched has its top layer removed. Nothing is left behind. Had those beams been more intense, they could easily be mistaken for a disintegration effect. Be glad your internal starlight does not shine with such… intensity.”

The mote built in size a moment, a great quantity of scribing spilling forth. She’d understood a few things, and needed to explain. “Starlight is highly treasured by the Wood Elves for several of its rather… unique properties. Unlike most combined Essences—also named Compound Essence—starlight does not have a particular thing that it does beyond expectation. Starlight—depending on the identity infused—or maybe even which star is held in regard, does a multitude of things only well.”

The mote wandered in a straight line, bobbing up and down like a lecturing line-sergeant. “I’m sensitive to even the most minute fluctuations in ambient Essence, and have a great understanding of how your cultivation works now that I’ve seen and felt it firsthand. If your starlight has a unique property—or rather, one of the unique properties that stood out—it is that it can break something down back to a more primal or uncertain state.”

Artorian was momentarily distracted by the consideration that he did do that rather often, Essence or no. He didn’t interrupt when Ember kept blaze-scribing. “When you ‘lanced’ beams of starlight-compound Essence across your corruption containment, energy flaked off. That corruption reverted to motes of Essence that has no idea what it’s doing. Those starlight lances have taken the identity of something certain, then erased, eliminated, and obliterated the identity completely. Reducing it to something uncertain.”

The words ‘clap clap clap’ appeared in front of the mote after the tidy explanation. She must have been making that action, and the mote translated it directly.

“I now understand when you spoke of identity earlier, and feel I might have a grasp on the kind of knowledge you are working with. It also shows very clearly where you are lacking.” Ember’s mote paused as it thought of something.

“Also, I was incorrect before. This technique is perfectly fine for the ground-level purposes you need, but it could be better. As it is not solid, you have the chance to improve it before it does so. With your Essence influx, that time may come sooner than you might wish. Ordinarily, I would place solidification between three to five decades. Given what you’ve got here, and what we can do to it… I’d estimate three to five years instead.”

The mote seemed terribly pleased with itself. Like it had a project. Artorian didn’t know if he liked feeling like a project, but also considered that his choice in the matter had long been revoked. The academic was just going to have to deal with it, but who complained about improvements with the help of a veteran Mage?

“When you are able to work with your Presence well enough to hold the correct combination of starlight Essence, I will show you how lancing can be useful. Particularly with the blight this forest faces, though it may do less than you’d like against physical threats. My fire cannot destroy identity or the mind. It can only face and abate the physical threat. This is what Alder meant by you being able to ‘kill’ the phantoms. This also means that when you are ready, your Aura will be more helpful than my pyron palisade.”

Artorian felt like a kid in a candy shop, and he wanted to try all the flavors. There was just so much to do! He’d half-forgotten the threat of the phantoms was ever-present. Focused on the inner workings of his cultivation technique, he didn’t know where to start. “That sounds exciting! What’s first?”

The mote moved around in his technique, inspecting things while it was able to do so. “First is gathering Essence, and repairing this… messy hobby shop of a technique. Once that is settled, we can work on your Presence, since we’re going to need to take the long way around when it comes to body infusion. It looks like you’ve managed to do your eyes, but I don’t need to ask to know you don’t want to do that again. So, don’t. First, you have to decide which type of primary cultivation technique you want your Center to turn into. We’re limited to only two or three that would work with what you’re trying to do.”

He was jumping with joy, and the perspective in his Center bounced up and down, bubbly as it could be. “Please, do tell!”

Ember’s mote created four rough diagrams in front of it. Each diagram focused on a specific piece of the existing technique he had, taken to its finalized endpoint.

“Combining these isn’t feasible, they clash too badly once they’re taken far along their individual path. You’re fine since you’ve nicked bits and pieces, but it’s all going to fall apart if you try to build up one without sacrificing the other.”

Artorian stopped his bubbly bouncing. That was… less good news. Good thing he’d been such a dabbler?

“One, we can finalize Bernoulli’s principle of containment. This will properly trap, separate, and contain any energy you take into yourself. The completed version allows the inclusion of Mana and higher tiers of energy. This technique was used by prison wardens in my time, to capture and restrain the cultivation of another. Warden Bernoulli was known to hold several hundred full cultivation spirals from people locked in his prison-wing technique.”

The mote changed colors, highlighting another diagram. “Two. You’re currently using seventh tier binding. Looks like basket weaving backwards engineered. I don’t know the middle steps, only the final version of the binding. Unlike the containment principle, the binding is similar to medical gauze. It is meant to have particles move between them. You’re currently using this to refine out the different densities of Essence and corruption.”

“Taking the binding to its final stage will make the Bernoulli system impossible to finish, since one focuses on entrapment, and this one on measured flow. Final binding will give you exceptional control over the differences between different grades of refinement, and knowing what Essence you’re using will never be guesswork again.” The mote changed colors once more, and highlighted the third diagram.

“Three. Rotary gyroscope, the proper design with the right measurements. Your system is warped, and looks like it constantly keeps stretching. That’s horrendously bad. Focusing on the gyro is going to increase your ability to take in and refine Essence. Both the quality and speed by which you do this is going to see some vast, tangible improvements. That it’s three-dimensional is only a problem if your mind can’t handle it, but that must never have been a problem before, so I don’t see why it would be now.”

Ember’s mote changed color a final time, showing the last diagram. “Four. Optional. The webway is… it has a specific purpose. It is meant to shunt your cultivation progress in one direction at the full cost of the other. A finished webway captures all wayward Essence in the system, and redirects energy back into the main cultivation technique. It does this at the cost of preventing Essence from feeding your crucial connections.”

Artorian mentally pointed at his heart, and Ember nodded. “You call them Meridians. Instead of your Essence feeding your Meridians, you will be in dire need of constant mundane sustenance. The energy that’s supposed to help keep them nourished is instead going right back to refinement. So, you will be hungry all the time, but it comes with passive power perks.”

The mote needed to take an energizing breath, restoring its shine. “Once set up, tearing a webway down is difficult until one ascends. So, it’s generally never constructed unless you were going to make it permanent once solidification occurs. It is a choice usually made by some variant of wealthy Noble, or an individual that can afford to have their needs met without concern while they focus entirely on gaining power. In the earliest of days, a Webway is all some cultivators had. Back when the Center was considered just a storage area.”

The mote amusedly nudged Artorian’s consciousness. “Like someone who thought that Aura was only a storage area.”

While the metaphorical jab in the ribs made him mumble-grumble, the fact that Ember—stoic stone-queen of the seventy unmoving statues—had made a joke made him let it slide without another thought.

“Mhm. Funny. Very funny. I’m doing three and four. I’ll figure the food problem out, as I just can’t turn down the possibility that I might get to phantom-smiting faster.” The mote bobbed in understanding, and whipped around in his system, highlighting areas that needed immediate attention for their improvements to see progress. A three-dimensional firelight diagram harmlessly overlaid atop his existing technique, showcasing where they were headed.

“Here is what we’re going to do…”

Chapter Eleven

“Would you stand still?” A year had breezed past in what felt like the blink of an eye. Rosewood and Sequoia each put finishing touches on an unmoving human and stoic Ancient Elf, with Rosewood bickering about one fashion detail or another.

All of Rosewood’s Elves sported a beautiful gown of primrose lined with lily. They were busy, working with surprising focus and determination on a human-fitted rhododendron robe. It was their passion to craft clothing with style, and each spirit that she adorned with her creations became another runway model to show off her wonders.

Sequoia was tall, in fact, putting-Mahogany-to-absolute-shame tall. Those boys were massive, sported petunia and maple leaf outfits, and worked tirelessly as they fit together Ember’s Gingko-leaf battle dress. The vibrant hues of yellow complimented the fresh orange-red roots of Ember’s hair.

She’d cut it short since it had gotten in the way, and had been pleased as a newly minted candle when she discovered some of her locks had regained their luster. It was boyish and short, but it suited her in some fashion. This was because she was an abrasive thing that stomped through problems with the elegance of a shoulder slam, but none were willing to say that out loud.

Artorian stood still for a long moment, thinking about the children that were growing up without him to guide them. He knew that what he was doing was necessary in order to free them, but it didn’t help the non-logical heart still beating in his chest. Artorian was wrenched back to the present as he was given a direct order.

“Spin for me. Slowly this time!” Artorian smiled from ear to ear as he pirouetted in a short circle under the gaze of Rosewood’s congregation. The first time he’d done this, he’d really put some effort into the spin, and all the binding on the petals had come loose in a spectacular fashion.

Rosewood had chased his barely-dressed keister all over and through her private grove while the old man heartily laughed at the top of his lungs. This had been his undoing, and he’d been berated by the group for what felt like a full day. If Rosewood was good at anything aside from designing clothing, it was complaining.

In comparison, Sequoia had all the patience of undisturbed water. Ember and Sequoia were two peas in a pod. They grunted at one another, barely spoke, and just worked while exchanging facial expressions. When they glanced at Artorian and the situation he was in, their faces became flat and expressionless. They weren’t getting involved with that, or touching it with a ten-foot branch. The old man gave the Elves professional grief; if there was something that could have gone awry with the clothing, Artorian had ‘discovered’ it.

A minor comment to Rosewood later, and she was all sorts of flustered. Just to mute his infectious giggling, she had to use two of her Elven bodies to keep the old man’s mouth clamped shut while she edited his outfit. Unfortunately for Artorian, hours of this had grated Ember’s nerves, and the general temperature of the rough vicinity had been steadily building. The teasing had been amusing in the beginning, now it was happening just to make Rosewood rip the moss out of her head.

Sequoia—being an intelligent set of Wood Elves—said nothing. It was by far the healthiest option. Had he not needed to be involved, all five of his Elves would have faded into the greenery at the start. They were a strong proponent of ‘nope’ when it was possible to have a serving.

Ember’s surroundings started to spontaneously catch fire, and she cleared her throat at the old man. Either the grunt, or the literal fire she’d lit under his rear, must have done it. He found more suitable behavior in a hurry.

“Hmmm. Hmmm. Wha~at?” His query was filled with such faux-sweetness that you could stuff a pastry. The Mage was having none of it, and snapped his attention back to something fruitful.

“You know abyss-well what.” Artorian’s hands nearly moved up to signal defeat, but the upset hisses from Rosewood made him cease mid-budge. They had been going around to hometrees and homegroves as the seasons passed, meeting and greeting the various groups of Wood Elves. It was interesting learning their peculiarities. For being a species with a single name, each group was incredibly diverse. Even within the same grouping of three to four cherry blossom groves, distinct personality differences sprouted. There were many similarities, but nothing was an exact duplicate.

In meeting many of the grove’s inhabitants, they’d gotten an update on the blight’s movements and patterns, usually receiving grim news. There was an intelligence in the phantoms that had made it extraordinarily difficult for Ember to be helpful. If she left Artorian to wall off a grove, they mobbed him with intent to fully overwhelm. That death cloud even waited for her to be well out of emergency reach before swallowing the landscape, making a beeline for him.

So far, they’d gotten out of it with only minor injuries. Unlike a normal battle where some of the damage was psychological, but most of it physical… this harm was all mental. That abyss-blight somehow knew the threat the old man posed, and they wanted it taken out as soon as possible. It had made life more difficult for the Elves and Artorian by staying far ahead of their movements, attempting to devour groves they were nowhere near since Ember couldn’t just zip off at Mage-speed to deal with it.

The forest was vast. Easily a hundred square leagues vast. A year’s travel had barely taken them all the way to the northern edge of the forest, where snowfall was a common sight. Luckily, Ember made concepts such as ‘cold’ more of an inconvenient truth, which didn’t remain as such if she so much as exhaled. Her very Presence warmed a whole region. Still, the journey north had been taxing, and the respite they’d found in Sequoia's grove had been a welcome affair. Artorian had quickly been in the middle of being accosted by a moment of Rosewood’s designer ‘inspiration’. Translation: ‘please help me, she won’t leave me alone’.

The cold front coming through was slapped down by Ember’s spacious external Aura, sent back to its mother with a sore cheek and icicle-shaped tears.

“How do you keep doing that?” Artorian was looking between Ember and the far distance where wind was spinning; pushing up and away from the heat differential. A sharp pulse-teal glow ringed about his irises as he looked with air Essence-enhanced sight, keeping track of the wind patterns. “It’s all the way out there. Your Aura reaches that far?”

Ember flicked her finger in the direction he was looking, and the windy doldrums of motion crashed into one another for miles. Until eventually the wind slash she’d flicked through the air escaped his sight completely. From the after effects to the surroundings, he could tell it still kept going. “About there is the edge.”

The old man grumbled. “The edge I still can’t see.”

Ember’s smirk brought joy to both of them. “One day, you will.”

The ‘inspired’ grumbles continued, and he couldn’t move while Rosewood was detailing. This was a good metaphorical example of being caught between a rock and a hard place. “No, really, I must know. I have at best managed to feel my external Aura as a sort of shell that coats my skin. Like a warm blanket in wintertime. The generalized cocoon of ‘me’ that determines what Essence I give back to the world. The amount I add in alters the Aura a little; it fattens it. It doesn’t extend the space yours does.”

He received an odd look from Sequoia, who finally spoke. The voice was not what any of them had expected. A high-pitched group of chipmunks squeaked up in a response. The sounds came from the bodies of the Elves, but even Ember glanced around unmoving just to see if she wasn’t mistaken. “Easy answer, Starlight Spirit. The Blooming Spirit is how much space you believe you occupy. It can be extended wide, or retracted to the area of a fingertip. For some creatures this is meant to oppress, as a Royal might. It doesn’t necessitate filling the space physically, as one can do the opposite and obfuscate their Presence entirely.”

Some of the tall Elves adjusted Ember’s sleeves, who was shocked silent in disbelief at the high-pitched voices. “The Fire Soul spreads her sense of self out wide and thin, so she may detect particles of Blight and discern their movement. In a sense, her consciousness occupies a space greater than her body. This is what we Wood Elves do all the time, with the limitation that we are required to be in a body of appropriate size when we do. Unlike the Fire Soul’s technique, we cannot ‘spread ourselves thin,’ as she does.”

A moment of silence passed, and the Sequoia community decided that it would be for the best if they never opened their mouths again while in these forms. The embarrassment was palpable.

“Is…” Artorian turned his head to look at Ember. “Is that why you’re so distant all the time, and barely present in the moment? You nod off at times, yet you’re awake. You’re present, yet not. That seems incredibly dangerous to do against a foe that saps the mind.”

The Mage didn’t seem bothered, and answered with all the difficulty of sipping afternoon tea. “In part, yes. That is one of the reasons I am distant. I am not threatened by the blight as another may be. I vastly outrank it. Would you bite into lava simply because it was distracted?”

His head shake was answer enough. “Unlike the wood, I do not leave my body. I merely spread out my full Presence and fill it with my consciousness. I choose not to oppress, and allow for other minds to exist freely within the space I occupy. Anywhere my space is, I can be at a moment’s notice, both in mind and power. I track heat signatures, temperature differentials, and more. I cannot be hidden from, even if someone’s Law specifically intended the purpose. My Law of flame has been honed to the bleeding edge. It will not falter even to one that rests a few tiers higher.”

Rosewood nudged Artorian’s arm. “You’re all done. Take some steps for me.”

Doing as he was told, he put some drama in the steps and walked to a tree and back as if on a catwalk. Rosewood was leery and tapped her lips with at least three of her Elves. Displeased in some way. Oh no… that meant… she wasn’t done? He quickly got his mind off that thought and got to questioning the trove of knowledge. “Does this have anything to do with being an Ascended?”

Ember’s catwalk was next. It was a sight. Her natural elven grace completely belied centuries of practice in advanced movement. She killed the expo, adding her own spotlight from the canopy as she enhanced the brightness. Artorian hadn’t known that under that stoic veneer there was a woman who could dish out some flair. He’d been around a year. How did he only just now notice this? Him, the great self-proclaimed noticer.

Ah well. He’d not spoil her moment. When she returned, Ember spread her arms to let Sequoia make further, silent adjustments. “I was certain I had told you this. Everything is for the purpose of becoming an Ascended. The truth hiding behind all the veneer and political lies, misinformation and popular chitter-chatter is one considered the ‘noblest pursuit’. I’ve told you this path was taken for the eradication of war, but that was merely my reason for doing so. The original purpose, as my shamans once attempted to tell me, is one of universal balance.”

Artorian perked up. If he didn’t have to once again stand still under the many folding and clothing-altering hands of a very done-with-his-antics group of Elves. He would have been in her face to pry out answers. She noticed. “You’re doing that ‘academic’ thing again.”

He smiled at her quip, not in the least bit abated. “I am indeed! Please tell me in detail, from the beginning if possible!”

That was a little difficult. There were many ‘beginnings’ that would qualify, and not knowing which would sate the ever knowledge-hungry scholar, Ember picked a random spot of lore. All his questions had really beaten her memory back into shape, as the codger just didn’t forget when a question had been left unanswered. He’d slide in next to you during the morning fire and repeat the same thing from the day before as if he’d never asked it at all.

Woe was her day if she gave a conflicting answer to something he’d heard before. She was not good at this, but what was she going to do? Abandon her task? Grunting darkly, she got on with it.

“When the world was young, in the days of my great forebears, there were things for which we had no words. Only ideas. While words could give form and shape to the ideas, it lacked in substance. During these days, Ascension was discovered by early adopters of what is now known as cultivation. They began as outcasts, shunned for altering the manner of their being with the power of the lands. They ceased to be the creatures they were as they took in this energy, replacing themselves with it to a point where their survival depended upon energy mere sustenance could not supply.”

Sequoia provided Ember some water to drink. While she didn’t need it, she had a drink just to not be rude today. Also, it’s possible she had needed it after all, and wasn’t about to admit that.

“When the great conflict came, these outcasts turned the tides so one-sidedly that they were re-invited into the various cultures. No more were they nameless and shunned for their frightening practices. From that point, ‘cultivators’ have been an inescapable truth of existence. They have gone by many names and titles, but the idea of it remained the same. It was only when the first few Ascended that new understanding came to light.

“The earliest attempts at what was called ‘the climb’ only resulted in deaths. The cultivators drained themselves internally to achieve a task none understood, and for the longest time could not accomplish. Others attempted to skip the climb and directly become the soul of an idea, but those results were… gruesome and gory.”

Since she had the water, she took another drink. “The first recorded Ascended was Parubin, Scion of Air. His body was remade in an endless storm of ‘greater energy’. From there began the Golden Age. Knowledge of ‘air’ was suddenly far easier to grasp by nearly all. It was as if the world itself had gained an understanding of the concept, and shared it in turn. As the stars turned over in the sky uncountable times, more and more of these ideas and concepts were solidified as a cultivator ‘Ascended’ to yet another idea. The more complicated, esoteric, and difficult to grasp the concept was, the ‘higher’ the requisite climb. In the event your personal energies didn’t line up with the concept, it wasn’t available to you at all.”

She finished the water, and gave the bowl back to Sequoia for more. She was incredibly thirsty and didn’t quite know why. Artorian remained calm and patient. He didn’t dare to interrupt this beauty of a lecture. Something Rosewood vastly appreciated since it also stopped him from moving.

“Eventually the climb became known as ‘The Tower’, based on how it spanned the space it occupied. Each floor of The Tower was catalogued as a higher ‘tier’. The nodes of the concepts inhabiting each floor became considered the fixed rules of the universe, and so each node became known as a Law. Common knowledge spread that the higher ‘tier’ of a Law an ascended had, the more powerful that Ascended was. This is only… partially true. Successfully binding oneself to a concept in The Tower completes the process of what makes one an ‘Ascended’.

“Doing so completely reforms the individual with a type of energy that ‘Essence’ cannot compete with in raw might. It is the mortar between the bricks of the universe, and referred to as ‘Mana’. It is a poor acronym of mercurial apex-neutral asset and—like a bad joke—it stuck. Not much better than the initial names for Essence. That started as ‘the stuff of the thing’, followed by ‘the stuff of everything’, finalized by ‘the Essence of the thing’ and ‘let’s call it Essence and stop arguing before a matron stomps out the cookery with a rolling pin and hits you’.”

Ember downed the entire bowl, handing it back to Sequoia again for more as she began to sweat. Artorian had never seen her sweat before. What was she…? The history lesson continued. “The entire build up we are currently doing, for you, may be leaps and bounds of improvements in your ability. When finished, the time comes for you to attempt Ascension. Then, you will need to climb The Tower and assert yourself to bind with a suitable concept. I know of none who have become the soul of a Law without this intermediary. Those without requisite Essence also could not breach the fifth tier alone.”

She regarded him sternly. “I warn you, Artorian. Breaching the fifth tier requires another cultivator to provide you with Essence to climb while you climb, or you will not make it. Above the tenth requires an additional two, and every five levels thereafter another two C-rankers more. Essence deprivation is the most common cause of climb-failure. Knowing you as I do, I expect you to try something… ridiculous. The amount of Essence a cultivator can carry in human ‘C-ranks’ is insufficient to push past the fourth tier. This is all given my calculations from the last time I was in a position to check. That was a long time ago, so do math accordingly.”

She was handed a piece of spare woven-lentil cloth to wipe her forehead off. Ember was really getting puffy as night fell. “The preparation of an Ascended usually follows the same pattern. People of the last few ages have added their own variations, but no method is ‘the one true method’. It begins with awareness of Essence, which can happen either on its own or through guidance. Most skip this step when an Essence-refinement technique is grown, built, or implanted within them.”

Ember hooked the towel against the back of her neck. She wasn’t feeling the best. “The other way around, is something like the case of Wood Elves. They place themselves into an existing refinement technique. Then it is the long process of gathering and refining enough Essence to go through the painstaking and labor-intensive process of replacing oneself with the gathered, refined power.

“Usually, one solidifies their cultivator Core to pearlescence before completion. Rather than a creature of flesh, you will become a creature of energy. Flesh will remain only because your imprint on the universe demands it to be so. It is for this same reason beasts remain beasts, even as they grow in might.” Ember quivered and fell into waiting Elven hands. The act brought them all to their senses, and they scanned the area for threats. It was nightfall, so…

“It’s late noon at best. Sun should be out.” Artorian made the snappy comment, and they all huddled up. A dollop of snow gently touched his nose.

“That’s odd. Wasn’t Ember’s Presence nullifying the cold?” A windchill tore through his spring-collection clothes, and the shiver made him tense. It no longer felt warm in the grove, and more flakes of snow fell all around them as Ember stopped making sound altogether.

“So. Many. Words.” The throaty tone bubbled like an open sewer and spoke from a place the group couldn’t discern. Mostly because the words happened directly in their heads. The tone was dark, malicious, and full of smiling hunger.

“Let’s have a mid-lecture snack.”

Chapter Twelve

“Sequoia, you tall, delicious thing. How are you?” One of Sequoia’s Elves dropped dead on the spot while the others cringed and clutched their heads. A scream went through their collective consciousness, but it went unheard. Physically they’d been unable to make the outcry.

A gasp brought them to the real as they looked at Rosewood with mutual terror. “Run, it’s in my grove! R…”

Another of Sequoia’s Elves dropped to the ground just as the cracking of a tree reached them. The subsequent calamitous *thud* of it falling attacked their ears.

“Scrumptious is how you are… if you were wondering.” This was new. This voice was nothing like the discordant, uncoordinated masses and blobs of malicious blight he’d encountered so far. This deeper darkness was ever present—it didn’t just blot some rays of his sun, it blotted the whole celestial sky. “Oh, how I’ve waited for that firecracker to be so distracted. I nearly had that candle a few times, but ah… her laconic nature. How it thwarted me. I must truly thank you for this opportunity to… talk.”

Artorian bit his lower lip. It may have been a year but he still didn’t have the power to do more than hold off a mindless blight. This intelligent one that didn’t even have a noticeable source… he had been firmly outplayed.

“We have nothing to speak of… you… thing.”

An affronted gasp rang through his head. “We do not? How truly unfortunate. Onto consuming, then. I shall find succor therein.”

Sequoia squealed as a third and fourth body dropped. The remaining Elf had heavy, ugly tears run down his cheeks. Shivering as he wordlessly mouthed ‘it’s touching me’.

“Wait! What… why? Why this? Why any of this?” Even outmatched, the old man was trying hard to find some sort of foothold. He couldn’t debate something like this, and he didn’t understand what it might want. Aside to have a distraction during its meal as Sequoia helplessly fell to his knees. The caliginous presence regarded a frozen Rosewood and trying-to-keep-it-together Artorian.

“Why, for sating. Why else? No, the conversation I wish to have is that of your… departure. How such an act might save a grove of your choosing. I can’t be stopped, but I can find it within me to be… persuaded… to not be a complete glutton.”

Artorian swallowed hard, his hands forming fists as he tried to think of a way out of this. He was already improvise-altering the compositional content of his Aura, even if he had no confidence to edit the structure like his mentor could. Drat! How had it gotten Ember? There must have been something they had overlooked. “Oh, you overlooked something alright! Such surging surface thoughts. If you’d hoped I’d tell you, you’re mightily mistaken. Now, about your departure. Mmmmmm… how about…”

Sequoia screamed, his left arm tearing and snapping in a variety of places as it twisted in on itself. The Elf was breathing heavily. Unable to escape the body it currently inhabited, its grove under dire threat as mind and cultivation were consumed. “Immediately.”

Artorian closed his eyes a moment, feeling they were wet before looking to see a fallen, dull-grey body in the shape of Ember. She really had no spark in her when she wasn’t awake. Her form appeared as ash after a fire, a body outlined in the brittle material. Surely, she wasn’t defeated? Merely napping? Of course. Yes. Just napping. He locked eyes with the Elf in agony.

“Sequoia… my poor boy.” Sequoia regarded him blearily, gritting his teeth with all he had. “Make the choice.”

The shaking Elf silently allowed tears to flow. His cracked expression a pained mixture of fear, and wrath. Defiant to the end, and without trying to think, Sequoia’s eyes glimmered in a moment of decisive clarity. He mouthed: ‘Lance me’.

“Ohohoho! None of that! I won’t be spoken down to by a snack. You… argh!” Sequoia’s vision went hazy. As the last light in his grove perished by blight, a reflection in Sequoia’s eyes saw the last act it had so desperately desired.

A piece of payback against this formless misery that had haunted him since his days as a sapling. The edges of Sequoia’s mouth barely managed to lift when they saw a lance of starlight erupt in Artorian’s grip, his form hurling forwards. With a powerful Essence-accelerated jump and spartan spear thrust, the Aura-formed weapon bore down and freed him. That is, freed him from this life, as the blade pierced his skull.

Artorian fulfilled the spirit’s dying wish as he stepped into the role that had been requested of him. It had been an effort he’d considered himself unable to do. The intricate and intrinsic detail work he thought required was not something he’d been able to practice. He didn’t know if he could, only that he should.

Lesson one. Try anyway.

As Ember had done with the manifested broadsword. So had Artorian copied her form and shaped the Essence in the being of a familiar warglaive, one of which he knew every detail. It was a weapon he had spent a decade sharpening, using, honing, and in the end, abandoning when it fractured for the final time. He felt naked and exposed as his external Aura did what he’d told himself he could not do. It was a fool that lied to himself, and a great fool he indeed was.

His Presence was shaped in the form he saw himself. One of ages past. Something Ember still saw herself as to this day. A weapon of war. While the lance did… well… nothing to the physical form of the Elf, the identity-imbued light frame did what Ember had told him starlight could do.

Erase.

It hadn’t even been a gamble. Even if there had been no damage to the blight-creature tearing away the inside of Sequoia’s mind, he would have sacrificed his defenses to launch this strike. With the blight thing’s mind present in the Elven Core tree as it consumed Sequoia, it was vulnerable. As the last tree fell, a popping implosion could be heard in the distance. The sound was followed by a bubbly, physical screech that sounded eerily similar to thousands of metal saw plates careening into one another.

“Remember…” The voice throatily spoke with significantly less strength and cohesion. “I… will… remember.”

The fake night broke apart alongside the disappearing phantom voice.

Rays of sunlight pierced right back through the liberated landscape, coming to rest on the bodies of the fallen. Artorian’s lance evaporated moments after the strike, and all the Auric shaping globbed back around him as he lost the willpower to continue upholding the mental image of the weapon.

An identity erasing weapon. It wasn’t perfect, and the entire latter half of the hilt had been a wispy ghost of the true thing. Still, it was a proof of concept. Proof that he could do the thing! He hurriedly fell to his knees next to Ember, almost afraid to touch her as his palms brushed across her shoulder. He was so afraid she would cave inwards like a pile of hollow ash, but to his heavy and deep relief… she stirred.

Ember’s color returned as her Mana-made body woke, the mind asserting itself and invigorating ‘the correct way to be’. She sat up, sneering at something in the distance. “I have a killer headache, and I hate the cold. How am I cold?”

With a wave of her hand, nothing happened as she groaned and let her forehead fall into her palm. “Son of a spark…”

The academic had heard many insults in his day. That was a new one, was everything about fire for her? Ember continued grumbling. “I feel like a fat salamander just laid on my consciousness, and it smothered me slowly.”

Artorian pulled her thin arm around his neck, and found that attempting to pull Ember to her feet had been a useless effort. He couldn’t budge her an inch. Abyss if he was going to die from making a comment on that subject. He took a lesson from… ah. Erm. He kept his mouth shut, let her arm go, and joined Rosewood in taking care of the casualties.

Ember got herself up, which is how she wanted it. She was furious. “What did I miss?”

Rosewood wiped a tear off her cheek, taking a deep breath before: “The blight ate… It ate Sequoia. Then…”

Artorian held the Wood Elf that was breaking cohesion with the rest of her unit and half-embraced her, applying therapy pats on the back. The Elf buried itself into the human’s side and sobbed as the old man picked up where she’d left off. “It gave me an ‘offer’. An ultimatum, in truth. It ordered me to leave, and it was eating Sequoia while it made its demands.”

He tapped the side of his head to explain it wasn’t a physical conversation. “So, I asked the lad to make the final call. What did he want to do with the last vestiges of his life? Did he want me to leave and keep him alive, or should I put everything against this foe no matter the cost to him?”

The old warrior closed his eyes. Inhaling as he recounted that last, decisive glimmer. “He told me to fight. To get my undecided butt in the war. He told me to lance him… I don’t even think he knew what he was asking, aside from making his mind go blank so he didn’t suffer.”

Artorian shook his head at the thought of the Elven’s contorted face. “He was… trapped in that body. So, I did the thing you told me not to do, and I copied you. I pulled the ideas together and slapped my whole being into it, and then… there it was. In my hand. The lance. I leapt, and split the boy’s unseen skull. In the distance the blight roared, and then with significantly less intelligence… it confirmed that I have been added to the menu.”

He continued soothing Rosewood as best he could while Ember took the debriefing in stride. She kneaded her temples with her thumbs, still grumbling. “I understand. I greatly dislike how it managed to get me. It completely disrupted my concentration, and my protections fell like a burned-out building. I’m… I’m so tired.”

She sat down a moment and held her head, eyes locked on the fallen group of Wood Elves. Her voice cracked as she tried not to join Rosewood’s emotional state. “I’m… sorry.”

“Go.” Rosewood released the human, her tears freezing and adding to the heavy snowfall. “Go. I must tend to the fallen.”

She began to gather up Sequoia's deadwood forms, and spoke to the Ancient and the human no further. Ember squeezed Artorian’s shoulders, which made him start walking. They parted without any further words; not even a silent goodbye was noted as they gave Rosewood her wish, leaving her with the remains of her best friend. They walked in silence until they were long out of sight, entering another region and type of trees that weren’t slowly dying like all the sequoias were.

When the snow stopped reaching them, dissolving above their heads, Artorian lifted a palm. He noticed that the effect was spreading around them in a growing radius as they went. The old man had a look at the Mage. Ember was returning to proper colors, and the deep yellow attire they had been trying on was… actually very pretty. Ginkgo leaves provided sharp contrast for her natural coloring. He inspected his own pink rhododendron, and found that he had no complaints. Not that he would prod Rosewood to make changes even if he found flaws. Not after that loss. While this wasn’t the warmest garment, it sure was comfortable… and he looked pretty.

Artorian pulled his satchel around to his hip, popping it open and pulling a flank-sized chunk of jerky free. There was nothing else to do, so he was going to eat his worries away. This meant that he had a full mouth when Ember asked him a question. “You created a shaped Aura and filled it with intent?”

Artorian choked on his snack and hit himself on the chest, spitting it out rather than getting the food stuck in his throat. Choking was not a pleasant way to go, though compared to recent experiences, it would have been positively delightful. “Mmm. Yes. A little on the spot, but I applied the theorems you’ve been explaining. I didn’t think it was going to strip the entirety of my external Aura, but it did. I actually don’t think I was fully present in the moment either… I seem to remember things from the perspective of the spearpoint.”

A soft hand harmlessly slapped him across the back of the head. “Don’t do that again. You’re not suited for it.”

He rubbed the back of his head, and shrugged, “I will do it if I have to. It’s not like I had better options. The ranged options I learned from Cherry and Spruce would have drained all the Essence out of me, and I would have had no chance to retrieve it. If anything, I believe I should be practicing the skill.”

Ember stared him down. “No.”

Artorian threw his arms up. “Why!”

The stare didn’t end, but the walking pace had. “It will consume you. Becoming the weapon is something a Blade of War does only after they have understood the principles of the self. There is a chance to lose yourself entirely as you form the weapon. This is vastly dangerous, and ‘winking out’ was a common problem for Blades of War even in my day.”

She was stalwart. “You become that weapon, and if you can’t pull yourself back, then when the weapon winks out from concentration loss… then so do you. The technique is great for conservation of energy, but it requires a century of careful preparation. We’re not focusing on your external Aura first because it can reform into a weapon, we are focusing on it because external Aura is exempt from needing techniques or practical skills to be useful. It already has the form of a weapon.”

She stomped off, making a show of it rather than zipping away at the Mage-speed she easily had at her disposal. She was frustrated, but wasn’t about to leave him. Not after the loss of an entire grove.

Artorian kneaded the back of his head, seemingly unaware of how on-edge she was feeling. “But it’s just… how can an external Aura be a weapon without being reshaped into…”

“Like this!” Ember shouted the words at him over her shoulder as she lost control of her roiling emotions. Trees occupying a conical area in front of her mouth conflagrated, cracked, fell over, and splintered as they were converted into ash. The wood burned to nothing before it ever hit the ground, and everything in her vicinity had its moisture sapped. Any tree, undergrowth, or similar material began to flake and turn to sooty dust as she became the bonfire.

Her external Aura was pulled tight around her body, and her Mana fueled the power of the blaze. Hot, cyan-white flame seared the landscape without ever touching it. She devastated the surroundings as her rage built, and only when she’d gotten a hold of herself did the volcanic pyroclasm of her being sizzle and die out.

Oh. Oh no. Her eyes went wide, and she swayed on the spot. She’d lost control. Artorian must have been vaporized. Panic struck her as she turned on her heel and saw the old human standing there with both his hands raised, dumbstruck and with his mouth wide open. A thin red glow wobbled in a mist before him, a huge chunk of released Auric fire Essence sticking close to his skin. He wasn’t unharmed, but he was alive, and mumbling something.

“Ar… Artorian! Are you alright?” Artorian collapsed to his knees, still wide-eyed with his arms outstretched. His new clothes were in a sorry state, and he had a wicked sunburn with horribly chapped lips.

Ember pressed her hands to his face and poured Mana into her desires. She didn’t use this particular configuration on others, and it was going to burn. Specifically, it was going to feel like a burn. As the effect rushed over Artorian, his face cleared up while healthy new skin grew. The damaged top layer flaked off as he took a breath, and he clung to her wrists as she breathed new life into his scorched being. He blinked a few moments later, wordlessly getting up when she let go. Without thought, he pulled free his waterskin, and downed the entire thing without pause. “Ahhh.”

“Artorian?”

“So…” He nodded, stowing the completely drained water source as he brushed himself clean. Ember looked him all over, concerned he was about to mention an injury she’d missed. “Like rejects like.”

She frowned. Was he talking about basic Essence interactions? Everyone knew tha… oh. If they’d been taught, they knew. Artorian had just figured out something she’d thought had been basic knowledge all this time, and he’d said it with the emphasis of a profound discovery. At least he was uninjured. Shouldn’t he be furious?

“Fire can heal, it seems? Burned like Dwarven brandy all the way down.”

Ember sighed, put her hands into her hair, and sat on a charred lump of coal that used to be a proud tree trunk. “Any Essence can create any effect, given you know how. The… side effects differ depending on which Essence is used. Mana is no different in that regard, except that it is skewed to the idea it is latched to at an extreme. I can heal, I just… didn’t think I could.”

Ember regarded her own hands in wonder. She’d never done that before to someone else… she was a weapon of war. A killer. An ender of lives. She did not linger in the medical tents or do more than light pyres for the fallen. This was a new application, and something in her spirit unfurled its wings. She could practically hear the sounds of a metal birdcage snapping apart with the new freedom she had found. Had… had he done that on purpose?

Chapter Thirteen

A lingering winter season later, Ember and Artorian crossed into the next grove’s threshold. Baobab enthusiastically waved at them. The stoic Mage seemed happy to see this Wood Elf, and the pace of her step increased. It made the old man groan since travel was nothing but walking. His hand had been pressing against his hip for the last week. Could they just sit now?

Ember called out when she was greeted by a familiar face. “You fire-resistant tart, how have you been?”.

Baobab laughed strong and deep as she approached, slapping the Mage on the shoulder for effect. “Better than you, you sight for sore eyes. Give me a hug, I’ll even pretend it sizzled.”

The Elf didn’t know what to do when Ember actually went in for a hug. Sure, her arms had been wide open in invitation, but her questioning gaze weighed on Artorian. She wordlessly asked ‘what the abyss?’ when it actually happened. Ember had never done this in the several decades Baobab had known the Mage.

Artorian shrugged, his clothes replaced by a poorly shaped bearskin that covered what it needed to. “She’s trying new things. Let it happen.”

“O… Olive! Come look at this!” Another Elf sprinted from the nearby canopy opening to where the group had gathered, and stopped in his tracks to stare in stunned silence. Olive looked the most human of any Wood Elf Artorian had seen. The man had real hair, even if it appeared slicked back. Given how easily his fingers went through it when he held his head at the sight, Artorian guessed it was rather oily.

“Nhoo.”

“Si!”

“Nhoo…”

“Si!”

“Nhoo. No. I am dreaming. I am having the strange dreams again.”

Ember let Baobab go, and nudged her with a fist. It was harmless, but Baobab moved a few inches regardless as she put up her dukes. She playfully winked at the Mage and pressed her knuckles to the Mage’s cheek, making the sound effect. “Phaaf!”

The Fire Soul chuckled, and Artorian raised his eyebrows at the reaction. Just a sandstorm of new experiences, this forest. Olive kept his hands in his, well... Olive colored hair. Pretty straightforward, that one. He needed a moment, but waved both his hands in front of his face and just shook off the shock. “Later, later. Figure this out later. You! I have made the meals. Come, come!”

Ember slung her arm around Baobab and went along for the ride, whispering as they moved to catch up. “Still just you?”

Baobab affirmed the guess with repeated nods. “Still just me and Olive. Also, still only one of Olive. We’re just not that popular to join. The saplings get free choice when they hit adulthood, and you know who the popular votes are.”

Artorian made an offhand guess as he followed them. “Oak?”

The groan from Baobab and Olive was so loud and unchecked at the mention, that both of them shared a cringe. Baobab pulled a face, “Please don’t mention that… awful name while you are in my grove. Even if you’re correct.”

The old man pressed no further, and followed his nose more than the people. He’d caught the scent of food, and it smelled delicious. Better than fried, charred, or other methods of preparation that involved meat. He was in a forest with Elves, where had the abyssal vegetables been? He sat down with Olive, and asked a question that came to mind. “Isn’t Ember breaking the rules of the forest by killing live animals for food?”

Olive flatly regarded the human. “We’re going to do what about that, exactly?”

The matter was considered, and dropped. “Fair point. Silly question. Ember’s gonna be Ember.”

Olive agreed with a nod, and served the human food as Artorian shoveled crudité into his mouth. Vegetables, and fresh fruits! Oh goodness it was so good! He was eating with such vigor that he didn’t even notice the other two join them. Baobab stared at him for a few minutes before even saying anything, captured by the view. “How is he eating so much?”

Ember laughed and slapped the table. “Someone decided to ‘honeycomb’ his entire webway, locking off his Center’s ability to feed his Meridians properly. Now he has to get all his nutrients the old-fashioned way, and he need lots of them. Makes me wonder how he keeps so thin.”

She prodded a finger into his side, but after a small jump and shuffling away an inch, the eating just continued. Artorian was famished. Olive spoke over the crunching noises of the human eating him out of house and grove. “We heard… about Sequoia. Terrible thing. An update: The blight has been avoiding groves in your path, so you should have a while?”

Ember nodded; she’d figured as much. “I’m… glad to be here. This was always one of my favorite groves.”

Baobab and Olive shared a surprised look. “You’ve never told us that.”

The soup-slurping human dabbed his mouth clean with the edge of his bearskin, and repeated himself after swallowing his current mouthful. “She’s trying new things.”

Ember mumble-grumbled, poking him harder at the embarrassment. The sound he made was animalistic, and he was on the ground after the yelp, firmly holding his side with a groan as she chided him. “You big baby.”

The old man huffed in irritation, and clambered back to his spot. “Hothead.”

Ember wasn’t playing this game. “Old complainer that would be making actual progress if he wasn’t trying ‘little projects’ all the time.”

Artorian tried to bite back his words that popped into his mind, but they came out anyway. “Blind family-killing zealot.”

Ember stood up and stomped away through her seat. Pieces of stone launched outwards as the pulverized granite bench exploded into a cloud of stone dust. Unlike the old man, she was successfully biting back power and commentary even as it rained down gravel. Both the tree spirits scrambled to get up. Olive pulled Artorian away while Baobab took off in a full run after her friend. “Emby. Emby!”

Baobab caught up after half an hour, and that was while using forest-movement tricks. Why did Mages have to be so blazing fast? The Wood Elf found Ember face-down and holding her knees, crumpled against a tree in misery. She sat down next to the Fire Soul and wrapped her arms around Ember’s neck, simply holding her. The burning indent Ember was making in the tree left a significantly singed outline behind. Bao wasn’t afraid to get burned, which would have been a sizable concern for most others.

“Talk to me…” Ember made a weak sound. It didn’t sound like speech. “Don’t make me do the thing. You know I will.”

Another muffled sound escaped Ember, and Bao narrowed her eyes. She shuffled around, kneeled, and pressed their foreheads together. <Emby, you absolute brat!>

The Mage snapped her eyes open as Bao yelled right into Ember’s mind. This was a specialty of hers. It needed physical connection, but the invasion still sent a burning shrill up Ember’s spine as the heat in their vicinity spiked.

After all, she was C-ranked, and Ember was a Mage. Bao may have been fine, but a few blinks later and Ember realized she’d once again turned her surroundings into a charred wasteland. Bao brushed some excess flame from her shoulder. There were benefits to being fireproof with some well-placed Essence. “Talk to me.”

Ember held the Wood Elf’s hands in her own to squeeze. “I thought… I thought we were over it. I thought it was the end of it… I can’t… I just can’t handle these reminders of my constant failures. I can’t, Bibi, I just can’t. The blight whispers it to me anytime I try to sleep. Anytime I rest my eyes. It’s there. Reminding me. I can’t deal with it in my waking moments as well.”

Baobab pulled Ember closer to hold, rubbing the back of her head like the supportive mother she was. “We all fail, Emby. Then we get back up.”

The Mage didn’t have a response, simply resting her head against Bibi as she was held. “I’m so tired… Mages aren’t supposed to need sleep.”

The Elf nodded and pressed her neck onto Ember’s face to obscure her vision. “Take a nap. It’s safe. I’ll be here with my mind shield. Take a nap.”

She didn’t get a response from Ember, and didn’t need one. The Fire Soul had passed her limit, and passed out. Sighing in quasi-relief, Baobab touched foreheads with her friend. Bibi extended the same protection she used to keep the blight’s mental sting away from herself. A moment later, the mental waves they made in the forest ceased rippling.

The blight swelled. It combined, converged, wailed, and swarmed to the area Artorian occupied. With the complete lack of Presence the main defender exuded, the roaring mental predator hissed its doubt attacks forwards. Hundreds of blight-forms howled mental cries as the phantom-smog roiled forwards and pushed towards Olive’s grove.

“Like this you said?”

Olive smiled at Artorian’s query, nodding with crossed arms as he watched the onslaught of tarry darkness crash through the grove’s barrier. The tsunami wave of black smoke hungrily descended, impatient to fall upon its prey. “Mhm. I rea~a~ally hope this works.”

The Academic winked at him. “I needed the chance to test… this!”

The blight collapsed on the grove’s sanctum, swallowing both the figures… for a bare moment before detonating from the inside. Repeatedly, the bubbling smoke continued to crash on a piece of space that didn’t fill in properly. The raging, half-witted phantom blight didn’t care about that minor detail. It needed only to engulf the prey! Then overpower it with mental screams, visions of repetitive torment, and perpetual failure. It needed to seed doubt, and when a crack had formed in the consciousness, it would feast!

Rays of light pierced through the collapsing ashen dome of darkness again and again. The roiling form swallowed up every opening made. All available empty space was to be consumed, and the wailing phantoms continued to crash into the grove’s sanctum.

“Neat.” Olive’s voice was peppy as he watched the show from inside the spectacle. He had to shield his eyes from the living lightbulb, but couldn’t hide his happiness in the slightest at seeing this menace get just wrecked.

Artorian had learned; something he did quickly and efficiently. His impromptu defense against Ember’s burning outbursts had led him to ask himself a few simple questions. He could create different visual effects when cycling Essence types to his eyes. Were mechanisms the same if he added those combinations to his Aura? Would they stack?

So it was that the combination for starlight Essence had been thrown into his Aura. Slapped together by near-pure will. His external Auric network wasn’t built in the slightest, and had no defined shape or form. He had expected that there would be some effect, but… wow, the result was flashy.

Literally flashy, as the starlight combination living in his Aura lit him up like a beacon. A beacon that radiated a single, defining order.

Erase.

With the phantom blight being all identity, mind, and thought. There was no resistance as the light continually punched through, and lanced away, its intended target. Olive wasn't affected in the slightest. His physical form and personal Aura were barely dented by the luminescent oomph Artorian was putting out.

The blight, a being that had never needed to defend itself, couldn’t comprehend why the attempts at ‘consuming’ kept failing. The blight could not reach the Center of the grove. While tendrils of it got close, any that touched the light twisted in on itself and disintegrated. Direct contact with this Aura made entire cloudforms of tarry smog vanish as they ventured in to grapple the old academic.

Artorian was sweating by the time there was so little blight left that the remainder fizzled away into the surroundings. He fell on his tooshie, then released the effect by pulling all the refined Essence back into himself. Olive sat next to him, and the duo clapped hands together above their heads. A proper high five. “Please tell me you didn’t piss off the Fire Soul just to pull this scheme.”

Artorian sat back, and pulled some cooked vegetables out of his pouch. Olive looked at the food, “When did you even sneak those in there?”

“Would it make you feel better if I said I didn’t try to anger her? That it was thoughtless action?”

“So you did do it on purpose!” Olive groaned, “Why…?”

The old man shrugged. “Because… because she was right. I’ve been dawdling. I’ve been so obsessed with… other things. Focusing on the matter at hand hasn’t been possible for me; until Sequoia, I don’t believe my heart was truly in the fight. I have some differences with Ember that I need to properly address, and she has some things she needs to come clean about. We can’t both continue half-heartedly muddling our way through this, mulling along pretending there isn’t a problem. For all the hate that girl has for politics, she sure likes to use it to hide her pain.”

Artorian took a seat on the non-wrecked bench. “We need a proper clean slate. Don’t we, Ember?”

Olive didn’t understand why he referenced someone that wasn’t here, then realized he couldn’t feel Baobab. He jumped up to frantically look around, then found Ember and Bao at the grove’s edge just by turning around. The Fire Soul’s arm was around Baobab, and it looked like they’d gotten over here in a hurry.

Too late to help, but not too early to miss the old man’s venting. Artorian scooted to the right, and tapped the empty space on the bench next to him. “Sit. Let’s talk.”

Chapter Fourteen

The seat remained empty. Ember stood there, conflicted. The notion of a schism was a topic neither the ancient Mage nor the Wood Elves were willing to broach.

Bao whispered under her breath. “We could go for a walk, Fire S…”

Even though she was fireproof, the red flames that raced over her bark silenced Bao. “Don’t call me that! I’m not the aspect of fire. I’m sick and tired of all the bootlicking.”

Bao clamped her mouth shut while Ember stared daggers at the old man. Her grip on the Wood Elf’s shoulder tightened, but nothing shattered, even though it sounded like Bao was about to lose an arm.

“How… how long have you known?” Ember was trying to find stability, her voice wavering regardless of her abundant power.

Artorian just shrugged and pushed an acorn around on the table. “For the same length of time that I haven’t been taking things seriously.”

Ember squeezed her free hand into a fist. “So, the whole time?”

Artorian leaned forwards on the table and laced his fingers together. “The whole time.”

Released with a sizzle, Bao marched straight to Olive, took him by the elbow, and kept on marching without a second glance behind them. Not risking that again. Nope. Nuh-uh. Not doing it. Ember was the human’s problem now.

The bench next to Artorian depressed as the Mage sat down on it. Something about Mages and mystery weight just kept making him want to ask questions, but that was a conversation for another time. “You passed out.”

Ember slid into a pose to copy the old man. Comfort wasn’t a luxury she had right now, and she was far too weary to play anything akin to the likes of ‘games’. “I did.”

“Thought you said you had that handled?” Ember grunted in response. It meant ‘I did’. She just didn’t want to repeat herself. “So, what happened?”

The old man’s pointed questions were bothersome. She could just walk away. Right now. Then she remembered that she couldn’t. She had to stay near the old man to protect… “Did you kill blight?”

Artorian mimicked her earlier grunt just to get back at her, and for a moment he saw Tibbins in her face. That irritable expression was just so uncanny. He let out a sizable sigh, and thought it best to set the direction of the conversation. “I do my best learning when I’ve seen an example, have been explained the theorem, and then am left to my own devices to develop something out of it.”

He leaned back a touch. “My methods may not be perfect, but I relish in figuring it out for myself. I’ve been stuck with you every day for nearly a year… I lost count of the time along the way. I can’t look at you and not be reminded of… well. You know. It’s been hampering my progress, and it’s certainly why I’ve been so aloof and difficult to work with. I know you’re just trying to help, but there are days where I don’t want to hear your voice, much less be around you.”

Ember swallowed. That bit deeper than she thought it would. A pressure around her heart cramped, and she didn’t understand it. “I thought… you had forgiven?”

The long beard nodded, “I am certainly trying to. You’re not making it easy. Granted, I apologize for making you storm off earlier. That was unkind of me. I also didn’t expect Olive to be such a clever boy and see that it was intentional.”

The Fire Mage squeezed her hands together in stress and displeasure. “So… it was on purpose, then.”

Artorian opened up about his inner plans. “It’s not a secret or hidden fact that the Phantom Blight tries to mob me when you’re not around, and I really needed you not to be around. I’ve been dying to try things without you telling me I should stop. That’s all you do to things that aren’t exactly on target. You tell me to stop, and I can’t fight you on it. It’s stifling. I’m a creative soul. I make things, test them, and abyss! I even enjoy some of the failures! You don’t know how to let me be. You also don’t know how to be honest with yourself, and I don’t know which of the two currently bothers me more.”

Ember looked away. “I’m honest with myself…”

A very accusing and disbelieving *Tsk* was given as a retort. “Are you? Are you really? Miss I’m-just-fine and collapses in the middle of talking? Lady I-can’t-be-ambushed yet totally got ambushed? You’ve been keeping the worries of centuries locked in a box, and now that box is cracked. Things keep leaking out, and anytime I try and nudge the conversation to open up about it, you throw the door in my face and sulk in your fortress.”

Ember crossed her arms and moved one of her legs across the other. Her facial expression unpleasant. “I do not sulk. I am a strong…”

“Fire Soul?” Artorian filled in the pointed detail before she had a chance to shell up. The hot flames that poured from her skin licked the stone table and oozed down her arms and legs with the consistency of pitch.

“Do not call me…”

“Why!” Artorian was standing to avoid the burning table, but had at the same time thrown the acorn he’d been fiddling with down upon it. It crashed into the stone and popped, dissolving in the fire. “You expect me to follow along, but you tell me nothing. It takes months to get a story or explanation out of you that isn’t ‘loop, twist, loop’, ’move that bit of Essence’, or ‘that’s still crooked’. Anything that isn’t a direct reference to something we’re doing in the now, because we need to do it then. Why is the title a bother? I call you Ember; make them call you that as well. It’s the name you asked me to use.”

He laid his hand on her shoulder after the pitch had cooled to a sooty grey. “You refuse to sleep. You’re exhausted all the time. You try and carry every burden. You’ve convinced yourself you’re the only one that can solve the problem, and in doing so… you’ve prevented me from actually solving it. You’re cross with everything, and I mean everything… what’s eating you, Ember?”

She grumbled, but didn’t shake his hand away. In fact, she sat perfectly still in order to not shake it off. “You mean aside from the Phantom Blight?”

Artorian nodded and empathized. “We can start there if you’d like. It’s gotten to me too, you know.”

She frowned, turned, and faced him enough to be seated closer. Her discomfort could be discerned through the shifting movements of her hands. It was clear that she couldn’t decide what to do with them. “It shouldn’t be getting to you. My barrier…”

“Tut, tut, tut, now.” She fell silent, and actually looked at him. He was such a thin, frail, old looking thing. He would break in a soft breeze, or if she sneezed in his vicinity. “It’s you, Ember. You’re the source of my discomfort, and the Blight is making that worse. You’ve made a part of me vulnerable, because I can’t cope with a regret I am trying not to bury and lock away. That’s not me. Not anymore. I understand it’s taxing to deal with something day in and day out, but unless we get to air those grievances, they’re only going to fester. When they do so, the Phantoms win. Do you want the phantoms to win?”

The Fire Mage again balled her hands into fists, her frown one of dissatisfied anger. She most certainly did not want them to win. That message was clear as day in her body language.

“I thought not.” Artorian held Ember’s shoulder as she calmed, and the flames briefly prickling her frame dissolved. He gripped her tightly and tugged. He couldn’t budge her if she didn’t want to move, so it was a nice surprise when she leaned in. He shifted to properly sit next to her, not letting go as he held her in support.

“I believe in your strength, Lass, but it’s not your power holding you back. It’s not, don’t give me that face. Be honest. Get it off your chest. Why is the name the woodies use such a bother? What’s really going on? You’re going to keep collapsing like this, and I don’t want to see it. Tell an old man another story.”

Ember shrugged. “Which one?”

Artorian beamed a smile at her. “Yours.”

A shiver passed over the Mage. Wasn’t he upset with her? She darn well knew he was forcing himself in order to make the corners of her own mouth turn up a little, but the support was… needed. The direct approach he’d used worked for her, but the burden of what she finally needed to say was too heavy. Ember felt as if bile gathered in her throat when she spoke about herself.

“I am Es-illian-Yaran. Daughter to a murdered father, wife to a butchered husband, and mother to none that live. I am army-slayer, kingdom-flayer, Blessed of Fire, and eternal Blade of War. I am the pursuer of the Fire Soul, ascended-in-waiting to the spiritual flame, and Archon of Destruction. As one of the fading fires, the embers of that which remains as all else turns to ash, I took Ember as my name.”

She swallowed. “I took the name to remind myself that this is all that’s left for a warrior who spent her entire life… easily a dozen centuries, locked in perpetual war. I possess no useful skills other than those demanded by cultivation, and the last candles of my life flicker as I stand by, waiting for a door that will never open.”

Since this was usually where people ran away from her, Ember grew quiet for a contemplative moment. A squeeze on her shoulder put her at ease. It was odd how such a small touch could do so much. “As a Blade of War, I cannot rest in a battle when the enemy remains unvanquished. This particular enemy eats at my thoughts. It knows of my losses and shows them to me again, and again.

“As a result, the phantoms find room in my barriers to seep through and assail me. No amount of my fire can burn away a mind, and sleep brings only night-haunts. I had told the Wood Elves I would defeat this blight for them, as there is no task other than endless fighting which suits me. While I know all there is to know about fire and flame, I possess not even a flicker that can finish this foe.”

She reached for her spatial pouch, pulling free her own waterskin to take a drink. Artorian instinctively moved some Essence to his Aura, and began to emit a soft, calming glow. He didn’t notice that it cleaned the surroundings while also adding to the illumination. Ember did, but said nothing. His fatigue was being stripped away, and some minor scrapes knitted themselves together as starlight Aura built on his being.

The last time Ember had begun to drink water, phantoms had been about. “It is one of my failures to have been unable to deal with this. Though it pales in comparison to the dread I feel that I am unable to ascend to the spiritual rank and become the fire soul.”

Artorian nodded as she spoke. He didn’t follow the details, but they’d come. “Why is that?”

Ember felt… calmer. Soothed. She didn’t pay much attention to the warm glow the old man was giving off, but speaking no longer felt as if the words were being punched out of her stomach.

“As an ascended. There is only so far ‘up’ one can go. Pursuing the path of power is a minor benefit to what the end goal brings. I have told you before that Laws are representations of ideas, and those that bind themselves to such Laws reinforce them. For every Law, there can be a single embodiment of that idea per rank. One at the S-rank, then another at Double-S, and one at Triple-S. A person who is so intrinsically bound to the idea that they and the idea are essentially the same.

“What the person learns is added to the Law. Each person seeking to pursue that law must now become aware of all new content the law has, for them to reach the apex. It is a self-cycling process of learning where both the world, and the people connecting to it, form a symbiotic relationship with the goal of understanding.” She took another drink, and passed it over to Artorian who did the same.

“At the apex of the Ascended stage, which is where I have been for a very long time, I await to step into the position of that embodiment. The axiom of the idea. My Essence is purely fire, and I am bound to the Fire Essence Law at the very base of the tower. The ‘Fire Soul’ is where I would have ended up, had someone else not already been in the position. Staying on top of the new information the Law requires for me to remain at the zenith is simple. Yet, since it was my ancient vow to fill that position, and given that age is not something one considers once at my stage… I fear I will never be able to… hold my vow.”

Artorian took her hand in his, and squeezed. “Who did you make the vow for?”

Ember tried not to cry, a colossal regret surfacing. Her face may have tried to remain still as stone, but the vapor lines that rose as her tears came and evaporated were plain to see.

“I had four children. Three were lost before the fourth graced me. The last was born with a temper and a strong will. But she was born far too early. The shamans said she was a mighty thing with a fiery spirit. A real Fire Soul. My little one died in my arms a few hours after, and I couldn’t bear it. My heart broke. I promised my little one that if she wasn’t going to be able to fulfill her namesake, her mother would.”

Ember squeezed Artorian’s hands back, breaking down hard as her face cracked and memories flooded her. She wept and wept, held by an old grandfather in the middle of a forest too vast to measure… as the opportunistic darkness once again collapsed around them.

Chapter Fifteen

Blight exploded from retaliatory fury. The blight could do nothing. Absolutely nothing! While the glow on Artorian had dimmed, the intensity of the lances it faced had strengthened in turn. None would interrupt this important moment of development for Ember. Artorian wouldn’t let even the world interfere during these precious minutes as he piled and piled starlight-combination Essence into his Aura while silent tears rolled down his cheeks.

Such pain. This is what the blight had been torturing her with? That… monster. Artorian was a mixture of sympathetic empathy and calm rage. He didn’t request the Essence to take a certain identity. He flooded it with his perspective, and his emotions.

See, and understand.

Feel, and understand.

In the great clock of the universe, a gear began to click. If starlight was too generic, too uncertain, too unwilling to decide on the features it was supposed to have… then he would knock on the sky and make the axiom pay attention. Starlight… improves.

He took the aspects he’d seen so far and pushed the mental image of the story Ember had just told him into the Essence combination. A story of something that should never come to pass. His encompassing Aura lanced all around as he poured himself into it. Shouting loud—not with his voice, but with the very essence of his being.

That which was dirty, be cleansed.

That which caused hurt, fade.

That which fell to harm, become restored.

The light erupting from Artorian dimmed completely as the complexity of it scaled upward, dipping into a spectrum not visible to the naked eye. A type of light that pierced solids and cared nothing for barriers. The effects he deemed necessary punched into the Essence’s feedback mechanism. There were no Mages of his type. No Law of starlight flickered in the Tower. No node other than the one of the correct Essence combinations even made a blip in the great Ascension webway. Yet higher, much, much higher… a Law took notice as an old man caused it to resonate. A Law that did not accept needless suffering. One that did not bend to pressure. One that felt the scream of a scion, and was touched by the intent it howled into the void.

Starlight would erase first no more. Starlight would welcome, and soothe. Gaining the understanding that it should flee, the masses of roiling smoky tar found themselves boxed in by pyroclastic walls containing the embodiment of ‘burn’. For the first time, Blight felt fear. This idea rippled through the twitchy, spastic cloud. Responding, the mass threw itself against the wall of flame. Even though it seemed solid, the caligene found gaps and splits to push itself through.

Ember’s sizzling tear-stained face burned as her outstretched hand caused centrifuges of ebon-orange flame to swarm through the dark, devouring the masses even as they picked at her mind and screamed the exposed memories back at her. She would have fallen there and then, had an unseen light not kept her propped up. A bright warmth that chipped away at her hoard of fatigue.

Artorian crumpled in on himself, gritting his jaws as his Aura itself was wracked with pain as something went through a qualitative change. He had no idea what was going on outside his own head as his hand blindly gripped tight on Ember’s—squeezing it to draw out all the comfort in the world, even as she encircled and entrapped enemy positions. She dragged the phantom into the thought-obliterating area of effect that Artorian’s invisible Aura created.

The blight beautifully exploded in vivacious rainbows when it came in contact with the Aura. It was easy for her to remember the rough size and shape the effect extended to, even if the old man’s Aura itself remained plastered within a thin layer on his frame.

All those Core-cultivation improvements were paying off. While Ember’s fire still couldn’t vanquish the phantoms—and their attacks were creating gaps to escape through—this was a turning point in the forest’s cold war. Their experiences had been that Ember could barely hold the Blight off, resulting in vague ‘victories’ even as more and more were lost in the fight.

At the destruction of the last remaining blight cloud, both Artorian and Ember collapsed on the carbonized grass. Artorian was heaving as he pulled back the monstrous amounts of starlight Essence he had invested. Ember’s vision swam from the torrent of mental and emotional trauma. Up until that point, she hadn’t really felt like living anymore. She’d been going through the gray days like going through the motions of a well-practiced gray dance.

Blind, rote, and mechanical. Her fire had been weak, not that anyone could tell. The severe apathy had slanted her ability to keep the clear mental image in her head. This had impaired the requisite fine control over her Mana. The Mage’s power had suffered as a result.

Now… now she felt like a part of the sky had cleared. It had, in fact, actually cleared. Both due to the fire making quite the sizable holes in the canopy, and the heat differential that had pushed all the clouds away. All that the physical representation did, was help her mental state.

Today marked her first real victory over the blight. A solid win. She hadn’t known just how badly she’d needed one of those. A long struggle, finally at a turning point. A losing battle tipped over the crux of the knife’s edge, and not in the direction she thought it was going to be.

Olive and Baobab pushed open a part of the charred forest floor like a trapdoor. Both of their heads poked up and out of it in surprise.

“We’re alive?” Bao stated the obvious.

Olive breathily mouthed the words they were both thinking, “We won…”

Baobab—not being one for subtlety—pulled herself from the underground bunker and screamed to the sky, fists punching the air. “We won!”

She stopped when half-amused chuckling erupted from an on-the-ground Ember, who didn’t seem to know whether to cry or smile. She was doing both. Olive helped the human up, but no amount of pats to the cheek were waking him. The old man had passed out from Essence overuse. That’s what it looked like at a glance, at least. He’d be fine after some rest. Rest they could finally afford to take.

“What happened?” Bao helped the Mage up, through really it was Ember getting herself up. Ember moved to wipe her face off, but all the grime had already bubbled and disincorporated. Only the fresh lines of tears were there to be wiped away, the rest had been erased into free-floating Essence. “Old man knocked on the sky, some blight came by and decided to die.”

The Wood Elf stared in wonder, and pointed at the man Olive was tending to. “Him?”

Ember nodded, “I just acted to lock down the area, but my control was… lacking. I need to build it back up, and I’m not sure I know how.”

Olive perked up, a hand sticking in the air to get their attention. “Actually. I might have an idea on that. But…”

Ember quirked a brow at him; the waves coming from Artorian’s Aura—which he hadn’t managed to break apart fully before conking out—were still soothing her. “…We have to go see a weed.”

It was a new day when Artorian awoke. He was comfortable, lying in a pile of petals and thick furs. The smell was divine, and he mumbled something while smacking his lips and rolling over. His eyes snapped open; this was not where he’d gone to bed! In fact, he’d not gone to bed at all!

A quick glance at the sky confirmed his suspicion. Yup. New ceiling. Always with the new ceilings. Still, he stretched wide, and his bones popped pleasantly. Ooh, that had been a good one. He was inside some kind of hollow, and strips of beaded cloth hung over an opening that he guessed must lead outside. A musk hung in the air, but given he’d slept on animal rugs… he ignored it.

The sound of conversation filtered in. Without further ado, he got up and wandered over. Odd. He felt the need to bathe, but he wasn’t dirty. Pressing his way through the beaded curtain, the smells of a feast tickled his nose. What a scrumptious gathering of flavor! Hordes of Wood Elves were all around. They kept to their little gathered circles, but there was a far greater sense of… what was the word he needed? Civilization?

There was furniture and handmade products, rugs and carved kitchen supplies. Ceramic plates and ivory mugs gathered together on the edge of a polished wooden table. Wait. A wooden table? That seemed odd, the same as if he were to build a house out of human bodies.

A great majority of the Wood Elves he could sort of pick out based on the bark skin they had. That crass one was clearly Pine. Those chocolate-veneered ones over there were definitely Cocobolo. He brushed by Redheart and Walnut, excusing himself as he went to find a familiar face. Upon bumping into Rosewood, she turned to regard him with a smile. “Human! So nice to see you. I had a question!”

Her bloomy, bubbly smile was infectious, and it was returned. “Oh, certainly. Ask away.”

Rosewood fluttered her lashes at him. “Where… are the clothes I made for you?”

Artorian felt cold dread creep along his spine and looked around for help. “Oh. Erm. Would you look at the time? Let me go find out for you!”

He ran away in a rush, dashing between groups of Wood Elves, dodging plates and ducking beneath drinking cups. He saw another beaded curtain against one of the thick trees, and glanced over his shoulder to see Rosewood marching through the crowd like a sweetly-smiling bulldozer. She was gaining ground. Well, nothing ventured…!

He jumped through the opening, and tumbled down onto more animal-skin rugs with an *ooof*. The hollow was filled with smoke, and he coughed immediately. Attempting to clear it, he waved a hand in front of his face. It didn’t help in the slightest. A fresh stream of smoke puffed into the air.

“See friends? I told you he would find his way here.” A voice filled with purest relaxation called out. The four Wood Elves each occupied a different cardinal direction in the room, and were adorned with beads and a variety of crystals. Olive coughed and handed a device over to Ember, who held the strange contraption in her hands. Not knowing what to do with the thing, she sat cross-legged on a pillow now that their Human had arrived.

“Is… is that a pillow?” Artorian’s eyes widened, and his hands stretched out towards it. “Could… could I please?”

Olive followed the gaze, and didn’t know if the human was reaching for Ember’s behind, or what she was sitting on. This smoke was getting to him, and he just couldn’t begin to care. Loudly giggling at the thought with a stupid grin on his face, Olive fell over into the fluff just to run hands over and feel it. Such divine texture!

The beads clinked as Rosewood pushed her way through, her noses upturned as high as they could go while remaining socially acceptable. It was pretty high. “Oh of course they’d find you.”

The four Elves in cardinal directions smiled, and passed around something that went *puff*. Ember stared at a completely gone Olive, who was now entranced by the floor as he lay next to a loud, snoring Baobab. This ‘stuff’ apparently had different effects depending on who breathed it in. Still, Olive had made an odd suggestion to come here.

“Who would find me, Rosewood?” Artorian raised a brow, wanting an explanation of a few things that had happened in the last few minutes.

“A blessing to meet you, Spirit of Starlight.” The four Elves took a deep inhale of the cloudy smoke, then passed over their strange metal contraptions. “I am Oak.”

Artorian sat and joined the ring of people. It was better than getting dragged away by a mad designer that wanted you to stand still for days on end. He wasn’t very good at that. What did they think, that he was made of wood? “Ah, well met, Oak. I’ve heard about you in passing. Pardon the question, but why is nobody fond of you?”

Rosewood joined in as well. She wasn’t leaving without her mannequin to model her new line of flower robes. Oak exhaled a stream of smoke from their noses in unison, all smiles. “Oh, I don’t worry about such details, my friend. I just go with the flow, and don’t resist change. Unlike the other denizens, I trade with the caravans and those on the forest’s edge. My trees hold great value to them, and my groves are vast. What is but a few of my forms in comparison to the luxuries of an old home? I would rather live in comfort than squalor. Perhaps my kin take exception to that.”

The northern Elf reached behind her and tossed Artorian a pillow. The old man snatched it up, and burrowed his face into it right away.

“I see that you are a spirit of refined taste as well. I know why you’ve come, but it seems no one has explained it to you.” She veered off a moment, attention splitting as if she just noticed the new set of Wood Elves were present. “Rosewood! Pleasure to see you! Please, join us! It’ll inspire you for that dazzling creation of yours. That Ginkgo leaf line was just… oh, wow. A real stunner.”

Rosewood took the odd metal device, and sucked in a breath through a connected pipe, placated by the myriad of compliments that clearly suited someone of her stature. Upon exhaling the thick fog, all of Rosewood’s bodies slumped back and relaxed with a group-timed sigh.

“Ha ha~a~a, see? Nothing like some pleasant, relaxing herbs from your good neighbor Oak.” One of the Elves winked at Artorian, who had plunked his pillow next to Ember for safety. He was worlds happier already, even if breathing was difficult and his eyes stung.

“So, what’s going on. Why the big commotion?”

Ember leaned over to fill Artorian in. “Mahogany explained it to me years ago as follows. Because of the unique method of cultivation the Wood Elves follow, it is their skill and control over their Essence that takes precedence. So, they have… external means, to help with this. The big commotion outside is just the beginning. Many Wood Elves will gather In Oak’s grove. Both because we are here and… as I understand it, Oak has the room for it. Something about an unsavory topic, trees being cleared and such.”

Another billow of sharp-scented smoke burned Artorian’s big nose, and his eyes watered at the scent. A normal person may have been fine, but as a Cultivator with opened Meridians and senses sharpened to the point where he could correctly identify a type of cheese at a hundred paces, this was strong. Oak giggled at the sight, unbothered at her private congregation’s difficulties.

“Olive filled me in, man. You’re good. Oak is here to lend a helping branch.” The Elf closest to Artorian handed over the metal contraption, which he could now properly identify as a water-hookah, a type of smoking device. “This here is a hookah. It burns stuff that you inhale, and depending on what you use as a base, has different effects. The good stuff Wood Elven cultivators use is what we were told to offer you. When using the tool as such, this is a Cultivation Hookah.”

Ember laid a hand on the old man and prevented him from trying it, having not done it herself either. First, she explained. “When using Oak’s special blend of base material, the hookah slows down Essence particle reactions. This has severe effects on the physical body.”

Oak tapped both sides of her temples. “It’s all in the mind, man. Circulation slows; control increases. It makes Essence do my favorite thing. Relax. This makes Essence more pliable, at the cost that it’s slower. Extended use of the hookah makes this interaction gradually more permanent. So, at the cost that utilizing bodily Essence won't be a swift process, your control over it vastly increases.”

The Wood Elves all leaned forwards, pressing a hand to their knees as they winked. “What do you say? Wanna give it a try?”

Chapter Sixteen

Ember and Artorian sat back to back in one of Oak’s cleared fields. Night had fallen, and it was dark even with lack of canopy. Both moons hung high in the sky, and crickets could be heard along with other forest dwellers as nocturnal species came out to play.

“Are we sure about this?” Artorian was hesitant, holding one of the tubes of a very packed hookah. Whole plates of lavish food and multiple ivory containers with water were piled near him. His little ‘issue’ of not having his Meridians fed due to his honeycomb webway had done the rounds of gossip like dry-brush wildfire. It was amusing how similar that behavior was to normal small communities.

He felt Ember shrug against him. “For me, the downside of this is nonexistent. As a Mage, my Mana flows are immediate and ever present. Slowing them down won’t actually do anything, if the blend in this tool can do it at all. I’m willing to give the aspect of control a try, as I think it would be helpful for me. So, I am doing this.”

Artorian cleared his throat, and stared at the flute end in his hand. “Well… I can’t let you go through this alone, so I’ll be on the journey with you.”

The Mage nodded against his back. “For you this is a sizable decision. Your cultivation technique is a beautiful gyroscopic sun core. You’ve done extremely well finalizing the proper measures, densities, and details. It runs smoothly, and in an aesthetically pleasing, ergonomic fashion. It’s a shame we can’t finalize the binding or the trapping principle, but honestly what you have functions… well enough.”

The old man relished the praise, but knew the downside was coming as Olive filled in some details.

“Since your technique isn’t solidified, you rely on cellular conductivity to transfer your Essence. Using your body as a transfer medium will become all but impossible. At least in a sense… it might still be useful in situations where you can spend hours of time on whatever you’re trying to do. Anyone that sees the Essence moving through your body is going to laugh at you.”

Olive ground thumbs into his forehead, he was clearly speaking from experience. “Had you a solidified Core, and your Essence had transferred to moving purely across your Essence circulatory system, then the movements of the energy would have felt immediate. Crisp. Using this tool with such a system would have dropped it back down to the speed you are currently using. It’s a sizable demerit. You will be entirely dependent on your Aura to get anything done. At least until you ease into your ‘C’ rank.”

Artorian sighed acceptingly. Mulling it over, he played with the hookah tube in his hands. He was still on the fence about following through with it, even if he’d said he would. “I heard it was called ‘breaking into’ a rank, and that it was quite painful.”

Ember took the first inhale, exhaling a sizable stark-white cloud after a moment. “You will not have that experience. Your cultivation setup, as you keep increasing in power, will allow you to make the shift gradually. Merely expect to feel like you have indigestion, and that a whole rank’s worth of cultivation will get sucked away to complete the solidification, so long as your Core remains at its current size. I believe even entering the Tower of Ascension may feel like a dream to you. If you feel such an event looming, prepare yourself in an Essence-rich environment. That journey will drain everything from both you and your surroundings as you climb. I suggest bonding to an easily reached tier, but I have the feeling that is not what you intend. Be safe, my friend.”

Artorian felt a tingling rush. She’d never called him by a title other than his name, species, or some off-the-wall comment on something silly he’d done. This was nice, and he smiled as he took the first puff. When the mixture hit his lungs, he snorted and was sucked into his cultivation technique.

With the exposed stars and bright moonlight, his Center smoothly blazed and sparkled. The space within his Center hazed over as the smoke in his lungs transferred its effect nearly immediately, moving along his Essence and Meridian pathways like a boat dipping into a river.

He knew Ember had said it, but wow; talk about slow. His Essence didn’t feel like it hit the brakes a little, it felt like he was operating in a different frame of time altogether. The experience either felt like he was incredibly fast, or everything else was just languishing along. He started to stress eat from all the differences. Heavens, this food was tasty. Too much of this and he’d get a taste for the finery of cuisine. A dangerous thing in a civilization-devoid forest.

“Oooh, that’s strong. Fhwoo!” He coughed out the smoke and felt his eyes water and redden. “I thought you said it was going to slow down a little, not turn into a slug race.”

He looked over his shoulder, his jaw dropping as he lost all ability to speak. Ember was giving off an aurora of warm light. The borealis that poured from her being appeared as a translucent mass of pure liquid crystal. It traversed on the wafts of exhale she let free in controlled breaths, shifting between one milky color to another as her body gained transparency.

“How… how can I see through you?”

Ember was peaceful, and spoke with patient calm. It unsettled him. “I’m altering my body Presence.”

She blinked a moment. That was going to need an explanation, and her words floated on the auroras that hung around her. “There are three parts to Presence. Inner Presence, Body Presence, and External Presence. The two we haven’t touched before translate in Aura terms as your Meridians, and the overall body and outer skin, including muscle and bone. When infused with Essence and rebuilt, each part will function significantly better. Pre-Ascension, building inner Presence will vastly increase your health, vitality, disease and poison resistance, and recovery time. Building body Presence improves your strength, agility, resilience, and other bodily functions.”

That wasn’t going to be enough for the academic; she could visualize him asking about what happened after, even if it was far too early for such lessons. “Post-Ascension, those improvements will seem so minor that you’ll wonder what the point had been. When someone becomes a Mage; Inner, Body, and External Presences merge. They become one, forming true ‘Presence’, as there will no longer be a difference between them once concept-bound.”

“This change is in large part responsible for the naming confusion. Presence may work the same, but the distinctions of the body just no longer matter. Having practiced knowledge of the initial differences remains useful, as it means considerably increased control. Such knowledge will also assist in becoming used to the new frame you’re now living in. Expect having to re-learn how to walk.”

Convinced that this explanation was sufficient in her hazy concentration, she sunk back into her control practice. Speaking listlessly, she said, “Explaining as a pre-Ascension cultivator, I am currently balancing my Inner and Body Presence to sync and alter, so I may more optimally benefit from the effect we are experiencing. With slower movement of energy, there is increased control. We have more time to work with Essence and mold it to where we need it to be.

“Post-Ascension, it moves more easily if I tune myself in the process. A body of flesh—even mimicked—is just not the best conductor for the energy. Altering is a work requiring painful precision, as I am changing body composition. This change is similar to what you did by ripping your external Aura from yourself and forming it into a weapon. It’s useful for a set purpose, and best used temporarily so it does not become permanent. So, don’t go trying to copy me just yet.”

Her shoulder moved and playfully nudged him. It felt like a statue of clear-quartz crystal, rather than flesh, had bumped against him. Changing your body? What a thrilling concept! Artorian thought this an excellent opportunity to ask a question that had just been itching to be asked. “Does this include body density and weight?”

The Zen-like statue slowly nodded, it took her entire upper body to do so with all the crystallization. The old man high-fived himself. Success! Everyone else just saw him randomly clap.

“I’ve said it before. When you become a cultivator, you replace yourself with energy. You surrender what you used to be. Your humanity, my Elven-hood. Instead one becomes formed of the energy that has replaced you. I am not an Elf, so much as I am a creature that is Elven shaped, with Elven features, and Elven behaviors. If I choose to form myself as crystalline, then I am crystalline.

“If I wish to reduce my density. I can. If I wish to not fully be physically present in the world. I can. It is a measure of method and practice, skill and patience. A body of flesh is one of convenience and social convention. Few wish to show themselves as the monster they know they could be, instead clinging to the life they cherish most.”

As usual when it came to sublime, profound lectures, Artorian said nothing and simply listened. “On the path of the Ascended, you build your body with pathways that are replaced by greater energy as you progress. After solidification, you will build your Meridians again.”

She smiled and nudged him again. Far more solid. “You did this with your eyes, far too early.”

The old man grumbled, but didn’t interrupt further. “The same will be done with the body. When all three Presences are Essence-infused and rebuilt in full form and shape, you have constructed the mold that you will fill with Mana when you ascend. Only parts of you that have been rebuilt with Essence can be affected by Mana.”

Ember’s face turned sour. “This is why most Elves are so thin and graceful in appearance. They have chosen to only build the parts of themselves that still have use for when they become Mages. They are very aware that any form they build will become the form they take. This gives great versatility per how they wish their appearance, and those haughty High Elves take full advantage of this knowledge to show off with their ‘ears’. Idiots.”

Artorian chuckled, not trying to stop the laugh. He rather liked it when Ember let her true feelings on something free. Those were the kind of complaints she didn’t make often enough for his liking. It gave her character. This ‘hookah’ thing was great, and had been worth that platinum mine of information alone. “Mmm. Good one. I wonder why Oak is so set on this particular blend?”

It was Ember’s turn to be amused. “You didn’t notice? Oak was in sync, but his consciousnesses were very individual. I think that this blend affects not just Essence’s normal behavior, but interrupts the forced connection Wood Elves have in their Gestalt consciousness, allowing them to remain as individuals while intrinsically connected. Take another pull, there’s no going back from this point anyway.”

The old man lifted the tube, took a big puff, and tried to focus as his world began to spin. He saw rings of sound move through the air as reality around him altered not just in how he acted in it, but how he experienced it. He saw a flying mouse part its mouth, release a screech that bounced all around, and then snatch something from mid-air before hanging upside down to snack on it.

“That was a bat. It’s called a bat, and you knew that. Snap out of it, old man! Or back into it, in this case, since you’re out of it!” He knew bats hunted via ‘echolocation’, but he’d never seen it. Was he cycling an Essence combination to his eyes? Oh. He was. When did he do that?

Hold up. What else had he been doing while in a state of questionable awareness? Artorian dove into his Center and just about screamed. Rays of light bounced about in his Center as the rainbow haze from Ember’s cloud infiltrated and wreaked havoc. Not bad havoc. Playful havoc.

Artorian was in an amazing light show, and he was the only one not having a good time. Well. Why wasn’t he having a good time? Wasn’t this his party? If he had a robe to throw off, he’d have done so as he slid on imaginary sunglasses and strode to the dancefloor; which pulsed and moved with the ever-moving rhythm of his sun core.

Both of them were completely out of it; Ember hardened into a divine sculpture while Artorian descended into a ruckus of cheers and giggles, lost to the world.

“Should we… y’know. Stop them? From what they’re doing to themselves?” Cherry Blossom looked over her shoulders to Eucalyptus, who shrugged in response.

“Honestly? That’s what they get for trusting Oak and taking such massive inhalations. You’re supposed to sip on that stuff. Barely taste it, then let it go.” Eucalyptus nudged one of his noses over at the two completely bonked people. “What they’re doing isn’t harmful in the long term, but they are going to regret it when they come around. I see no reason to stop them. We were all young once, let them make their mistakes.”

Cherry Blossom sighed and watched as a hustle of Rosewood Elves ran over, frantically taking measurements from two bodies that just weren’t aware of their real surroundings. “I’ll make sure there’s enough food prepared. Some of the border tribes have come to trade, and I’m done with letting Oak take all the credit for the little comforts spreading through the forest. Even if they’re… ugh. Dwarves.”

Eucalyptus sighed and watched Blossom walk away. He pulled some wayward leaves from his head and strolled over to stuff them in both the hookah burners. At least it would fix the smell. He hated Oak’s mixture. All heady, no freshness. Terrible waste. He may have said he’d let the kids have their lessons, but like a doting parent, he sat nearby with his full congregation. The shielding specialist watched to make sure their guests didn’t actually do something stupid. If anything out of the ordinary did happen, Eucalyptus could be trusted to handle it by erecting stone walls, or deploying skillful Auric defensive measures.

Other Elves needn’t worry too much with them on the scene. The seasoned shielders took up a five-point defensive pattern, laying the Essence foundations for two-way protections while trying to figure out what the two troublemakers were up to. The human was copying bat echolocation with air and water Essence. The Fire Soul was doing… something internal?

As a non-Mage, he hadn’t the foggiest what she was up to. It just looked fantastical as the borealis went wild. He felt sick when he tried to look at her with Essence. Mages were weird, and he was silently happy he’d never have to deal with that headache. Wood Elves were creatures tied to the earth. They needed none of this ethereal nonsense, focused entirely on letting the greenery of the land flourish.

Because, as Oak had so clearly forgotten, you needed air to breathe. Shisha did not count.

Chapter Seventeen

Artorian begrudgingly awoke, suffering from a splitting headache. An inescapable brightness stabbed him right in his squinted eyes. “Ack! Why?”

Groaning, he rolled over on a bearskin as his hands shot up to cover his pained vision and foolish mistake. Burying his face in the thick fur, the old man whined for the bright flares and blips to go away. His foot knocked over a water cup as he struggled. It was too early to be up. “Five more minutes…”

Sadly, it wasn’t to be; he was awake. Face scrunched, he padded over on all fours to where the clinking noise had originated. Aha! Water! He’d had such a feast yesterday, how was he parched?

“No. Wait. I’ve done this song and dance… this isn’t the first time this has happened.” His first guess was that the feast wasn’t yesterday, and he’d been out a while. The sun was so bright today that it actually bothered him. Though he could barely see anything while keeping a hand over his eyes, he could tell he was still in the wide-open clearing.

What was with all the destruction? Holes littered the ground, animals lay twitching and unconscious, and a group of exhausted looking Wood Elves surrounded them at the forest’s edge in a five-point star formation.

Artorian felt around in his pocket, trying to pull out an item that didn’t exist. Where were his darkened goggles meant to prevent that stabby ball up there from blinding him? Abyss. Those weren’t real. What he wouldn’t give to have a real version of those. Eucalyptus saw the old man move with what seemed like actual cohesion and deliberate action. He hoped it wasn’t a fluke… again. “Human! Human, are you present?”

Their voices sounded like they had taken a beating, and that was one of the less banged-up bodies doing most of the speaking. The other figures groaned and attempted to remain in sync as they each huddled against a scarred tree for support… just in case it was a repeat of yesterday.

Artorian didn’t recall anything that happened ‘yesterday’ and answered Eucalyptus with as much jovial mirth as he could muster through the awful headache. “Hello, m’boy! Is there more water about? I think I’ve just had the last of it.”

The response he got was, unfortunately, not related to drink. “Unfurl your bloom! Unfurl it!”

Artorian frowned, hands still kept around his squinty eyes. “Unfurl my what? Young man, I am already in a state of questionable undress. I don’t believe more is how I want to start the day.”

“Your bl… your Aura! Turn down your Aura! You’ve been blinding everyone for two moons!”

The old man was still confused, he didn’t yet have his bearings just yet. “Turn down for what?”

A recollection of the party in his Center came to mind, and he tried to pull free-floating Essence.

Nothing.

The Essence in his body didn’t move. Not even a little. Frowning curiously at the odd change, he tried again with no difference in results. On closer, more time-intensive inspection, he found he was wrong. The Essence did move, but it was at a pace that just wasn’t useful. He faintly recalled being told that this was a likely outcome.

How was he supposed to pull the Essence out of his Aura if he couldn’t use his body as an intermediary? He grumbled and fumbled about, trying to guide the stubborn energy some other way through his form.

Pulling? No. Pushing? No. Enticing? Pretty please? No. Celestial feces! Artorian was getting nowhere fast. “Why in the abyss is this kicking my posterior?”

Harsh laughter erupted from the edge of the forest at his outburst. A thick, Dwarven laugh that continued as its originator fell into the underbrush. Roots cracked on impact as the Dwarf crashed into shrubbery, clearly unable to keep a hold of himself.

“Bhahaha! This was worth every ruttin’ gold coin it took! Oy, fellas! Show’s back on! The old one’s awake!” A kerfuffle started deeper in the underbrush, past the forest line that he could see through his forced squint. A myriad of short, wide figures all pushed through and sat on a cleaved tree.

“Fantastic! Two silver says it sonic screams again!”

Another Dwarf punched that one in the jaw. “Phah! I ain't takin’ yer bet on that, yer bleeding me dry, ya halfwit! Barely got the silver to keep me mug full.”

The grumpy Dwarf was punched right back in the kisser as the initial brawling Dwarf bounced back up like he was made of rubber.

*Paf*! A pint-sized fight broke out, along with the boisterous outcries of rowdy people having a good time. They had copious drink, food, entertainment, and merriment. A great combination for any Dwarf.

“Ember?” Artorian loudly asked his question as he waddled a few paces in either direction. He tried to evade the light source in the middle of the wide opening that was emanating all sorts of kaleidoscopic rainbows. When there was no response, he got worried. Not having a grip on who else to ask for help here. “Ember!”

Eucalyptus hollered back, “Behind you!”

Artorian looked, but all he saw was the blinding light source. Ember was nowhere to be seen; there was only some diamond sculpture. “No, you tall-eared child! Ember! Not a statue!”

The Dwarves went wild, falling over one another. This old human was just tickling their funny bone. One of them nearly strangled a companion that wouldn’t stop beating him with an empty ale mug. “Ah told ya! Ya owe me a gold, ya beard-trimmer!”

He got a mug right back in the face. “Don’t insult me beard!”

Eucalyptus sighed, far too tired for this. “The sculpture is the Fire Soul. Pull your Aura in already, or release the Essence causing the brightness! You… not again!”

He dodged out of the way of a violet line of light. The prismatic beam split the ground, racing across the open space and threatened to cut along the tree line. It stopped shortly before reaching the Elf’s location.

Artorian had stopped in his tracks, and the line of light held its position. When his movements ceased, so too did the multitudes of light lines moving in his surroundings. “Well that’s interesting.”

He extended and retracted a finger—causing the lines of light to bend—then pull back to their prior positions as his fingers returned to where they were. What was all this about? He couldn’t make colored light lines… could he? Was he doing this? …No.

Artorian glanced back at the sculpture of Ember and all the light filtering through her crystalline frame. The luminosity beamed out in a refracted rainbow of colors. Gorgeous, yes, but was he causing the brightness?

Closing his eyes fully, the old man descended into his Center. Oh celestial. What happened here? If it hadn't been for Ember’s help in finalizing the gyroscope, this… this could have been worse. The slowed Essence had begun to clump up and stick together. It was so slothful that rather than refine further, it drifted to the containment rings and joined the corruption.

That was no good!

In a rush, he threw the free-floating Essence in his Center right into his Aura. All of it. No more clumping allowed! Even with his eyes closed, he could tell it was getting brighter outside. Checking his packed Aura, he found that it did function like stacked Essence, which meant that of course it was getting brighter. Artorian was forcing his surroundings to hold the effect!

Wait… he’d just moved Essence. How had he done that? He didn’t move it through his body, he’d moved it with his… Aura?

Eureka!

He considered shooting a ray of light off into the sky to release the Essence, bu~u~ut he’d lose it permanently if he did. There had to be a better way.

The laughter of the Dwarves gave him an idea. The amount of Essence wasn’t the problem, it was just trying to do what it was supposed to do when it wasn’t provided direction. Rather than dump out and waste the Essence, he simply altered his intent. Starlight Essence didn’t have to be bright, starlight did many things, even if only well. Why stuff all the focus into shining? With a playful smirk, he did what Ember had specifically told him not to do yet.

*Hnn*. Groaning in effort, Artorian physically shifted to a wide horse stance. His fists pulled close to his hips as he kept his spine straight. The light around him noticeably faded as he altered his Aura directly. The headache was really making it hard to find the requisite focus, but minute after minute the brightness dimmed. He likened the experience to turning a set of gears which each held open several gates.

Closing the brightness door opened the effects door. Ordinarily, all doors were half open when using an Essence effect, at least without trying to skew the normal effect it produced. He considered that state to be ‘the natural state’; what Essence did when not acted upon by an external force. It didn’t have to stay that way. Once he had the hang of it, the results showed quickly. Aura had the same feeling that his Center did. There, but not there: only present mentally.

Moving Essence through his body was akin to flexing a muscle to roll a marble down his arm. Moving Essence through the Aura? That felt like a second way of breathing, entirely natural after the first inhale. This didn’t feel akin to when he’d forced his Aura to form the glaive; that was a crude and brutish operation in comparison.

This direct connection to his Essence and the world around him was liberating. So much better than channeling the process through his Center as he had been doing. Could it be that he hadn’t been able to take the initial inhale because he’d been reliant on that process? Looking back… it was likely.

The oppressive brightness that had surrounded him dropped down to the level of lunar illumination, making the Dwarves ‘boo’ at him. They didn’t want their entertainment to end, and jumping out of the way of randomized deadly beams of light while drunk was definitely their kind of fun. When the last of his light flickered away, Artorian realized that it was the middle of the night.

Dwarves… how does one talk to Dwarves? If spending time around Hadurin had taught Artorian anything, it went roughly like this. “Oy! You lot! My head feels like it got split by a bearded axe! Got anything to make this go away, or is water all ya brought?”

Artorian’s yelling was taken as a personal challenge. A few Dwarves spewed the drink from their lips in a misty cloud of total disbelief. That old quack was questioning the quality of their drink? “Oh that be how you’re wanting to introduce yerself, is it? Ya laying a challenge down to a Dwarvish hall, and ya think we just be handing over the good stuff?”

The group of Dwarves snorted, and Eucalyptus let out the most relieved sigh he’d ever enjoyed. Finally the miniature sun and death beams of rainbow light were gone. He rolled over and went right to sleep. It was someone else’s problem now; he’d been babysitting this human and sorely needed a break from the chaos.

Artorian smiled at the Dwarven retort. “So, baby water is all you got! It must be fizzy water since you’re all laughing so much. I bet it tickles your nose, hmm? No wonder you’re putzing around like wee children. A true Dwarf would have leapt at the chance to prove that they had the strongest and most flavorful drinks!”

He sighed dramatically, placed a hand to his chest as the Dwarves flushed red, and not from their drinks this time. “I, Artorian the academic, writer of stories and giver of lectures shall remember that the lore on Dwarves is to be altered. To the bards I shall take this news, so the songs of yesteryear may be cast to the wind.”

The burly group of Dwarves sobered up fast as the red turned to blue. Fun and games were all well and good, but their clan would have their heads if that kind of talk did so much as go around the campfire. One Stonelord gets a whiff of news that they damaged the family name, and they would be back on mining duty for a long decade. They wanted to be upset and fight over the insult… but the merchant in charge of this group was a crafty Dwarf.

“Now, now! No need to go killing a man’s buzz with terrible talk like that! Here, have a gulp of this and tell meh if it doesn’t feel like the axe got tugged from yer noggin.”

One could tell at a glance that these Dwarves really loved their cushy, troublemaking trade job. Pointy-eared tree huggers were great to make fun of, with their tenuous grasp on social interactions and valuable goods. This part of the forest had even been nicknamed ‘Value Town’ from all the deals they got on Oak logs.

The well-dressed trader sported a long fox-fur gambeson. He approached Artorian by shambling over in his fine wolf-leather boots. Platinum buttons held his jacket closed, and a hand adorned in gemstone rings extended a horn that must have come from a Beast.

“The name’s Don Modsognir, but everyone calls me Big Mo. Have ye a swig.” Artorian nodded in appreciation, and drank thirstily from the horn. It burned all the way down, like Dw… it was Dwarven brandy! Now he could use that phrase properly! He coughed out a *pchoo* as the strength of the alcohol struck his empty stomach. The brandy took the headache away like a charm. The Essence in the fermented drink fanned out and spread fireplace warmth into the depths of winter that had been his insides.

The old man slapped his exposed chest to cope, eyes wide as he coughed a ‘thank you’. “I’ll admit… that axe is feeling pulled.”

A hearty laugh escaped the Dwarven merchant. That was two birds with one stone for him. He was certain that their drink’s excellence was no longer in question, and the heaving coughs of the old man barely able to handle the drink instantly restored his honor in the eyes of his brothers. “Course it did! That there is heart brandy, goes right to yer chest and makes ya fluffy.”

“Actually… why aren’t ya wobbly yet? Ya should be about passed out bah now. But look at ye! Standin’ without a fuss!” His smile grew three sizes larger. “Boys! We got us a drinker!”

A mad cheer erupted from the watching crowd, and they raised their empty tankards. Another drinking buddy was always welcome! Artorian regarded them with crossed arms, getting his mind in order. His Aura was active, and… how odd. It wasn’t costing him any Essence for upkeep?

The effect passively hung in the air and revitalized the Dwarves brawling nearby, stripping them of fatigue and mending minor injuries. It wasn’t a quick process, but their bruises didn’t remain, and nicks formed scar tissue almost instantly before smoothing over. Opening up the ‘vitality’ gate while slamming shut the ‘bright light’ gate was certainly good to keep handy.

He did a small set of jumps on the spot. He felt spry, and already the buzz from the brandy was fading. No. Not fading. It was… building? He had a quick look. The liquid fire Essence was being negated as it tried to build up, but his Aura was fighting it off with the speedy recovery it created.

How interesting! His weariness faded, the stains on his body evaporated, and the general surroundings even seemed to grow healthier. Even Eucalyptus had gotten back up, rubbing the sides of their heads on the inside of the open space. They were confused as to why they weren’t dead tired or asleep. They guessed the brawling Dwarf ball had woken them once more, but they’d expected exhaustion; instead, they felt pretty good.

Just as Artorian did. “Oh, now this… this is good stuff.”

“Aye! For only two gold a bottle, as well! Absolute steal, if ya ask me.” The merchant, still under the impression heart brandy was the topic, went right for the sell. He clasped his hands together and glimmered a money-hungry grin.

“Two gold?” Artorian was under the impression the merchant had implied his Aura was worth but two gold, but that felt… incorrect. The brandy? Ah, yes. The brandy. These were traders after all. Still, something was off, and he looked around for what it might be. He saw that Ember was still a sculpted statue of… diamond? Quartz? Both? He could not tell.

One problem at a time. “My good man, I do appreciate the discount on the alcohol. Sadly, you’ve caught me at a disadvantage and in a state of improper attire. I’m wearing a bearskin, for crying out loud! That aside… what are you doing here? I was under the strong impression that only Wood Elves could freely cross the outer threshold.”

Artorian’s eyes narrowed, his no-longer-ringing brain recalling something it had heard. “What’s this about it costing you coin for a spectacle?”

The merchant realized his attempt at making a sale had fallen flat, and his smile followed suit. Still, no reason to lose a potential future customer! It was the odd duck that could survive a shot of heart brandy and walk away sober, and those who did tended to be repeat buyers. If you can’t do it for today’s coin, do it for tomorrow's! “Depends, my friend! What’s the information worth to ya?”

One last try! Ha! For greed’s sake, clearly, but greed wasn’t on the Dwarf’s side today. His plea for coin was directly ignored, and the old man wasn’t even looking at him anymore. Following his gaze, it seemed that the human was looking for something.

“Hmm. Eucalyptus, my boy!” Artorian yelled it across the field, and the Elf’s thin arm came up from the floor to show he heard the man. “Good call on the Blooming Spirit! Do you know what’s going on?”

An aggrieved response came back. Eucalyptus went straight to calling out the source of the problem. “Oak! Blame Oak!”

That answer by itself told Artorian half the story, and he jumped as a surprise hug caught him from the side. The culprit slid from the nearby trees in a hazy bright cloud of candy-puff pink. Not from behind the tree, not from on top of the tree. From the trunk itself. Abyss! They could move through the trees?

Oak spoke with an inviting demeanor, voice lurching. “Ye~e~es? You called?”

Chapter Eighteen

Oak giggled, full of amusement. Those in her surroundings became less amused as Oak’s smarmy grin grew. Artorian now understood why this troublemaker of a tree was held in such… questionable regard. Given that this entire set of events—even the Dwarves being here—had been set in motion by the herb-enthused tree spirit, this was all suspect.

That abyssal shisha-smoker was far too chipper, and Artorian’s need to know grew further. The more time Oak had to continue this charade, the worse it was going to get. For everyone else. Half-nude, the old man defiantly crossed arms across his chest. Significant amounts of muscle had been added onto his frame in the last few seasons, but it was difficult to tell beneath the scarring. “What. Happened.”

Eucalyptus gathered along with the Dwarves that approached, equally interested in the explanation. He’d been a volunteer for the last few days, so he felt that he deserved to know. The Dwarves all stood shoulder to shoulder, protective of Big Mo.

Some joviality was fine, but when a dainty thing comes strolling out of a pink cloud straight at the caravan Dwarf holding the majority of their coin… prior experience demanded the rest of the troupe drag him away. Always be careful around beautiful people trying to sell you things; it was a spendthrift’s nightmare. This went double for any drunken Dwarf.

Artorian spoke as he paced about, getting ever fussier as the alcoholic mixture was purified from his body. “There are visitors that weren’t introduced! Why is Ember a… that, and what in cultivation’s sake… did. You. Put. In. That. Blend?”

He emphasized the words hard. For a side effect this egregious, he expected a very lengthy warning before he tried it. Even Ember had done better of keeping him off the path of offhand consequences like this. Curse his curiosity!

Eucalyptus impatiently tapped his foot. He may be feeling a lot better, but when Rosewood found out what happened to all the ruined outfits… he certainly wasn’t going to be around.

Oak danced around the topic on her cotton clouds. “Oh, it was a delight! I just couldn’t resist seeing what happened when you all got together. See it went something like this…”

Oak danced across the hazy mass of cotton-pink smoke, waltzing through the air in a lengthy evening robe. The Elf was just far enough from the ground that the cloth didn’t drag along the recently wrecked floor of the clearing. It was clear that Oak somehow managed to keep their personalities unmerged, because no group of minds would ever let this kind of floozy be their public face.

Artorian glanced at the sullen expression painting the merchant’s face. He guessed it had something to do with the cloth, rather than the display. The Don’s lower lip trembled, and he had to turn around to bury his face on the shoulder of one of his men. A few laid hands on him, supportively sharing their brother’s loss. They too had wished that the cloth would go to someone that had a good reputation, and other people of high standing would want to buy one for themselves. This was the reverse of good advertising. Now no one could buy something similar in this area and not be judged as following in Oak’s footsteps.

Artorian could clearly hear the Dwarf’s hidden mumbled lament under his breath. The perks of opened Meridians. “Not like this. Not like this! That whole color is just going to have to be thrown away!”

Artorian tried not to snort. The cultivator had to pretend he hadn’t heard that. He recalled from academy scrolls that Dwarves were big on honor and social contract. The corners of his lips turned up regardless at the merchant’s troubles. He didn’t know what the Dwarf was so heartbroken about! That nightgown was fabulous, and this portion of Oak—while a tart—truly had the figure for it. She was lovely.

Speaking of Oak, she’d taken to lying on a gargantuan pink cotton pillow that seemed to be made out of smoke. There was a trick that he was very interested in learning. The academic also noted that only one of Oak was present… it had been a passing thought before, but now it seemed odd. Where were the other three?

He didn’t have the time to put much thought into it before the Elf began to monologue. She loved the sound of her own voice, that was clear. “Where to begin? Why not at the end? Nobody ever starts at the end!”

Oak spread her arms out, and the pink cotton balls under her control formed moving shapes that mimicked her words. “So, there I was, in the midst of the greatest party my grove had ever seen. Short traders from the north, brothers and sisters from all the verdant foliage to the south, a human from the west, and an ancient from the east.”

The story ended abruptly. Or rather, ended expectantly… as a certain mention made Artorian’s eyebrows jump a full inch. “Oh dear. You shouldn’t have done that.”

Golden rings surrounded the old man’s irises as he watched the troupe of shouting Dwarves toss themselves into the air as living artillery. The shattering of rock beneath the ground accompanying their stout battle cries.

Long pillars of stone pushed the Dwarves into the air at a steep angle. Based on the manner of launch, the stone seemed designed to be optimal for attacking or oppressing a creature larger than the technique’s user. How… hmm. Best not to mention it. Oak’s faux pas was lesson enough.

He watched Essence spike into the earth from each of the merchant’s boot heels. The energy was driven down like a tent stake being hammered to the ground, then grew outwards like a fern, pulling the stone beneath the user’s feet together into a stout pillar. The branches of the fern had then collapsed inwards while the main spike of Essence changed direction, slamming the other direction.

Earth Essence. Definitely wasteful. Expensive too from the look of it, but honor was worth the price, as evidenced by the beating Oak was currently receiving after being snatched out of the sky. Ah! That’s why the other three weren’t present. They’d be collateral, and likely knew this was in the cards.

The Dwarves clearly expressed their displeasure, and Artorian thought it best to keep his Aura up and running. No reason he couldn’t help the Dwarves with an extra few opportunities to land a punch on someone that could benefit from a… learning opportunity.

“We warned ya twice already, ya sparkly goat! Ya bought the product fair and square, and we won’t speak ill of a customer. But that was the last pebble in the pond! Who you callin’ short, ya lanky earthworm? The terms be stout and girthy!”

*Thud*! Another Dwarven punch landed on Oak’s cheek, and no one was pausing the beatdown. Eucalyptus was not-so-silently relishing in schadenfreude, and Artorian had to admit that this was indeed an excellent show. Good job Oak, now wiggle more enthusiastically! Those pink clouds didn’t seem good for much.

He’d checked the Essence pattern on them, and found that they were just a plane of air Essence with some odd technique on it. Causing it to pull together and form a cotton-like solidity. There was fire, earth, water, and air present in this cotton. To his surprise, there was a good amount of corruption keeping it all stuck together.

How it was floating… Artorian had no idea. Yet. Noticing was his thing, so he squinted at the cotton Essence.

Additional Essence was piled into his vision as he cycled view modes to glean additional information. When the academic cycled in an air view, he took a step back. That was beautiful! The ‘air’ comprising the fluff wasn’t the type they were breathing; it was lighter than air! Significantly so. The difference caused the puffy ball to stay afloat, and the concentration of Essence in the cloud remained responsive due to tethers that connected to Oak’s fingers. Were there only ten clouds that formed the large pillow?

He counted and confirmed that was correct. His studies were interrupted when Hawthorn wrapped arms around his neck. As before, this friendly hick-bundle of Elves was all smiles.

“High human! How are you, Starlight Spirit? I see you’ve uncovered the Oaken ploy to deter you from the main event.”

Startled, the Essence to Artorian’s eyes slowed, seeping away at a snail’s pace. Oh, this was awful. Why had he thought this was a good idea? His eyes felt dryer than a sandpaper pillow. He shook off his discomfort, needing answers to other topics. “Hawthorn, my boys! I’m well enough, though filled with unanswered questions.”

Artorian motioned all around him at the scene still playing out. Oak had wrestled free and was now dashing around the clearing with a pack of displeased Dwarves giving chase. He whispered under his breath to one of the Elves. “Oak called them short, put a serious stick into the conversation plans.”

The cheerleading hunter squad nodded in unison. “About time. Oak’s trickery was getting annoying.”

Their voices unified and their movements ceased being as individualized as the moments passed. Artorian looked at them and wrapped one of his own arms around an Elven neck. “Haw? Are you alright, my boy?”

The Elves all shook their heads and shook in harmonized unison, their voices equally paired and matched up. “Wood Elves do… poorly in social spaces. Only around those we know well, or find comfort with, can we put effort into distinguishing ourselves. Otherwise we are forced to be one. The dissent between thoughts only functions so long as there is comfortable cohesion, and if that falls. We realign.”

“You will rarely see a group of Wood Elves act with non-unison should you meet them outside their grove or their home forest. Given the visitors, and the large gathering… we’re sinking back into our old ways. We cannot do much about this when so many of us are gathered.”

Artorian wrapped his other arm around a second Elf, though it didn’t appear to matter. One Elf receiving the care was equivalent to all of them receiving it, with their unity being the way it was. They did smile at him in appreciation for the attempt. “Haw, why is there a gathering?”

The academic—who was still in research mode—got right to the point. Hawthorn nodded their heads over at Oak’s main grove in response. “The news of the changes in the tide have spread. Where previously it was better to remain spread out so it was more difficult for the blight to catch and find us—given that it can keep track of areas where thought occurs—now it is best to do the opposite.”

They all beamed at the old man. “Word of the Blight’s defeat travels swifter than a bird’s flight, my High Human friend. So, for the foreseeable future, rather than require you to march around attempting to avoid pockets of blight. We now all hide beneath the canopy of your protection.”

Artorian was instantly concerned. “But… your groves? Aren’t your trees vulnerable?”

His friends nodded, because that was certainly correct. “Yes, however, our groves do not emit thought, only the forms we occupy do. The Blight cannot detect what cannot think. So, while yes, our groves are extremely vulnerable, the Blight has the task of finding the correct, single tree in an endless forest.”

A heavy sigh of relief left the old man as he leaned into the Elven support. He motioned at Ember’s sculptured form. “Do you know what that’s about?”

The Wood Elves shook their heads, “We do not, but expect Mahogany may when they arrive. We are instead looking forward to assisting with your progress, as we have promised. Some Blight does lurk around our grove, attempting to pin us down. We are quite the thorn in its side since we lure away and scatter potential food sources. Traps are our specialty!”

They sounded awfully pleased about that statement. Were they trying to show off? With a free flow of such answers, Artorian capitalized on the questions. “Oh? I thought your specialty was the skewed identity Essence-imbued eyes?”

The look he received as response told him they had understood maybe half of that sentence. “We… don’t follow what you said there. If you meant that we take nature’s flow and apply it to sight… yes. We’re not as versed in the terms of cultivation as you are. Like most of our kind, we do not delve deeply into the basis of our abilities. We merely sharpen and hone their use with practice. As I have seen with many of the border humans that have the gift; what the power is, and where it comes from… just doesn’t matter. It’s all about how effectively one uses it.”

The Elves started to relax, becoming more comfortable for a reason they couldn’t discern. Artorian knew why: he’d added a dollop of starlight Essence to his Aura to increase the soothing effect. “Speaking honestly, you are the first of the humankind to delve into such topics that we know of. Even among the Elven-wise, only the eldest who become stuck in their ways of progress begin considering such avenues of thought. It… I apologize, High Human, it is simply not something that is done. It requires time and effort that could be better spent on abilities to protect oneself in this hostile, unforgiving world. The practices you follow… they are suicide.”

Artorian nodded along, this perspective wasn’t a mystery or a secret. He was very well aware that he was cruising on the tailcoats of those more powerful than him, and he’d just gone along with the tide. But… it wouldn’t stay like this.

He’d leave when the task was done, and then… then progress would be all him again. Old Man Sunny against the world. He perked up for a moment as he considered the new naming convention the Elves were using.

“What’s a High Human?”

Chapter Nineteen

Hawthorn stilled, having forgotten that the topic of a High Human hadn’t actually been discussed around Artorian. Each Elf made a motion to pull something from a satchel that only one of them was carrying. It was awkward, but the package was handed over to him. A real package, bound in waxed paper and string.

“It has been discussed and decided that you aren’t just a human, but rather a highly favored human. Against the grain of the actions the rest of your species follows, you follow a way of life that doesn’t fight against nature. Not once in the entire last rotation have you acted against our rules, and while we have seen your difficulties through the animals of the land, we are aware of your efforts. Thus, High Human. It is a title of positive repute.”

The Elves all swallowed. “We…”

They were trying to say something difficult. “For what you did… for Sequoia. Thank you, Artorian.”

“If we had all had someone like you in final moments like those, the Wood Elven will to fight would not be as pathetic as it currently is. Many saw through Rosewood’s eyes that day. The cries of vindication that roared through the forest were felt by all that carry nature’s power.” Artorian deduced several things from these words.

One: ‘Nature’s Power’ was a mixture of the four elemental Essence types. This excluded celestial and the one he’d never been able to classify: infernal.

Two: naming conventions were inconvenient. Just call him by his name! Why did it have to be whispered, and even then only on special occasions?

Thr… hmm. “Haw, why is nobody willing to openly use my chosen name? It happens on occasion and then people… Elves, clamp up.”

Discomfort rolled through his cheerleader squad as if they had tasted over-salted soup. “Oh. We… we only use chosen names when we are being intimate, or wish to express a significant and sincere emotion or praise. It is also heavily bound into our joining ceremony. You give up your personal name when joining as one, and that is a heavy act. Chosen names are almost reverent in their meaning and weight. In some parts of the forest, names carry great power.”

Information on names of power was definitely of interest to the old Academic. Oh, if only he had vellum or paper instead of needing to rely solely on his memory. What an imperfect storage device! He pressed on: “Intriguing. You’ve captured my attention!”

He smiled at Hawthorn as Oak and the Dwarves finally stopped playing around; it seemed the score had been thoroughly settled. Eucalyptus moved in formation and passed Artorian with an oddly cordial bow. That was strange, they’d never shown respect to him like that before. Ah! Must have been bowing to Hawthorn.

The Dwarves looked like they were discussing peace agreement terms, and the remaining Oaks had shown up to form up with their… unique troublemaker. That meant… Artorian nodded as he realized that even Oak, the prideful separator of individualities. Was experiencing the forced unifying effect. It appeared time to go and meet some trees, so he’d need to find out more on the way.

“Haw, are we going to a large gathering?”

The Elves nodded and pointed at the package. “Best you change before Rosewood sees you.”

“Best he does what before we see him, Hawthorn?” Rosewood’s stern tone rang out from behind the cheerleading group.

Hawthorn smiled at Artorian, gave him a pat, and left him to fend for himself. “Come find us when you’re… done!”

Artorian could have sworn he heard the sound of a teakettle. Something about Rosewood’s expression just created that image in his head. He wasn’t upset at Haw for running off. Mainly because there was a hierarchy amongst Wood Elves that he hadn’t really pinned down, but clearly Rosewood was up there in rank. Artorian sighed and faced the group of livid Elves.

“Alright. I’m done with the farce. Rosewood, what is my modeling worth to you? I am burdened with trying to make cultivation progress, and the frequent interruptions you create are getting on my nerves. I’ve been letting you design your clothes on me, without complaints or wiggles. What’s the issue? I’m tired of seeing you glare at me for something you knew was going to happen, and I’m not spending the next few years here constantly dealing with a child’s tantrum.”

The Elven designers were taken aback. They’d expected the High Human to fuss a little and go along with the fun as usual. They pondered amongst themselves. On one branch, it was no fun that their inherent position was being undermined. On the other… it might be easier to have his actual cooperation.

Rosewood came to a decision. “Four rotations. We want four years of your time where we get to apply our art. This is so that when it becomes important, we have wares the northerners will trade for. In turn, we will gift you what we know about design and the techniques of our nature’s power. Since we already agreed through Mahogany that we would gift you techniques, I can only put the rest of it on the table.”

This arrangement was a sizable cost for both of them, and Artorian treated it with the care that it deserved. “I’m going to have to think about that Rosewood… I’m also not certain what you mean by gifting me the techniques. Did you perchance mean to teach me?”

Shaking their heads ‘no’, they puzzled to find a human-appropriate explanation. “Perhaps it is best to show you? We owe you a technique regardless. Come press your head to ours. Any gestalt mind can commence the gifting.”

Artorian blinked a few times. Now he was the one who wasn’t following what was happening. His academic curiosity forced him into ill-advised action as he stepped forth, package still in hand. Not quite certain of what to do, he leaned his forehead in. “Like that?”

The Elves chuckled, amused at his antics. “It will do.”

Rosewood leaned her Elves forward, and one of them touched their forehead to Artorian’s. Visually, nothing happened. The old man worried a moment that this was another joke. An intense feeling began when he considered pulling back.

Like waking from slumber where the dreams you lived follow into the start of your waking day, so too did this dream envelop his thoughts.

It was a crisp spring. Lilac bloomed in excess. Artorian looked down and saw his hands, but they were Elven. The digits worked to flow and weave between warm petals. He felt surging emotion as their hands brushed across oceans of flowers. The empathy was hard to place, but he felt unique affection for the plants in the form of a deep and lavish love.

The experience was profound, felt on a level of intimacy mimicking only his experience of memory stones. Actually, that’s exactly what it felt like, but without the lack of clarity and protection from other experiences that occurred at the time. No, this was everything. The full, raw, unfiltered memory as it happened in the moment.

He witnessed firsthand—as if he was doing it—every dancing motion and strain of Essence being manipulated in ways he’d never conceived of. The art of clothing, tended and strung by the tender connectivity of leaves and petals as Essence linked particles together to form a tapestry of beauty.

Artorian lived the experience, and finally understood the passion in Rosewood’s craft. Her work was a labor of love, and she wished only for further growth in the tapestry of art she could weave. She dreamed of a world where everyone dressed in her heartfelt creations.

The old man blinked as he came back to reality without any warning. “Was… no memory stone? Just… I saw it all. Felt it all.”

Rosewood seemed proud that she’d stunned the wordy academic. He was standing frozen in time, coping with all the knowledge he’d just gained on fine Essence manipulation, using a type of Essence that he didn’t even have access to.

“Oh, those little rocks that hold a few incoherent thoughts?” Her smile morphed into a rich, pleased grin at his fast-nodding reaction. “We invented those.”

Rosewood’s laugh rose to Dwarven levels due to the academic having such a dumb look plastering his face. Her comfort must have risen significantly, because each of her Elves giggled as individuals, not hard-bound to their unity. So, it wasn’t necessary for the hookah to be used? Perhaps it was just a helping measure, but not the prime factor?

When Artorian found the will to pick his jaw back up from the grass, he didn’t know what to say. Luckily, Rosewood kept talking. “I waited for the merchants to be out of ears reach, have no fear there. They did not overhear. Mahogany has expressed clearly that when it comes to clearing the blight from our lives, no price is too great. Have you been told why the traders are here? I am vaguely aware of other events, Haw passed me some memories through the roots.”

She blinked, and all of Rosewood’s Elves rubbed their foreheads. “Your shortname for him. It is infectious.”

The old man came to his senses and replied with a lush smile. “Convenience is made to be infectious.”

His hand habitually returned to his beard, stroking it as he mulled over all he’d just learned. He needed a nap to process all this. How he missed beds… stealing a glance over his shoulder, he noted one Dwarf had remained behind and was prodding at a diamond sculpture. Oh, that was Ember. “Master Dwarf! I’d halt such explorations if I were you. You’re deeply infringing upon her honor!”

The Dwarf, dressed in prospector’s gear and sporting one hefty gear-shaped monocle, leered over his shoulder. The firebeard made a ‘go away’ motion to the old man who was needlessly shouting at him over some nonsense. There was a crystalline sculpture here just ready for the taking. Someone would pay a hefty… *Urk*!

Furaam had been held by the throat many times in his life. So far, he’d even lived through all of them. As head-inspector and appraiser of wares, he sported a bulbous nose that was exceptional at sniffing out goods that had value. However, not once in the history of his career had he been accosted by the object he’d been appraising so… directly.

Traps and lures, certainly! The arm of the sculpture snapping to lift you by the gullet? Not an event he’d be interested in repeating. Note to self, listen to strange half-naked old men in woods that give you advice about someone’s honor. Against all better judgement, somehow that was the right thing to do.

“Artorian.” A milky-translucent Ember was back to her laconic way of speaking.

“Morning, Ember. How are you feeling?”

The diamond and quartz figure didn’t move like one. Her movements were fluid and flawless, as though fashioned from some kind of gel that kept a considerably harder material in a fluid state. She was a marvel! Artorian wondered what the Essence pattern of a Mage looked like, and cycled Essence into his eyes to answer his curiosity. Why had he never tried that before?

Ah. Because it was a terrible mistake. Nausea clawed him like a cat that had decided it was done being pet, and he was used to a system that sprawled with three-dimensional movement. Sickened, he bent over and heaved.

Ember clicked her diamond tongue, her voice the inner echo of a cave. “I feel like someone threw me through the planet and I came out the other side. Where is Oak, and who is this… what am I holding?”

She dropped Furaam like a filthy rag, sneering at her hand like she needed to wipe it on something. The prospector landed on his feet, braced, tipped his hat, and ran for his life in short order. Artorian could see the Essence grip his feet were making on the ground with his improperly reeled-back sight. He didn’t catch it all, but it appeared like earth Essence talons dug into the ground and added leverage to ‘pull’ as the Dwarf blitzed past him. Could that be applied to the other Essences? Likely!

“Well, in short, that was a merchant Dwarf. It’s been a few days, the Elves gathered up for safety, Oak is a pain in the keister trickster, and I just learned Wood Elves are the original designers of memory stones.”

Ember blinked at him with enough effort that it seemed like that action, rather than following the debriefing, had been the more difficult task. “Understood. No wonder my hand feels dirty.”

Artorian drew in a sharp breath through his nose as he got a hold of himself. Rosewood helped him up. Oh, classic Ember with all the curt responses. He forgot she took in information like a warrior all the time, rather than just some of the time.

“You’re… crystalline, my dear.”

The Fire Soul looked herself over and mouthed an ‘ah’. Realizing she was in fact still in her absorption mode. She’d used this form often in the past, but after she’d ascended, it had… never been useful again. A zenith C-rank cultivator body is flimsy in comparison to the base form of an Ascended.

The change had been helpful for her Mana control practice which she’d deeply lost herself in, but otherwise this crystal-formed body was a downgrade. Her voice even sounded like it was echoing. She didn’t like it, and in the span of barely a minute her form physically reverted to the Ember they were all used to seeing.

“That’s quite the control. It took you much longer to crystallize, well done!” Artorian didn’t understand any of the details of what she’d done, but there was no reason not to be supportive. Ember nodded at him, sporting grey-tinted pink flesh again. It slowly gained color, and the roots of her hair refilled with orange-red. How odd, why not restore all of herself if she had free reign?

“I need practice. That was still too slow.”

He tugged his own beard by accident. Perhaps… she didn’t have free reign. There was always more to learn. Yes, always more to learn.

Artorian turned on a dime, and extended his hand towards Rosewood. He understood what he was in for; nearly all the other Elves were coming to join the party. Or rather, huddle under his protective dome which was going to be assailed non-abyss-bloody-stop. He needed help, and lots of it.

There was just too much to do, and the snippets of knowledge he kept sipping on were like the cheap drinks at an open bar. He needed more, including better information and abilities. Four years of modeling was a heavy cost, but he wasn’t doing anyone any good the way he was right now. For all he knew, it would take all four of those years just to control his Essence properly. “I accept. Four years.”

They shook on it, which turned out to be a mistake.

One. Day. It took the academic one day after making the deal with Rosewood, for an Elven memory from Pine to show him exactly how to use his Aura as an intermediary, rather than the body. Not only had it been such an obvious step that he’d completely overlooked, it was easy. His control remained at the level of hookah-assist so long as he had a minor pull now and then, and the speed at which he let Essence flow blasted past his previous physical limitations.

He felt like such a fool. A happy fool, certainly, since he felt the streaming waves of Essence course across the outer layer of his skin rather than inside, but a fool nonetheless. Artorian meditated in the grove, clad in Rosewood’s latest design as he entertained meet-and-greets with visiting families of Wood Elves. He hadn’t expected them to like him as much as they seemed to, but couldn’t help but enjoy that they were incredibly cordial.

Lots of High Human this, High Human that. The Dwarves turned out to be a northern based trading caravan that came through Oak’s grove once a rotation. They had… decent relations. They bought sundry goods that Wood Elves specialized in, and sold surprisingly mundane items. All the things one would ordinarily expect in a more human household. Spoons especially—when wrought of metal—were in crazy demand, and nobody would tell him why.

Days turned into weeks, and those weeks melted into seasons. Artorian’s life became a rote, repetitive jumble of failure and learning. He needed several weeks to cope with a memory implant anytime a gestalt mind shared one with him. It wasn’t the mechanical content of the abilities shared that tripped him up, it was all the extra baggage they contained.

The crude memory rock that had given him his initial stepping stones to begin cultivation had far fewer personal touches. You got some imprints of emotion, and topics not kept in focus blurred at the edges. A memory stone got to the point without much fuss. Intermedium attained memories felt like they were over in a moment, but direct linking wasn’t nearly as gentle.

It didn’t feel like moments as one experienced it. The process might take mere moments to complete, but involved one severe headache as side effect. Each memory was lived out in full, painstaking detail. Every nick, bump, and cut in the process of learning was felt. Every emotion directly present. Each sound was audible and every iota of the experience was vivid. Direct linking with memory share wasn’t just gaining a new memory from someone else. You lived those moments yourself.

Months of time were dedicated to recovery alone. Without a clear head, he couldn’t do anything with his Essence. Memory lessons needed focus to progress. Aside from rest and cultivation, he just didn’t have the spoons after a wallop like that.

Ah. He had also finally found out why the cutlery was in demand. Memory shares had to be carefully balanced and timed with the incoming waves of Phantom Blight. When they came, they now did so en masse. The tarry haze swallowed up landscapes and collapsed in on their position, attempting again and again to break the invisible dome of omnidirectional starlight. Ember’s flame corralled the shapeless muck like hapless sheep while Artorian remained set on holding his Aura steady. Together, they forced the wailing dark into the lances she’d learned how to see.

Artorian’s Aura wasn’t perfect, and that weapon stunt of his had done some severe damage. When the external Aura returned, it hadn’t properly latched back on to his being, resulting in fairly obvious rips that leaked Essence without him knowing. Had he not been under the careful watch of so many Elves, it might have gone unnoticed for years.

Instead—when time was available—resources had gone to building and infusing his external Aura since he needed it to do more than what it currently could. Sure, he was using significantly advanced concepts such as identity skewing—ideas that cultivators apparently didn’t pick up until the late Mage ranks—but that in no way balanced out the severe lack of basics.

Blight was a crafty thing. Even if they could never pin down the real source, the phantoms didn’t keep to a set pattern and continually attempted to catch them unaware. That all the Wood Elves were gathered in one spot had altered the tactics it used. Unfortunately for the gluttonous bugger, since the festival of unity… the Blight had gained no further ground.

Phantoms found no foothold under myriad joined Wood Elven techniques, which made life ever more irritating for the surly cloud. False minds, tricked locations, mental echoes to confuse it, and a myriad of other sleight-of-hand foolery. When combined with the starlight Aura, they ate chunks out of the swindled mass’s mental wellbeing each time it launched a misinformed assault.

They’d rebuild, but it was a war of attrition. Aura may be free to have active, but extended upkeep didn’t come without cost. Even though no Essence was spent, a modicum of focus was necessary to keep the Aura effect in mind if the identity skewing effects were to remain. If Artorian faltered, it reset.

This caused him to flashbang the entire congregation as the Aura rebalanced itself, returning right back to a blinding sunspot. Between all this Essence education, Ember had seen fit to throw Artorian around if he got too distracted by things. Quite literally. If Artorian started getting fussy or out of balance from Essence issues, he was in for one full minute of combat training.

Against Ember. A person who did not believe restraint was necessary. She’d told him the first time, and never again, “Trial by fire.”

The entire event had been nothing but flashbacks to Irene tossing his butt all over that muddy arena. Even just one minute against the Blade of War was what weeks of grueling training did for an ordinary cultivator. The philosopher was a practice dummy for her Mana control, and his task wasn’t to win. It was to stay alive.

If he didn’t keep a healthy stock of fire Essence to repel her flame, he’d be extra crispy by day’s end. When Mana wasn’t on the menu, he’d get tossed a branch, or a training implement, or anything remotely resembling a spear. The Fire Soul would match the weapon provided to him, and school the academic in front of the entire grove.

Wood Elves had learned to dive out of the way when they heard the whistling noises of objects—or persons—*cough* Artorian *cough* flying through the air. Keeper Irene was nothing compared to the force Ember struck with. Irene also wasn’t a Mage, and Ember took advantage of every little weakness the old warrior exposed. He’d never been beaten into shape so quickly in his life.

Artorian’s strengths were nothing more than opportunities for Ember to show him that they weren’t enough. Starlight Aura let him heal, but that factored into Ember’s calculations. All it did was let Ember hit him more to compensate for the fast recovery.

If he attempted a technique that would waste Essence, he was slapped hard enough to only wake up the following morning. By the seventh time this happened, Ember had ripped an Oak out of the ground from sheer frustration, tossing it towards the horizon. She’d demanded that he infuse and rebuild his brain with Essence as soon as he was able.

If she had to deal with many more of those ‘rookie mistakes’ she’d start really hitting him. The girl was already cracking his bones with every touch, and she was going to hit him harder?

Building his Aura was, at worst, time consuming. The constant interactions with his leafy friends had provided him a branching understanding of how they worked with their own. Each of the Wood Elves had a slightly different method, but the baseline was all the same. These differing viewpoints allowed him to alter and refine his own Aura with a great deal of confidence.

Aura knitted and grew as ‘brain connections’, which was a topic so complex he’d felt like an absolute child during the explanations. His mentors had to use diagrams and pictures to get the idea across. For weeks, the topic went over his head completely. ‘Neurons and dendrites’ connecting in patterns meant to ‘self-reinforce’ and learn over time. All by themselves! Still, it at least followed a pattern he could follow. Loop, twist, loop, make a node, repeat.

Beyond what he needed to do with his brain to satisfy Ember, his Aura was still his main focus. When it had been halfway built, the parts that were ‘developed’ became more responsive than his raw Aura had ever been. Easily three times as efficient and speedy. Essence now moved through the built-up Aura near instantly. Unlike the nebulous Aura he had accidently ‘found’, he no longer felt the ‘breathing’ movement of the energy.

Instead, it was an intimate awareness that didn’t require his senses to inform him of success. The Essence was just in his hand when he wanted it to be there, even though it ‘went around the long way’ because of his new hookah cultivation aid.

Things were changing, and changing fast. For instance, the confusion of ‘convincing’ Essence had been cleared up. Mahogany had been able to provide the answer to that particular misunderstanding. It had even caused a chuckle to go around the grove, since it was an elementary explanation.

Young Elven children—untethered to a group-mind—had been brought to the circle and introduced, and Artorian mistook them for human children. Normal skin, normal playful behavior, and you could easily tell who the parents were based on what kind of trouble they got into. The youngsters were gathered up and given the explanation with Artorian, which he felt a small amount of sheepishness over.

With everyone present, the children showcased surprisingly good behavior. Unlike the small gatherings similar to town halls, this was a big meeting, and that caused a big discomfort. Stuck in the middle and at the forefront, anything the children did wrong would be judged by all present.

When Wood Elves were first teaching their saplings, they were taught not to force the energy. Rather, they were taught to befriend it, play with it, grow with it. Once an adult, the sapling established itself as the dominant, stable force in the system. The Essence no longer required convincing to do what the Elf wished. Merely willing it was sufficient, since Essence wanted to conform to the desires of the most stable source in its surroundings.

With a primer on how that mechanism worked, Artorian was frustrated by how long this had taken for him to learn. Even though he had irremovable corruption still lurking in containment circles, he’d reached a point where the Essence would naturally gravitate to his will rather than that of the corruption present. This particular lesson also taught him why corruption removal was paramount.

Removing it quickly was enticing, yet the known methods posed too great a risk. For the safest, newly discovered method, he needed to spend the same amount of time lancing corruption away as he’d done gathering it.

So… fifty years. That was a bitter medicine to swallow. The amount he had managed to remove wasn’t at all large in the grand scheme of things once he’d figured out the proper calculations. His most recent count showed corruption loss was slightly higher than what he gained. Even with his new techniques, he still drew corruption in while cultivating. The good news was that if he lived long enough, it would all be cleared away without threat of injury.

With the damage in his Aura from the weaponization event mended, progress on his Aura was going well, and proceeding in a stable way. If he made a mistake, or created a node in a less than optimal location… his mentors jumped him. The Elves had made something of a game at poking the flaws in his Blooming Presence, since it was something they all excelled at.

Still, this wasn’t a major issue unless they poked at his ‘Bloom’ with their nature Essence. That compound Essence always held the peculiarities of the specific tree trying to annoy him. Almost no Elven group used the same method of binding their Essence to a shape, design, or other technique. The minor differences had actually turned into a popular conversation topic, since they had never really needed to discuss the minutiae with others before.

Artorian’s eyes were of little help. Even if he saw the pattern details, he couldn’t understand them before the inevitable headache struck. When that happened, he was done for the day. Mental clarity was absolutely necessary for progression.

After another season of difficulties, Ember dragged him to a clearing, demanding he infuse his body with power. “You have enough to make this happen correctly and safely. Do it. You need improvement.”

Artorian fussed over the choice. “I’m plenty clever! A few setbacks are normal when learning new things. I’m fi~i~ine.”

The Mage refused to hear a word of it. “Your mind is burdened; you need it free and focused.”

Artorian threw his hands in the air, but relented and laid on his back under a cozy canopy. Apparently, there were going to be some… unpleasant after-effects to deal with. This particular ‘improvement’ was going to drain the living abyss out of his Essence stores. Granted, rank was irrelevant for his needs, so dropping from the high Ds down to the low Fs was not that important to him. It just made him feel vulnerable, and it wasn’t the first time that had happened.

An ordinary cultivator screamed in defiance at the losses such a drop in rank would bring. Survivability tanked, and his available combat power would be much reduced. He’d have avoided this much longer had it not been for the crowd he was surrounded with. A few hundred Elves were building Oak’s grove into a proper community, and the short-fused Mage made for a convincing support system.

Especially when the support system chased you with fireballs.

Chapter Twenty

‘Infusing’ was an… unpleasant experience. Artorian needed to physically fill the relevant cells with Essence, but rather than healing or restoring them, it was for the purpose of replacing them.

Artorian’s eyes hurt just thinking about it. He peeked around himself for a moment. Ember held a stick in one hand, and the other pressed to her hip. He wasn’t wiggling out of this… or… was he? The stick lit on fire.

Well… maybe no escape this time. Baobab winked at him while he sat in a lotus position. “You can do this, High Human. We’ll be here if something goes awry. Our fiery friend is merely impatient since your mind is hampering your progress. I heard the original plan was to have your Center solidified before any ‘infusing’ was done. But… plans change.”

Artorian grumbled, but hopped into his Center with all the glee of a child sliding down a pole just to cheer himself up. When his imaginary feet hit the proverbial ground, he knew he didn’t want to go through with this today. He wasn’t ready for the pain.

Conveniently, he thought of something clever that would delay the inevitable.

Ember had once said that the three different Aura parts merged into one when becoming an Ascended. This had the philosopher questioning things. Did she mean that these supposed Aura separations weren’t all the same thing in the first place? Were they divided by a physical boundary? Since it was Essence and not meat that he needed to manipulate, he had to see if his initial hypothesis was true. Especially since he was only aware of external Aura.

“I’ve got a question.”

Ember growled at him, “You’re driving me up the tree with all your questions.”

The old philosopher remained calm even as his beard began to singe. “The man who asks a question may be a fool for a minute, but the man who does not ask is a fool for life. I have to infuse anyway, why not tackle this now?”

He could feel the Mage’s glare, as his skin actually heated up where she was staring. “I want to try something.”

Ember held her tongue, knowing this was going to be an awful, awful idea. She was just going to have to sit through this as he went forward with trying to apply another insane theory. “You know what? Fine. It’s fine. Go for it. I’m not mad. It’s not like this is important for actual development.”

The Mage softly smiled with all of her teeth showing. Clearly ‘not mad’.

“Oh good! Don’t mind if I do, then!” Many wise Wood Elves said nothing, though they took several quiet steps away from the oblivious Human dancing on the edge of oblivion.

The hypothesis Artorian wanted to tackle concerned the nature of Aura. He’d explained it to a few Elves, but achieved little aside from giving them a serious headache. Fair turnabout for when they poked his Aura nodes! While his questions made sense to him as an academic, everyone else just looked at him as if he had finally gone senile.

Artorian believed that consistent rules must be at play. When a person is born in an Essence-laden environment, their bodies include that Essence as part of the basis of their makeup. It becomes an inescapable thing that the body then becomes dependent on Essence, as otherwise people would not suffer Essence deprivation.

Had there ever been a person born without Essence? They would likely be incapable of doing anything with Essence, as their makeup did not include it. He held the idea that they would also not be dependent on Essence for survival!

A person without the energy cannot become aware of it, as one needed the space of a Center already present in order to do something with Essence. This premise led to a more… complicated idea.

If Aura connected with the body at a certain point, ‘becoming a Mage’, then it must in some measure be connected beforehand. A kind of network that remained invisible and out of reach until certain conditions were met. This type of discovery was something all cultivators eventually encountered.

Putting his power where his mind was, he decided to test it his hypothesis. Rather than press his external Aura outwards, as Ember tended to do, Artorian instead pulled and shifted it inwards. The individual zones of his Aura brushed and overlapped across one another as he did so.

It made him instantly and grievously ill. The complete lack of external Aura coating his skin made each brush of the breeze as painful as the cut of a knife. His body was already too sensitive and frail to exist in the world without that constant protective coating.

Just fixing the problem he had brought upon himself took a few hours, and the shock he’d received forced the Elves to squirrel him away in a hollow to return to normal human standards. He went over the process in his mind—where had he gone wrong?

At first, the overlapping Auras had fought one another. They weren’t supposed to occupy the same space! Rather, they weren’t supposed to occupy that same space yet. His bones had electrified, his muscles frayed, and his skin had endlessly crawled until the Wood Elves found the right person to help the ailing High Human.

Dimi-tree to the rescue!

He was an unnaturally tall crafter Dwarf ferrying poultices and potions. It wasn’t the hammer-toting leather apron-clad man’s normal profession, but his reputation of being ‘able to fix everything’ forced him to saddle up and prod the stick people out of the way on his path to the patient. “Move, Elf!”

Essence wasn’t able to solve this problem and Ember was being… stubborn. Something about the human ‘learning his lesson’. So, well-crafted mixtures became the go-to, and who knew drinkable concoctions better than Dwarves?

The eight-foot-tall, auburn-haired smith that looked like two normal-sized Dwarves stacked atop one another kicked Oak out of the hollow with a deft boot on the rump. The trickster tried to offer another ‘special blend’ for usage, but the Dwarven all-rounder wasn’t having any of it. “Unacceptable!”

Applause accompanied Oak’s screams along her lengthy flight path, though she was saved by her pink puffball clouds just before impact with Big Mo. Five Elves each held up a bleached chunk of bark with a charcoal number on it. They judged the height and distance on a score from one to ten, since Oak-punting had become something of a sport over the last season.

Two sevens, a three from the snooty judge, and two eights tallied up a final score of thirty-three. Dimi grumbled under his breath upon glancing at the score. His deep tone was despondent; he’d do better next time. “So close to my high score.”

Artorian’s body and external Aura cooled off after drinking a stiff ‘potion’ that tasted conspicuously like titan’s foot rum. After being gut-punched by the ‘healing’ salve, his overlapping Auras begun mixing not as oil and water, but as a pleasant stew.

As a welcomed surprise, Artorian’s external and body Auras sterilized certain impurities in one another that even the Elves hadn’t noticed until the mixing began in earnest.

Ember shrugged as if that was a normal outcome. Dimi barked at her, “Would it have hurt to tell someone that would happen, Fire Soul?”

“There should be no issues.” Ember shrugged nonchalantly. “He can’t combine anything; this should help his fine control later. It will also make him start listening to me.”

Relaxing and returning to equilibrium, Artorian’s external Aura extended past the outer edge of his skin as was normal. Relief washed over the crowd. Artorian coughed and looked around, “For whoever is writing this down, in addition to my external Aura, I now also feel my body Aura as well. I’d say control is at the speed I normally have with Aura.”

Two theories tested and proven; what a joyous day! That there had been a body Aura layer at all was cause for celebration! When some Elves tried it, moving Essence through their body Aura layer was like pouring water into sand and hoping it came out at the bottom. Not using the Aura layer meant they used the body directly, as they had been all along. This showed that Aura did have three individual fields that corresponded to the body. The inner Meridian field, the middle body field, and the external Aura field.

“Also, Ember. It appears that you are wrong. I was able to combine two of my Auras!” The Essence that moved through Artorian’s now combined Aura layers turned the ‘sand’ into ‘pebbles’, allowing ‘water’ to go through more easily. Unfortunately, there was an… unintended side effect as he felt queasy. “Oh… oh dear. I think I did something very bad.”

Artorian thought he’d felt ill before. He’d been wrong. Due to the rebalance, all his internal organs had decided to start shutting down as his body and meridian Auras shifted out of sync. Apparently a partially combined Auric body was a big no-no. Ember was furious when he had not tried to stop it, and the Elves simply didn’t believe it when he kept repeating that he had forcibly combined only two of his three Auras. The joined Aura overwhelmed the Meridian Aura. Sending Essence spiraling along his body through improper channels.

Hawthorn and Birch had tackled their human posthaste. Abyss with the hard landing! They were fully aware of his organs failing from such a disastrous, sudden, and intense change. Artorian thought he’d been just fine… at first.

Then it felt like he was drowning on the inside. Unable to breathe as his left arm went numb and heart beat irregularly. Epidemic internal failure was no joke, and he belched out blood as groups of Elves held him down with triage teams. Groves with healing gifts jumping out of standby. Unfortunately for Artorian, that meant Oak was present.

Panicked and no longer in the mood to be stubborn, Ember punted one of Oak’s Elves out of the way like some cheap garden gnome, sending his bruised tailbone skyrocketing through the canopy. The Fire Mage knelt down and took control of the situation.

Onlookers in the vicinity didn’t have bleached chunks of bark, but they muttered scores regardless with sagely nods. Solid nines across the board. Regarding the beautiful punt, Dimi silently shook his fist at the air. He sniffled, shedding a single manly tear as he got out of the way of the gold medalist. He’d be back for another shot at the punt Olympics gold next year.

“You walking catastrophe!” Ember tore away Artorian’s petal clothes to expose his darkening chest. All of Rosewood’s Elves fainted on the spot as they watched their creation being incinerated by a thousand flaming claws. “I warned you that this is something that happens for Ascended! Why are you always trying to do this to me? You and your experimental insanity! Merging Auras isn’t supposed to occur before you have a body that can handle it! This is what happens!”

“Not… insanity. Philosophy!” He’d raised a sputtered finger as blood drooled from the side of his mouth, and she’d slapped him for his coughed daredevil words.

Artorian passed out from the strike, which dropped his Aura control like a rock. Resetting a moment before fading fully, the temporary sunspot stabbed them all right in the eyes. Some Elves screamed, “We needed a solution for that last season!”

That phrase was the last thing the old man heard before fading into obscurity. His condition was stabilized, and it took over a week for him to become well enough to recover.

Chapter Twenty-One

After he was well, and the kerfuffle his Aura merging had created had passed, it was time for Artorian to properly begin the infusion process for his brain. This was the next step, and it was important. He peeked around himself for a moment. Ember leered down from an elevated hill, holding a stick in one hand, and the other pressed to her hip. The stick lit on fire. Crackers and toast.

Nearly all of the Elves in the forest had gathered to watch the process, for multiple reasons. One, it was an important step and they wanted to support their defender. Two, they had never seen someone this old attempt the process. Granted, there was a major downside for the great gathering of Wood Elves... unintended consequences, in fact.

As far as Mahogany remembered, meetings this large had not occurred ever. He recalled there was a reason it shouldn’t be done, rather than a lack of reason to gather. When remaining in close proximity to one another, their consciousness overlapped, releasing the same kind of emanations that drew the Blight to their positions. It didn’t affect them if they remained in the hierarchical structure, keeping a certain distance and spread from others. When they huddled up close during the evenings, however, a more communal effect engaged.

The effects had been gradual. Birch finished some of Pine’s sentences. Elm and Ash synched up completely, even though they had no direct connection to one another. They could just feel the other group, including pending actions. When speaking as one group to another, nothing was different from the usual. They’d figured out mind-to-mind communication over distance centuries ago. But proximity took that effect and forced it on all of them in the enclosed space.

Each Elven consciousness acted as its own transmitter and waystation. So long as they didn’t actively fight against the effect and bunker their minds into a set body, they felt present in an open mental forum where they could speak without needing to be physically present at all.

When Ember had walked into the radius of this effect, she’d been furious with Artorian for making them wait this long. To do what she had instructed him to do in the first place. To everyone else, the ripples she created on their mindspace were severe. Her single-minded focus burned like a bright, flaming blade, cutting through the ethereal pond of their minds and causing steam to form along the way. Elves cleared the path for her long before she was in the area as a result.

The unnatural movements unsettled her so much she asked what was going on. Ember rarely asked anything about social convention. “You mean to say there is a communal mindspace present… with everyone here?”

Elm agreed with the assessment, calm as a blade of grass in front of a rabbit. “When you came through, your mind moved like a fiery torch. We’ve become accustomed to this when speaking directly, but to experience it as a single collective was… something else entirely.”

The Fire Mage considered the words, sat down, and calmed herself through martial meditation. The relief of her restraint washed over the entire congregation. Tension released itself as a large sigh, the pinprick of Ember’s fury no longer slicing through their combined thinking.

When Artorian entered the zone after the communal space had formed, groups of Elves around him received the worst headache they’d ever had. It was a burdensome pain; one the old man didn’t know how to cease for their benefit. They confronted him on the issue quickly. “High Human. What did you do to cause yourself such misery?”

Artorian scratched the top of his head. “Well my boy, I was running through Essence-combination sets. I was inspecting and observing how light functions, and noticed there’s light present that one cannot normally see. I was being thorough, so I tried to overcome a hurdle by inspecting a spiderweb. Those strands tend to be invisible to the naked eye, even up close at times. Cycling light-vision allowed me to see where light wasn’t, and where it wasn’t as much.

“So, I saw the web clear as a red stone laying on a yellow-sanded beach. In terms of black and white, but I saw it nonetheless. Using my sight in this manner too much gives me terrible headaches. I try to limit myself, but I just can’t easily tell when I go over that limit until I cross it. As you can see, by then it’s too late.”

Maple groaned at him. Artorian perked up, as it had been an odd groan. He’d known it was Maple, but that group of Elves wasn’t here. It was… sort of like the Blight, when it spoke to him all that time ago, except friendlier. Without the looming hunger and malice that made it feel like he was part of the buffet.

“Maple? How…?” The old man looked around, and did not see them.

Walnut, Willow, and Tulip all pointed off to the distance where Maple was. Artorian still could not see them. The connection was just spread too wide while they all kept themselves open, increasing the potency of the mental communication network. They hadn’t expected the human to be included, but it seemed to be open to anyone sensitive enough.

The realization that this made them horribly vulnerable to Blight twanged through their network like a badly-plucked instrument string. The thought fearfully marinated, but a mote of light in the mental forum calmed the rising concern with ease. What an odd sensation.

Artorian had altered his Aura to fuel the soothing effect of starlight. The calming, comforting waves washed over the sizable congregation in his immediate presence. The comfort spread and grew, bouncing against other minds in the forum as they too relaxed, even without their physical forms being within the radius of his effect.

Just like that, Artorian found a way to wriggle out of infusing his brain right now. How interesting! The philosopher thought that this kind of connection must be similar in some way to the Choir’s sympathy effect. When they used song to bolster one another. Rather than song as a medium, the Wood Elves must have the original, unfiltered version.

This was just a shared space, one untainted by meaning or function. This was a public meeting place for open discussion, and a unique one at that. Considering how the mechanics of such a space might work, the old man thought out loud, <Hello everyone. I’m the Human, Artorian. Feel free to call me by the spirit name if that's more convenient for you… did this work?>

A great majority of Wood Elves still had the headache, but a response did come.

As normal, Mahogany was always the most collected of them, and his sonorous words pleasantly added to the conversation.

<Starlight Spirit, a pleasure to have you converse with us. This method is normally applied on a spirit-to-spirit connection, but it is my wish to welcome you to… we’ll find a name. To those I have had the pleasure to meet directly, I am Eldest Mahogany. I was warned by my forebears to avoid congregations such as this, and it is my best guess that this communal space was what they were trying to prevent. Had there been no protection for us, I would have called to disband and disperse immediately.>

Mahogany spread a feeling of elated invitation, and decided on the spot that he preferred the term for the space that was coming from Artorian. <I welcome all to the Forum. Make known your spirit, and speak freely!>

Chapter Twenty-Two

Trepidation filled the air. Anyone that spoke would be heard by all; not just the spirit they wanted to directly commune with. Everyone. Every single Wood Elf, both young and old in the Forum would hear their words. The taste of discomfort hung within the Forum space, until a mote of fire burst into being.

Artorian knew this mote very well from when she’d spent weeks to months in his Center helping him create, guiding and directing the improvements to his solar gyroscope. It was Ember. Hold the pastry a moment… if she could freely enter this space… couldn’t he?

Desire was all that was necessary. A blooming mote of starlight popped into existence. <Oh, this is... I like this! This is nice!>

His physical form sat to meditate. Artorian was vaguely aware of it, but similar to how he wasn’t present in his body during active cultivation, he wasn’t present there now.

He was in this space. This Forum. A zone that contained and expanded his mind.

A Wood Elf child took the leap, and a mote of dull green popped in. It zipped around in a panic as it didn’t know how to undo what it had just done, but a hearty brown mote popped in shortly after. The dull green mote zipped to it, then hovered around the mental presence of the Eldest Mahogany. With active presences in the Forum, Elves made themselves comfortable and joined en masse, populating the zone as they all began to talk over one another.

The cacophony was unbearable. Ember flared her mote, already knowing how to control herself while in this mental representation of her personality. <Calm yourselves, spirits.>

The minds in the Forum silenced instantly. The Fire Soul was not someone you wanted to backtalk, not even here. Perhaps especially here. Ember ignored the wayward thoughts of ‘Fire Soul’. She’d deal with it for now. Ember decided to lay down some ground rules since Mahogany was currently forced to provide security for too many people at the same time. <If we all speak at once, we’ll all get a headache. I don’t want another headache today.>

Oh dear, that really stilled the Forum.

<You’re all able to change the color of the personality mote that represents you. It seems to come as the color of your strongest Essence channels, but it’s entirely cosmetic.> Ember changed herself to bright blue to set an example. <It is my vote that we take a specific color if one intends to speak, with other colors designated as ‘go ahead’ and ‘no’.>

One of the motes turned bright blue to match Ember’s color signature, then turned a vibrant yellow. It was their human. Of course, it was abyssal Artorian that figured it out first. This was a candy shop to him, and as usual he had to try all the flavors along the entire rainbow as his mote flashed through the available gambit. Still, the example worked well enough.

Ember turned bright red to say ‘no’. She wasn’t done. Many of the motes turned some variation of green or brown. Ember supposed that was a decently common color choice for Wood Elves, and thought those should be good as neutral colors.

<Browns and greens as neutral, no meaning. Yellow as inquiry, blue as acceptance, red as denial. All in favor? She handled the procedure with militant efficiency, cutting the chaff from the matter. It took some doing, but blues overwhelmingly filled the Forum.

When the motes returned to browns and greens, Artorian’s mote pulsed bright yellow. He had a question. Because of course he did. Ember’s mote flickered from orange to red dangerously fast, but the host of blues surrounding him outmatched her vote. She forcibly calmed herself. It was a shoddy system, but it worked.

<Could we perchance adopt the interior of a structure per some kind of visual for this space? I have to admit I’m having serious difficulty keeping track of everyone’s color. I know of a room design in the Phoenix Region that is purely meant for large crowds to be able to speak to one another easily.>

Blue lights flickered through the zone. <Thank you. I will attempt to keep the mental image in mind as I describe it. The general shape of the interior is called an ‘Amphitheater’. It contains tiers of steps that go up in a circle, leading away from a flat central area. It allows voices to spread out and sit on the stacking tiers, providing easy visual access to anyone else. It will be convenient to see the colors without overlooking anyone.>

The form of a shiny marble interior with hanging red draperies flickered in the empty zone. It was horrendous for Artorian to keep the entire thing in mind, but he discovered that after showing a detailed piece he no longer had to do so. The benefit of the communal space was that each Elf had their own memory, and they applied that memory like puzzle pieces atop everyone else’s. The pieces and patches that matched solidified in the Forum. <This locale is also called the ‘Senate’. Please do use whichever term you prefer.>

A warm interior of smoothed, reflective gleaming marble surrounded them. Draped flags hung vertical from the insides of a circular open ceiling where a dome should have been, but the old man had forgotten the roof. It was now just an open space, but what a beautiful space it was.

Artorian moseyed his mote down to the center of the Senate floor, where a big flat plane dominated the space. As he did, the forest-color motes zipped around to find a nice niche for themselves. While their physical forms needed to adhere to a hierarchy, none was in place here, so they freely chose the seats they liked the most.

Even if they could not technically sit. Regardless of being without hands in this space, Artorian mentally rubbed his together. Somehow everyone knew and Ember was immediately suspicious. He turned yellow, and she exploded into shades of a blazing red fury. Whatever he was about to do, he shouldn’t.

Blue flooded her surroundings. She was outvoted. Again. Her regret to institute and suggest this system was clear. <While we’re all here… there’s something I was hoping to try!>

<I’ll kill you.> Ember’s unpleasant whisper was barely heard, but her crimson burned hot. The surrounding green motes turned brown as they gave that mote some serious mental space. Her ire was rising.

<My idea concerns an invitation.> His mote turned to face Ember’s, which was… impossible not to locate. <I’d like to see if it’s possible through this method rather than through direct contact, since I have a good grasp on what defenses I need to lower for it to work. Would you all like to see my Center? I know some of you have been curious. If you promise not to touch, and only look, I invite you!>

The starlight mote popped, altering its shape and molding into a sizable orb. The luminous sphere then formed a cylinder. While one end of the cylinder remained present in the Forum, the other end… well.

Artorian had done something ridiculous again. Since the Forum was just a communal mental space, nothing was preventing him from coming and going. This was just another technique requiring mental focus, and he’d been practicing those like his life depended on it. Mostly due to rampant fireballs.

Rather than return to his body and sever the mental bond, he held to the Auric connection keeping him linked to the Forum. The change to a unified Aura made clear why Ember called it ‘Presence’. Not only did one feel whole, gaining an incredible awareness of one’s body, you also gained vast insight on any Essence movements within the unified field. Even minute flows of energy could be noticed with the barest brush of attention, and the Forum connection was no exception.

Something had to power and maintain it. Focusing on the string of energy, Artorian found a compound Essence containing seventeen units of water, three of air, and nine of fire that had not been present previously. He was certain this combination had a name, but there was no static push of conceptual thought behind it. He’d let someone else decide what to call it; now was time for the fun part!

Gripping the connection like a rope, he released another excited, “Whe~e~e!”

Artorian spelunked right into his Center like a diver jumping from the highest springboard, Essence connection in hand. The old man tied the ‘rope’ of the Forum effect to his Aura as he heroically guided his resplendent mote into his refinement technique. He mentally squared his shoulders and twisted his hands around the rope.

With all the flair of a street performer, the rope unfurled and gained size, forming a cylindrical tunnel fueled by Essence. Using the tunnel, he connected one zone of Essence to another. He thought of it as a hallway between otherwise closed rooms of a house; an intermediary between the Forum and his Center.

After Rosewood’s lessons in weaving Essence together, this was child’s play. It did cost him a sizable chunk of energy to activate the effect, but that was worth it to him as streaming motes of light bypassed defenses that otherwise kept advanced cultivation techniques invisible to a cultivator’s eye.

Curious motes flashed excited rainbows of colors and enthusiastically zipped around. ‘Ooh’ing and ‘aah’ing at the various interlocking mechanisms, one of the zealous motes touched part of the gyroscope to inspect it deeper, and Artorian felt the transgression. That youngster was unceremoniously kicked from the space like a star falling in reverse. <If you can’t follow the only rule, you can’t stay!>

The Wood Elves had never so intimately seen a cultivation Center not of their own unique designs. Theirs lived and breathed inside of their Core-tree. The tree method cultivated by drawing in energy from the Elves, which acted as the gathering roots for the earthly Essence. After supplying it to their Core, nature did all the refining for them. This allowed Wood Elves to worry less about the building process of their energy gathering, and instead focus on their usage of it, sharpening their skills without the need to pay attention to keeping their Center balanced.

“An eye-opening experience for all involved,” Mahogany’s voice resounded. “We thank you, Starlight Spirit.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

Access to the Forum space and Artorian’s unified Aura had forced Ember to change her approach toward Artorian. Once it had become clear that he would survive the process of his inner, body, and external Presence uniting into a lesser, more primal version of Presence, she’d left to go on a stress-relieving rampage. For her, that probably meant something like lifting a mountain and putting it elsewhere.

The old man took horrifying risks that would murder a cultivator twelve times over, had he not the benefit of an incredible support structure. In fact, the local groups were convinced it was that very support which caused the calculating fox to take the risk in the first place.

A full season later brought them to the point where his third try would begin. Here he was again, but with significantly increased anti-brat measures. Baobab kept a guarding eye on him. Ember leered down from an elevated hill, and a whole host of passive observers remained active in his system thanks to the Forum.

Artorian took a deep breath. Under all these watchful eyes, this time he really wasn’t wiggling out of it. Third time's the charm. It was time to infuse. The Essence had been gathered, and the second he’d had enough… their favorite Mage had dragged him to the clearing, ignoring any and all protests.

While the old man was uncertain of the amount needed, Ember wouldn’t lead him astray. She’d said he had enough, so enough he had. It was time to roleplay a cleric, and have a little faith.

His sun core rumbled and shone. Rather than forming Chi threads directly to his Center, he poured Essence into the completed honeycomb pattern that formed his webway. The finished webway did what it was supposed to do: it cycled the energy. Essence poured right back into his Center as Artorian drew from his newly unified Aura. Primal Presence was such a nice, convenient thing to have. If it didn’t have such a high likelihood of killing the user, he would have loved to spread this method around due to how efficient it made Chi manipulation.

The body was just one possible medium. The Presence field that filled and surrounded him was another. His control over the energy felt natural when it rippled through his Presence, and hookah use had helped refine his control. Until the day he Managed to bind himself to a Law, he was of the mind that he’d be reliant on it to make progress.

When the rotational free flow of Essence in motion reached a critical point, he huffed away all distracting thoughts, instead focusing on the connections the honeycomb had to his Meridians. He spindled the beginnings of Chi threads, preparing to invest the energy up along his spine and brain in one fell swoop.

Spiraling a proper Chi thread into being, he fractured it into individual splinters before rebinding the energetic thread into a finely tuned and woven final product. Rosewood would have his head if he didn’t at minimum have something to make precise, sturdy alterations with. A haphazard ‘twisting’ of Essence to form a Chi thread was an insulting faux pas in clothiering; and an even worse no-no for infusing one’s own body. Sure, you could do it with a raw thread, but the scathing commentary confirmed that wasn’t allowed to happen.

“Don’t you dare use sub-par methods,” Rosewood hissed under her breath, her tri-color mote of vibrant pinks and violets judging him as he worked. “You have a nice solid Core, now wrap the weave around and keep it at a medium tension. Medium tension! I want to see an instrument grade string!”

Not about to disappoint, Artorian threaded his Essence from the webway to the spinal connection and let the advanced thread loose to what it was designed to do. The thread splintered off when it connected to surrounding cells, slowing down for a moment. It then drew on the source—his Center—and reformed itself into the advanced thread, splintering to continue spreading further through cell clusters. This repeated as it spread through his body. The process was unpleasant… but bearable.

Artorian lurched as a copious chunk of his Essence was sucked away against his will. Even if he’d wanted to hold it back, what the Essence needed to do was clear. Once enough of a staging platform was crafted, the shaped Essence charged the gates at full force. Much as it had with his Meridians, the thread bucked wild and nearly slipped from his control.

His cultivation rank fell with the sensation of slipping over a cliff, and the pull made him physically tense up. Touching the pre-existing paths of his Meridians redirected the advanced thread. Fueled by the idea that it was unacceptable for it to be ‘raw thread’, this advanced thread saw the existing network as an infection that it needed to replace.

Complaints and warnings rang from the Elven motes in his Center. He wasn’t supposed to be redoing his Meridian connections right now! The advanced threads surrounded his heart as they’d done initially, overlapping, tensing, then forming a mold over the original Chi thread before absorbing it completely.

Artorian coughed and his eyes fluttered open for a moment. Who had allowed a horse to kick him in the chest? The old man coughed hard, his heart skipping a beat as Essence flooded inwards, encapsulating the organ fully as the Essence replaced the purified cells. Forcibly Infusing, Artorian’s mind allowed him to detail the experience in a manner he didn’t understand.

Replaced cells turned ‘inside out’ at the moment of absorption. The energy that made up his matter collapsed into a single pinprick of a spot, and an Essence replica replaced it. It would have been incredibly interesting to study… had it not been happening to his heart!

His breath hitched and he heaved while being held. It didn’t hurt like he thought it would…? Taking a moment to frown from the shattered expectation, he looked inwards. So much was moving all by itself, but some of it felt… guided. Altered.

Sure enough, motes of verdant light directed the advanced threads of Chi along more optimal paths. It was the Wood Elven idea of optimal, but he wasn’t going to stop the help he was getting. Better a foreign system than a dead one.

His heart, which had been fighting to pump the blood his body needed, eased. Not in the sense that it ceased beating, but that it accomplished more with less. Additional flow pushed through his veins with greater control, and the previously pounding vessel calmed. Now it was managing the tasks with a fraction of the energy and strain.

Artorian couldn’t help but smile as the pain faded. He knew the task wasn’t done, but oh… what a relief that his friends had managed to get this under control. While the threads surged to replace existing binding lines, the real task was the climb up his spine. Before he could direct his attention to his bones, a hoarse set of coughs broke from his being as his lungs underwent similar treatment. The advanced thread was too difficult to influence for the Elves that had not received Rosewood’s guidance, and she couldn't be everywhere at once.

His own attention now focused on survival and damage control. No amount of wanting to progress beat out the need to be alive. He’d get an earful from Ember later, but couldn’t be concerned about that right now. Artorian forced a stable breath, regaining control of the tasks as sweat ran down his brow. To his surprise, Ember’s voice was both present, and calm. <One at a time. Breathe. The connection is at the middle of the spine.>

The mention let him focus and find the original bucking thread. Holding it by the proverbial horns, he directed it up along the spine, guiding the replacement process. Surround. Encapsulate. Converge. Infuse.

He prized his mind more than the rest of his body combined, and so was careful about this progress. Without needing to say it, the threaded Essence caught and understood his intent as he worked. Slowing down considerably, it ceased to buck and fight him. The urge to replace inferior bindings was replaced by a need for safe progression.

Relieved, he thought for a moment on the ‘neurons’ formed so far in his Aura. Was it learning and responding as he built it up? Artorian willed the threads to store more energy before continuing, even as his cultivation rank plummeted and his Aura dimmed all the way down to fishy-pathetic. Much of his refined Essence roiled free, ready for use in his swirling sun core. That was fine; he had control.

Showtime.

The connections reached the base of his skull, and he continued upwards. Slowly, carefully. Treading with focus and care as Ember’s physical frame took a knee behind him and held his body tightly. He didn't notice at first, but it did get warmer… more comforting… strange. Why would Ember-

*Hgnnn*! Artorian’s teeth gnashed and grit together as his world suffered sickening vertigo. When the first thread as much as dipped into his grey matter, all the Essence in his Center tilted as if someone had angrily flipped an hourglass. Refined Essence flooded his brain, and his thoughts stopped as he physically passed out from the experience.

All the mental presences in his Center were kicked out, automatically ejected to the Forum as the invitation cylinder collapsed. Mental bonds were not a ‘thing’ while one was unconscious.

With the first brain cell connection made, Ember caught him when his unconscious body flopped. The Fire Mage gave the philosopher’s bald head a pat. Like this, he was finally less trouble than the children. She was happy about that, even if she occasionally enjoyed the old man’s antics.

Though he’d gone a very roundabout way to get it done, she could tell the Infusion was going as planned. Good. When he woke, he was going to feel a lot different.

“Take a nice, long nap, you crazy starchild.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

The Vizier was in a poor mood. With great pomp and barely hidden irritation, he dropped a hastily scribbled vellum into the hand of a scurrying servant. Leaning back in his chair, the ornate snake of a man impatiently chewed on the inside of his cheek.

“Abysss that Advissser.” Five meager years since the gift of Emerald Eyes, and she’d completely pulled the whole scheme down on him. He was but a fly trapped in the machinations of her web. Or rather, plumage. Since her ‘coronation’ into the Royal fold, the new ‘princess’ of Aurum had altered her image.

She was the ‘Swan’ now. *Phah*.

That goose of a woman would hold his eternal ire, even if the Divine Mistress had plied her craft to alter the flesh of her freshly-risen Noble. That position should have been his! Had his plans not seen success? Had his hosts not brought wealth? Has the pride of his legions not brought honor? They were even Emerald Eyes for Abyss’ sake! How dare that wretched tart degrade his worth so!

Biting his tongue, he just about hissed as a messenger entered his quarters. Even admitting a servant was a privilege stripped from him. The insult nearly made him molt out of distaste. He nervously itched at his arm, his outer layer of skin doing a poor job of shedding. It was just the stress. “Ssspeak.”

The messenger bowed. “A report for the honored Vizier.”

A golden hand waved the remaining formalities away. He hadn’t the mood or patience for it, burdened as he was by years of discontent and disfavor. “The chosen have returned, they report success in their ventures. A suitable mountain has been located. It is rumored to be the tallest in the world.”

The hand motion continued rolling with an irritated hiss; the Vizier just wanted the messenger to get on with it so he could start the formulation of yet another political avenue of attack. One that might get him out of this blasted mire. Of course his chosen reported success. They hadn’t done anything but in the five years he’d had them within his coils.

Clever little brats grew up into clever adults, and what an absolute pain they’d been. With every victory came some small, seemingly minor setback that rained insults and fury upon his house from the one he wished to serve. Like splinters too small to do anything about, the chosen always delivered their reports as ‘success’. Yet, they also always contained minor schemes that caused naught but frustration.

Matters too small to report, yet too large to not notice. Why had he found such bothersome chosen? What kind of awful, sick, twisted mind had taught them to think of such cruel and evil little tricks? The Vizier was so frustrated that he wanted to chew on something. He only started coming back to his senses somewhere in the middle of the messenger relaying her report. “With the arrival of the latest batch of refugees, the dark ones have come to take their agreed upon share. One has remained behind to request an audience, Your Grace.”

A tired eyebrow rose. “My audience? You must have meant the Princess’ audience.”

The messenger girl bowed, and shook her head. “No, Your Grace, he was quite insistent that he meet with Amon-r…”

An undue pressure instantly silenced her words as the messenger petrified. Her body—unspeaking and idle—remained in the pose she’d been transfigured into. The Vizier needed a moment. Someone that wished an audience, and knew his name? Such was not to be, his name was not to be known, much less spoken.

He would not have it. He was Vizier! *Argh*.

Shed-skins be burned. He needed to know more, and here he’d petrified the messenger. His thumbs pressed to his temples, tongue flicking out to lick the air. Brushing his golden robes off, he stood and paced about. Long fingers snaked along the hilt of a hammer that leaned near the fireplace, and he worked out his anger by beating the petrified servant into fine powder. The Vizier screamed out his anger, releasing his frustration physically.

Deep breaths heaved from his lungs and sweat had muddled the gold paint coating his skin. The honorific charcoal lines were wet and runny. He nearly threw the hammer at the wall when he saw the dark cloaked figure chilling in the shadows with folded arms. As if the figure was better than him!

The figure showed a toothless smile, a greenish haze aglow within the deep insides of his roughened throat. Words sounded as if the man had been breathing smoke from a house fire his entire life, as his voice was hoarse and rugged. “Still sensitive about the name, Amon? Come now, what’s such small detail between old friends?”

The Vizier pointed the hammer at the man like it was a light rapier. “You shall speak no further of such things, Devil.”

The hooded figure pressed gloved fingers to his chest in mocked insult. “Devil? Me? Oh no. I would not insult my superiors by claiming such a lofty title. I’m here, because long ago I came to owe you a favor. From what I hear, an old friend of mine could really use a favor.”

The smile beneath the hood was… unsettling. The sickening green glow only strengthened as it seeped from the open mouth as a heavy smog. It would have dripped to the floor if it didn’t fully discorporate on the way down. “Offers of favor come not for free, messenger of the dead. What favor could I have possibly done for one who works for the infernal?”

With a shrug, the figure dismissed the question. “It matters not to me that one does not remember. It only matters that I clear the slate.”

His ominous vision glanced to the pulverized rock on the floor. “Just as it didn't matter that you didn’t notice the assassin sent by your competitor, yet killed the creature anyway.”

The truth of that statement didn’t matter to the Vizier. “Who are you?”

Stifling a laugh, the infernal creature steepled its fingers, one of Amon’s habits which the Vizier was certain this man hadn’t seen him do. He answered the question, “I will hold to your unconventional unpleasantries, and withhold my name. You may call me… Favor… as working with me will garner you much of it.

Though, the first favor shall be free.” The malicious glowing smile only grew. “Do not send your chosen to the mountain, and certainly do not venture there yourself. Other plans are in motion, and if you simply remove yourself from the equation… success will fall into your lap.”

Had the Vizier gripped his hammer any tighter, the handle would have snapped. “You dare tell a Vizier what to do?”

The gravelly voice of the infernal Essence user deepened. “I dare… for only this will clean the slate.”

Biting his lip, Amon knew he was outmatched. None that knew of his power dared challenge him if they were not—in some way—able to negate it entirely, or overpower him in some other fashion. The hammer lowered. “You were always a sensible one. Even before the golden flesh-Queen took ahold of your destiny.”

The Vizier did his best to remain collected, and decided to do so with an amphora of wine. “Speak not such traitorous spew within these walls.”

The figure shrugged, “None can hear me if I do not wish to be heard. The shaper Mage may have let the power go to her head, but to those who know… she is a matter of laughter. She may play Royal or Elf all she likes. Your forcibly-pointed ears did not escape notice.”

Amon downed a mouthful of wine before even considering those words. No. Forget that. He chose to forget the words entirely lest they influence him. Instead he attacked the main concern. “Why should I not send my chosen to the mountain? I knew it was found before the report.”

Favor’s oozing voice spoke from behind the Vizier, occupying a different corner of shadows entirely. He hadn’t even seen the hooded figure move, and he was direly unsettled by that fact. “For you will lose them, old friend. I know the spies from which you fetch your corvids and whisk your rat-footed messages. You have not been told that you will be betrayed and left to rot at the foot of that mountain. You have not been told that the undead will swarm those lands after your raiders claim the prize. If you go… all you shall take is the fall.”

Amon dropped his amphora. The bronze relic rolled across the floor with a clang. No servants came to clean it, and that bit him deeper than the conversation with the veiled stranger. “We have a deal with the dead! We feed their legions the bodies of those who cannot serve the living well enough. I have spoken and strategized with many a… necromancer. This deal was favorable for the pursuit of all parties involved. Discord and discontent is sowed across the world. Madness shall spread, and people shall flee. Flee straight into the waiting, accepting, loving embrace of the Mistress… as their lives are turned to a higher purpose.”

The hooded figure cut off the Vizier before he could continue to explain his delusion. “Either as servant under the Golden Hand, or as servants of the dead. Such a luxury of choice. I wonder which you will choose at the end of this path you so briskly tread upon.”

“Bah.” Amon spat on the remains of the ‘servant’ that had apparently been an assassin. He tired of this conversation. “Why should I believe your words, glow-mouth?”

That dreadful gravelly voice made the Vizier feel awful each time the man spoke. It was something about the depth… as if the throat used wasn’t alive enough to properly make the sounds. “For while you are a flame, Amon. I am but the moth, inexorably drawn. Your ventures have been seeing success, yet the results have only brought you low. How strange that victory would cause… demotions.

“Again and again the gold bangles have been taken from your arms and body, until the last earring was wrested from you. Even now, the ritual paints on your form are sub-par, when they used to be applied with the most exquisite of lathers. Is it really my words that need proving? Or is it perhaps the hidden intent of others that need unearthing? Such is my offer to you, old friend. Such… is my Favor.”

Setbacks had caused the Vizier several bouts of poor health. His servants had mysteriously left one after the other, ‘repurposed’ to other services. Fortune had not been kind, and the figure’s words did not carry lies. He could smell it on his tongue, flicking the forked member from between his lips to have a taste of the air. “I… shall entertain this. What then, do the dead need a mountain for?”

The hooded figure shook his head. “It is not what the mountain is needed for, but rather what the mountain is in the way of. It entraps an ally to our cause that we dearly need to free. It simply happens to require a… roundabout method. This is why I suggest you let the new ‘princess’ take the sacrificial plunge for you, rather than take it yourself.

“What we need rests deep, deep in the depths of that mountain. Which they will no doubt seek to explore after a little bird whispers about secret passages to the inhabitants. All these gathered raiders will be a great feast to awaken our Ally. Golden Hand raiders will defeat the denizens of the mountain, and flood its innards. When the way is cleared, they will be but bodies for the cause.”

The hooded figure smiled, and the stench was awful as Amon again tasted the air. How putrid. This thing was definitely only a vessel for whatever voice was speaking through it. “What, then, is the cost of a Favor?”

The mocking steeple of the hooded figure returned. “Ah, onto business then. It is always pleasing how swiftly the intelligent turn to see the value in things. I shall grant a maximum of three favors. Each favor shall cost you one of your chosen. Yet… each favor will gain you more than you might imagine it at first would.”

That was a hard meal to swallow. It would take a few days to ascertain the validity of this ‘free’ favor, yet he already smelled its accuracy. His chosen were the linchpins of his success, but dark favor wasn’t something one took lightly. “It will not harm me to lose one chosen. So… one favor I shall take now.”

The hooded glow-mouth nodded in delight. “Then one of the emerald eyes I shall take, and one favor I shall bestow.” Glove removed, a skeletal hand and arm reached into his own distended, gaping mouth to pull free a goop-covered memory stone. The hand dropped the shiny marble into shadow, and a weight appeared in the Vizier’s hand.

“The first favor I grant is one of Power. The use of it, you understand. The purpose of it, I shall reveal. Delay the Golden Hand’s foray to the mountain for two decades. Your princess has gathered thousands of troops, yet she does not understand the dangers of it as I do. That region holds many rogue cultivators, which increases the location’s might. Tens, if not hundreds of thousands of raiders will be necessary. The power I have granted shall ensure that you are able to accomplish this task. Whether you do… or do not… is your choice. Yet it is rare that one granted this power does not seek to use it in full. I would see you relish in its knowledge and sate your hunger for fame. For that… is what it will do.”

Amon pressed the stone to his forehead, and he knew. “I...oh. Oh. I see. This… I understand. It makes me consider what your other favors may grant.”

The undead visitor glowed a green smile. “Does this one request the second favor?”

Burdened with knowledge of unholy power and its uses, a similar green glow began to burn in the back of the Vizier’s throat. He was already greedily using the gifts he had been granted. “Oh, I do, old friend. I do.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

Artorian shielded his eyes as he peered into the distance. A fantastically dressed Pine, Birch, and Human were all standing in the middle of a lake. They stood on the water, using a widespread net of water Essence to gather water tension and remain stable. This method copied water striders in some sense, but for creatures magnitudes larger.

Ember kept guard nearby, standing arms crossed at the edge of the nearby outlet to the bay. Her frilled petal dress matched her healthy crimson hair swimmingly. She’d filled out from her previous grandmother’s frame over the last few years; back to a spartan-built powerhouse sporting sleek and obvious muscle. Power visibly corded beneath her Mana skin.

Little was happening in the physical world, mainly because the Elves-turned-nomads were keeping a sharp eye on the oily, Blighted Core-tree in the far distance. It was such a filthy, obvious, smoke-belching source that you didn’t need the phantom wails to realize it was one of the sources that the Blight used to repopulate its smoky forms.

Where the Blight had become stifled, the Elves had flourished. The Senate had done majestic things to their combined growth. Something akin to a golden age had occurred since the advent of their shared mental prowess. A revolution of cultivation sharing and advancements had been brought forth by a foolish human, and his invitation to what any Wood Elf had previously considered a racial secret:

The inner workings of a cultivation Core. What one had begun, others had spread. It had been the young ones at first; opening the path from the Forum to their tree Centers, showing where they were stuck, and what was causing them to experience blockages and difficulties directly, rather than through troubled explanation. With the secrets of elder trees revealed by the machinations of the young, a joined effort to grow the saplings as best as one could had arisen between them.

No longer did a sapling depend purely on their parent tree for guidance. Now the entire culture shared, and shared freely. When it was safe to do so, great orders of Elves each opened pathways to their Cores, showing how their Core-tree operated. While exploring refinement enhancements which had caused even elders to get stuck, younger trees had found easy solutions. Centuries of cultivation progress was made in the handful span of seasons as Wood Elves traveled from hometree to hometree, purging the region of Blight with ever more powerful and methodical efficiency.

The Forum was a constant cacophony of activity. Considerably improved methods of communication had been devised; ones that did not deafen the rest of the Forum upon use. To Artorian’s delight, it had once more been the youngest among them with the most fascinating of ideas. Their exposure to so many cultivation methods, ideas, and freely shared techniques had opened their eyes and minds to combinations the older of their flock could not imagine. Permutations of existing techniques, variations in simple patterns causing great effects, abilities such as standing on water accomplished easily.

What had been a society of shy, separated, distanced groups were now a thriving nomadic species. It was going to take many, many more decades, but the saplings of the future would gain cultivation Cores in brand new hybrid trees that vastly outstripped any that lived now. What had been shattered and stale was unified and allowed to evolve anew.

Entire new species of trees were developing as Core-tree techniques improved, merged, or were replaced altogether in favor of something better they had found. They’d even crafted a brand-new type of plant specifically meant to combat the Blight’s toxic air when they were close to a spewing source.

All the plant did was purify the air, creating good oxygen at a rate that vastly outstripped existing plant outflow through some truly ingenious applications of air Essence. They planted these filtration ferns everywhere they went to passively combat the Blight. They were sure that, one day, this plant might save the world from itself.

<Hive cluster located.> Young voices cut through the Forum as the newly minted hunters declared that they had found their target. Artorian perked up, but otherwise didn’t move a muscle as he replied.

<Understood. Birch, can you take point?> A sense of agreement flowed through the Forum, signaling a positive answer. Mentally the Elves disconnected, but only because physically they were running across the lake and towards the valley, bounding over the edge as a group.

Their descent was swift, but the ground—rather than their bones—rippled and broke in waves as one would expect of water when they made three-point contact with the floor. The impact made a quake of Essence roil from their bodies, absorbing all of the harm that gravity would otherwise have demanded of them.

They hurried, but a growing set of lights in the Forum said they might arrive too late. <I’ve got aggressive movement coming at my position!>

The chipper young voice shouted into the Forum, but the sapling stood and held his ground. He was ready to bolt if that was the conglomerate order. Voices joined and spoke as one. Easily fifty to sixty Elves had joined a single conscious mind and voice within the senate, and their incredible intelligence decided on a course of action before the sapling finished its outcry. <Starlight, please channel to the sapling. Sapling, prepare to emit!>

Artorian imbued his starlight Aura. Unlike years before, he was no longer slapping the Essence combinations in and altering the identity effects on the fly. Now all of his Essence was ever-present in his Aura, and differing amounts of it were activated depending on what was needed.

Hookah-assisted control was paramount, but the effects were a marvel after plenty of time and practice. The starlight Aura didn’t cause a lick of light. His physical being remained entirely unchanged as it stood on the lake, overlooking the scene with Pine. The effect moved inwards and pressed through the connection of his Core, entered the Forum, and was passed like a baton to the eagerly outstretched hand of the sapling about to get Blight-mobbed.

The connection was made in time, and a retributive Aura of sunlight exploded from the previously hidden sapling. He charged the Hive of Blight, releasing a sanctioned, unbridled warcry that made even Ember smile approvingly. The youngster set off traps that had been set by the Blight. Huge pipelines wrenched from the ground and bellowed infernal wails. Phantom shapes formed and counter-charged towards the miniature sun vaulting straight at their hive.

No amount of billowing Blight was enough.

The young Elf blitzed through the disintegrating smoky masses and into the target like a guided lightning strike. With Essence-enhanced speed, the boy was a blur of motion, eradicating swallowing darkness in a straight path. Eventually he got close enough to the hive to strip the outer layer of fireproof muck from it.

The Blight screamed bloody murder at the boy. It was helplessly forced to watch from outside the radius of murdering light. The lad smiled at the abyssal enemy that had taken its parents, and given it a life of fear and grief. This was payback! This was retribution! This was…

*Fwoomph*!

Ember’s spiraling tower of cleansing flame ripped through the vulnerable Hive-connection. The swirling pillar of ebon-orange compressed to the width of a boat’s mast as it bored a hole straight down to the Hive’s source. The young Elf, the surrounding Wood Elf Scouts, and all current lookouts turned on their heels and ran for their lives.

Atop the burning pole, a white-hot ball concentrated and collapsed in on itself. It looked suspiciously like Artorian’s cultivation Center. A rumble went through the landscape as the Fire Mage’s searing ray breached all the way down into protective bedrock. Ember compressed the bear-sized fireball to the size of a pea in an instant.

Her hand reached for the flame, clasping it from afar as she released a burning scream. The physical exertion controlled the pea-sized orb as her clasped hands struck downwards, and the white-hot solar orb split the inside of the searing beam, guided like a water drop through a straw. In a blinding, explosive flash of light, the gaseous pockets, oily masses, and infernal corruption beneath the hive tore behemoth-sized chunks from the landscape as the world trembled.

The explosion wasn’t just thunderous and deafening; it caused earthquakes for miles in every direction as hundreds of tons of earth spilled vertically into the air as the main gaseous pockets combusted. The amount of fire it generated was… exhilarating for Ember, and awe inspiring for everyone else even remotely close.

Every inch of the heat and flame that the earth coughed up became hers to control. All that heat, volume, mass, and raw power she took and compressed. She kept the gathered power in orb-shaped stasis as the risen earth crashed back down like a mountain that had just toppled over.

<Does she have it?> a conglomeration of Elven voice queried.

<She has it,> a calming, patient, human voice replied.

Ember crafted a mimicry of her earlier solar orb. Rather than compress it down to the size of a pea, this one was… massive. With the hole gouged in the earth and the majority of the pathway cleared, she copied the initial attack. The impact of a Mana meteor shuddered the landscape once again as the ground cracked for miles further. That solar meteor slammed down in the exact same place where the original pea had exposed the weakness.

While there was no name for that which lay beneath the deep bedrock, they had found it was an intricate tunnel network that connected the Blight across the various landscapes. It was what allowed the mass to repopulate swiftly and seemingly anywhere. To stop the spread, they decided they had to crack the continent itself. So, crack it would.

Tectonic plates shifted. They shattered deep beneath their feet as their long war on the Phantom Blight came with the cost that it may alter their world from the form they knew it to be. If that was the cost, it would be paid.

Artorian had been flabbergasted when he learned the truth. The entire world was one big continent, on a vast round globe. If Ember kept slam-dunking small suns as she was, that may not be the truth forever. Though it wasn’t a problem they would ever deal with. Such a shift and breaking of the land would take an amount of time simply inconceivable to perceive.

Their worry was the here and now. Volcanoes popped in the distance when Ember’s sun hit home, rearranging the under-earth’s insides. It was a long, arduous task that really took it out of Ember, but the warrior woman relished in the extreme application of Mana-control it took. She hadn’t been challenged like this in a thousand years. Not even the average volcano held the heat and blast power a Hive-clearer did. The wells of oil and gas beneath were just too rare, and just tearing up the landscape without purpose wasn’t any fun.

If anything, she was sad… sad that they were almost done. Wild cheering erupted through the Forum, and Ember snapped from her victorious post battle haze as her friend bumped her in the shoulder. Her human had joined her on the hill, and Artorian was all smiles as the youngster who carried the final payload to bear bolted up to both of them. “High Human! I did it!”

Artorian bellowed out a congratulatory cry, dropped to a low stance, and smiled wide while using both hands to point at the charging lad with an outstretched finger on each. “Well done, my boy! A beauty of a delivery! You’re the Hero of the grove!”

He caught the kid in his arms after taking a knee. The impact would have cannonballed the old man a hundred yards across the lake, but Ember outstretched her hand and caught them. Rather than bowling far, they went in a few circles as her arm controlled the momentum. Her arm carried them in an arc, and they flew into the sky and cheered.

Artorian stretched out his open palm, and fireworks blew from his hand. It was really a direct Aura emanation, but flair was what mattered. Colors sprang to life above them, and when the sapling attempted the same, he shared his Aura with the boy through the integrated Forum connection. From the sapling’s hand, more fireworks bloomed and filled the sky.

Merriment filled the youth’s face as they began to fall. Festival pleasantry broke out in both the Forum and the real world as Wood Elves rejoiced! They hugged one another, shed tears of joy, and shared deep moments of relief and newfound freedom.

Ember caught her human and the woodling on the way down. Her Mana spread to capture and disperse all of their inertia and kinetic energy. They harmlessly set feet down upon the ground, and Ember turned to raise an eyebrow at the old man. “Why are they… celebrating?”

Artorian let out a single, “Ha!”

“Well that’s what you do when you win a war, my dear! You celebrate! It’s done. It’s over! That was the last Hive node of Blight. There’s no more anywhere in or near the forest. We’ve checked with animals, trees, and Elves alike. That Hive you just punched in the gullet? That was it! The Wood Elves are free!”

His elated smile went for days, but the Warrior Mage didn’t share his joy. She was heartbroken. She shook her head. The last few of her years had been amazing. Full of life and survival treks, tactical execution and well-laid strategic plans. Surely it was a mistake. There was another… right? There had to be!

“What’s wrong, Emby?” Artorian laid his hand on hers, and made a ‘hmm’ noise at the child to give them a moment. The Elf obliged without concern and zipped off in a flash of yellow, leaving only fluttering leaves and ripped-up grass in his wake.

She wrapped her arms around him. Holding tight, the squeezed cultivator sighed loudly and did the same, tapping her on the back. “Yes, yes I know. I was trying to live in the happy moment first. I’m well aware that with the burden on the Elves relieved—our promises are fulfilled—and my tenure has wrapped up. I’ll be leaving, and you’re no longer honor-bound to remain.”

Ember nodded, but she held him unreasonably tight. She didn’t want to lose her best friend. She didn’t want to go.

Chapter Twenty-Six

“You could always come with me.” Artorian rubbed Ember’s back whilst she held him, and he found that she was incredibly soft while covered in petal cloth—Rosewood’s latest invention. All the visual beauty of natural petals, with all the non-chafing comforts of cloth.

Ember let him go, and touched foreheads a moment. He didn’t try to stop her, giving her all the time she needed. “You know I can’t, Sunny. I… I really need to see the homeland… what’s left of it. See what’s become of it; come to terms with the loss. You can’t be the only one chasing your demons and punting them. Speaking of, I still feel bad for that chicken. Poor thing got kicked so hard I think it cooked on the way out of the atmosphere.”

“To be fair, it really shouldn’t have snuck up behind you and crowed while we were in the middle of combat.”

She pulled back and sighed. “Things are already different now… and we just won.”

Artorian nodded, staying next to the Mage as they watched the sun dip down into the horizon. It was a good moment; a calm moment of genuine peace that had awaited them for many a year, and now it was here. Ember bit her lip. “Where will you go?”

The academic rubbed his Dwarf-bound beard. The length had been kept manageable, but it was a serious beast that easily hung to his knees. “Skyspear Academy. I’ve been harping for seasons and seasons that I need to go back. Nowhere else will I—with my kind of style—find answers to questions any faster than at a place of higher learning. I bet that I’m going to arrive at the bottom of the million steps and feel right at home.”

Ember chuckled at his absurd assertion. “A million steps?”

The old man shrugged. “Supposedly. Never made it to the apex, as that is reserved for the Headmaster, but rock bottom teaches you lessons that the tops of mountains never will. Tall thing, Skyspear. It got its name from how the mountain seems to spear into the sky. Never seen one taller, or one shaped nearly as oddly. There was an amusing story once that a person of great power carved the Skyspear mountain out of the moon, then threw it down to the earth to impale his enemy.”

The Mage snorted and burst out laughing. “Ha! I’m at the threshold of the S-ranks and I wouldn’t be able to do that. Can’t go to the moons, you can’t breathe up there. Ambitious air Mages have tried, and discovered that we need less air; not that we don’t need it at all.”

She ran her fingers through her hair, seeing fireworks go off at the camp. Lights blinked and Wood Elves partied. Even Oak wasn’t getting any flak for being their usual… questionable selves. “Are you… thinking of going to celebrate with them?”

Artorian stole a glance, but slid a foot closer and hooked an arm around Ember’s. “I could. Or… we could go through Aura abilities again. One last time?”

The silent nod was answer enough. She tried to hide that she was wiping her face, but the old man had known enough children not wanting a loved one to go. There was no stopping such a strong emotion. If it came, it came. He could only be there for her.

For all her stoic strength, Ember had become a softie on the inside. All hard outer shell, that one. Her personality had been hidden away in the corner of her mind while she was forced to act and militantly operate. A few years with a friend had helped her step out of that shell. She’d even learned new tricks!

Half of them were developed to deal with his rambunctious butt… but that wasn’t important. Artorian held Ember until she was good and ready, until he was being gently brushed away. She hummed a tune to herself, and Artorian smiled as he caught some of the words she’d made to go with it over the years. “I don’t want to set the world on fire? Really? You should see some Bards and get that made into a song!”

Ember scoffed, and a laugh fractured her sadness with a smile. “No, no. The fallout would be devastating.”

The old man crossed arms behind his back and stepped a few paces away, letting the size of his Aura bloom as he spread it out, unfurling the energy like a lotus that woke to the morning dew. “Nonsense. It’s delightful. Have it made if you get the chance? It’s even somewhat romantic!”

Ember smiled, but still shook her head ‘no’. “It’s unfinished, and I would never want a song to chase me around. I’m a weapon of war; imagine the Abyss I would receive from others if it spread that I was the cause of a sappy love song.”

Artorian released a single, curt laugh, commenting with amusement, “Well, too bad. I know!”

The scion of fire flushed and narrowed her eyes at him. The area surrounding her rose in heat, but the lotus surrounding Artorian protected him with the feel of a pleasantly cool evening.

“Come now, we’re past this!” He tapped the ground with his foot, proving that he’d noticed her subterranean Mana interacting and preparing to explode and launch him into the air. “This too.”

A golden ring hung around his irises. The waving lotus leaves of his Aura reddened with fire Essence as they staved off the Mana’s effect by repelling the building heat. He couldn’t beat back Mana directly, but enough fine control got you close.

*Tsk*. Ember folded her arms and clicked her tongue at the sly fox. That trick of his was infuriatingly good. “I miss the days when that used to give you headaches, and you couldn't use it as often or for so long.”

Artorian’s eyebrow rose, his pleased expression widening as he added an extra quip to the conversation. “Remind me… who it was that demanded we break from the pattern and Infuse first?”

The heat in the area dropped to normal. His visible lotus Aura faded back to invisible obscurity as the Essence within was no longer needed. Artorian took gentle steps to the side as a solid spear of sharp flame erupted from the ground. His shuffled steps continued and changed to little bounces. Now he was hopping by his toes away from patches of unremarkable ground that suddenly spiked a fire spear from below.

The fence of pointed flame was doing its best to corral him, but he knew how to play the game by now. Artorian did indeed no longer suffer the horrible headaches. Ember had been correct in thinking that his mind would be unburdened by Infusing it.

Another benefit was that, while he’d never had much difficulty with concepts before, even utterly complex patterns were now… undemanding. The Essence patterns he wove and merged into his eyes had become something truly beautiful. With his brain no longer playing second fiddle to his eyes, the world he lived was an orchestra of information.

He could tell Ember that he could see the flows and designs of her Mana burrow into the ground. He could tell her that he saw the flaming cloud above him clear as day, about to rain down as a fence of spears in three… two…

Artorian’s pattern of hopping increased in pace for a moment as the golden outline of a spear traced through the space he currently occupied. Turning by the shoulder, he intentionally avoided the strike by only a hair, dancing around the crisscross pattern of slicing and dicing skewers that porcupined the landscape. The raw flow of energy was simple to locate, and the finished shapes imbued with solid ideals were downright easy.

The more Essence there was in a given area, or the more certain an amount of concentrated Essence was, the easier it became to predict the effects. Just as Corruption was physical, the increase in ‘inability to be otherwise’ significantly added to Artorian’s perception. Ember majestically choreographed her Aura without so much as moving a finger from her actual body, which was the only reason he had any trouble against her. She had no tells.

Oh? The golden Aura around Ember grew in size. The pressure in her Aura was building, filling her presence past the mere external effects she’d been playing around with. The shining outline formed the shape of her being, considerably more massive than she actually was. Ah-ha! An intimidation attempt!

Artorian kept his hands behind his back as the last hop ended shortly before a flaming spear erupted from the ground and took the end off of his beard. No more spears were forthcoming, as there had been no more crafted in the area her expanded Aura retreated from. That tidbit was very important for power conservation.

Trying to make spears further—without her Aura dispersed and occupying this space—would incur the Essence cost of a technique. That was when abilities became costly and started to add up.

Sure, it was maybe a few units of Essence for a lance of light, but a cheap lance wasn’t going to accomplish much. You wanted a ten-unit lance to bore a hole through an Oak tree. Specifically oaken trees, as other types of wood needed different amounts of power. Fifteen units went through common metal armor like butter, and three was enough to flash-fry a rabbit from forty feet. The downside was that you lost the Essence.

You needed it to go twice the distance? The cost doubled. Three times? Tripled. Even then, each increment in range lost you somewhere between two to three units. A ten-unit lance became equivalent to… maybe a seven-unit lance at the doubled range, and that was just a basic application without complex shape, pattern, idea, or identity skewing. The more complicated your Essence technique, the costlier it became; and quickly.

If you could control your presence well, that became a different story. Yes, there were significant downsides to spreading your Aura thinly, but the academic was firmly of the opinion that the benefits outweighed the risks.

As an example of detriments: directly defending against incoming elemental blasts was much more complicated, and far less likely to be successful. Launching attacks also took more time.

However, and this was the big one for him, the expenditure of Essence in the sovereign area you occupied became nearly free. You could ‘reclaim’ the energy expended before it was lost for good. In other words, when your Presence occupied the space the technique was used in, the energy was a breeze to retrieve. Even if the Essence was used as a technique.

Now, an ordinary technique spent Essence in three fashions. Powering itself, carrying out its function, and wasteful loss. Mostly the third category was where a great majority of Essence went, based on what he’d seen over the last few years. Even the Wood Elves who boasted about their skill had glaring holes once he’d learned how to look. Pumping more Essence into a technique didn’t make it better, it just made it stronger! Some techniques even had an upper limit on the amount of Essence you could pour in before it shattered and created… unintended consequences.

Artorian watched Ember knit together the last loose-flowing energy in her form. Her combined Aura, her Presence, felt looming, gargantuan, and imposing. The effect itself was invisible unless you could literally see it happen, and given the Essence combination that took… it was unlikely that most people ever could.

Ember felt like she was the size of a mountain. Her words, even at normal volume, carried a weight that pushed against his inner Aura, compressing his organs and making him feel all sorts of unpleasant. But since he’d known it was coming…

“Come on, honey. Is this all you’ve got?” Artorian winked at Ember as she glared at him. That glare would have killed the weak-hearted just by being on the receiving end, and it wasn’t costing her anything to create. It made her a massive target, because she became impossible to ignore even from a great distance. This seemed like a great idea if you wanted to draw some attention, or perhaps crush some normal people without needing to fight them.

Ember fumed and exhaled through her nose at him. The resulting gust blew away everything in the immediate vicinity not connected to the ground. Her ploy wasn’t working. Artorian had gotten too used to too many of her war abilities and clever tactics.

Then a smile crossed her lips, and suddenly Artorian felt a shiver of fear race down his spine. He didn’t recognize this next pattern she was weaving, and it thrummed in the air upon release. Uh oh. Was that something new?

His smile dropped at the same speed that his lotus shape broke free, spreading out as far as he could reasonably control it. His Auric reach was nothing compared to Ember’s ‘Sovereign Domain’ presence, but it was… doing alright. He couldn’t feel much other than heat causing a highly-controlled air disturbance, and his ears oddly rang.

Remaining vigilant was a wasted effort. He heard the zipping of bees before they fragmented through his Aura. The energy field was useless against them. It couldn’t do a thing to defend against the flocking swarm that landed and crawled around on the unmoving old man.

Ember broke down in hectic laughter, slapping her knee as she released the intimidation effect she was upholding. She immediately felt like normal Ember—rather than mountain-sized Ember. “Now they… haha… they love you!”

Artorian couldn’t do more than pull his Aura back. Sighing with chagrin. Any harder and he’d knock some of the bees off. “So… it seemed like you built energy and… shouted? Not with words… with vibrations?”

Ember shrugged. She had a blast watching the bees continue to flock about in a noisy, buzzing cacophony. The swarm was having a great time checking out the Rosewood-crafted clothing line. “I speak bee now.”

Artorian made a sound that was something sassy along the lines of ‘sure’. “What, pray tell, did you say?”

Ember’s smile didn’t fade an inch, she was far too pleased about getting back at the sly fox for his earlier stunt. She had nothing left to teach him until—at a minimum—he was Ascended. They’d never gotten to a point where the academic had enough energy stored to turn his cultivation Core pearlescent—solidifying it—but it would happen on its own as he gained enough Essence.

The costly detour of body-infusing and Aura-uniting had caused setbacks. It made her feel guilty, but she knew it wouldn’t deter the old man. It was just going to take more time than they had together… and now she was sad again. “I said nothing. I yelled a word.”

Artorian badly wanted to rub the bridge of his nose, but some energetic bees were in the way. “What word did you yell…?”

“I said…” The Fire Soul turned on her heel and strolled down to the party, leaving the old man stuck in place. She mimicked Artorian’s way of speaking, and even steepled her fingers with a smirk. “…Honey.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The Wood Elf going away party was stellar. Raucous festivities were hosted in a wide-open canopy beneath the bright stars. Honey drinks, pies, grilled feasts, and various regional specialties abounded. Groups of ‘enthusiastic’ drunken Elves made a sport to out-crazy one another, just to make the area more ‘aesthetic’. This meant that some added fireworks, and some turned trees into water spouts. Most of these ideas were… alcohol influenced.

A certain human missed half of it. When the buzzing creatures finally let him bee, the Dwarves had already arrived to Oak’s grove to join in the celebrations. The news that victory had been achieved spread like wildfire, without the actual fire thanks to Ember being in a good mood. They’d fetched the Dwarves from Oaks’ grove in a hurry.

A set of cheers and raised elkhorns filled with ale went through the crowd as the High Human arrived and hugged his way past the totally-not-drunk horde. When he finally could sit down, he did so with a tired flop… right into a mound of bear rugs that had only gotten taller as seasons passed. The beasts apparently originated from a dungeon just outside the forest that underwent constant breakouts.

The Dwarves casually mentioned that nobody intentionally went to that particular dungeon. The traps and creatures were made of puns, which was truly unbearable. Grizzly, even. Both the trip and the experience once there was teddy-us, and parties left never wanting to return to the earth-Essence dungeon.

The old man was asked to join in on the drunken shenanigans, specifically the shifting of the environment, but he declined. He may have learned their techniques, but that didn’t mean he was able to perform them. Compound nature Essence contained earth. For him, that was pure corruption. As such, he couldn’t and wouldn’t tap into it.

His last session with Ember may have been cut short, but that was fine. The merchant troupe had brought supplies that would last them days, and a party for days it would be! There’d be plenty of time to… to… Artorian looked around and didn’t see Ember. A worry made itself known in his mind.

The Forum? No, not there either, so she wasn’t within the communal space the Elves occupied. His arm reached out, and a familiar Birch brushed against his touch. “Birchy? Where’s the warmest of us all?”

Taking a break from the party, the unlucky Elves steeled themselves. Sitting down next to their human, the Birch Elves all held onto him in some way. It was kind and gentle… like one does for a child they’re about to give some bad news. Artorian closed his eyes and sighed, his heart sinking. He gave Birch’s hand a pat, and shook his head to inform her that it didn’t need saying. “Of course she left. This war is over. There’s another to be found…”

While no amount of party was going to lift this weight from his spirit. The next few words from Birch helped a little. “She left you something.”

Curious, Artorian brushed his knees, flustered at the insinuation that he really meant something to Ember. “She left me s… no, that must be some joke in poor taste. If Emby was going to give me something, she’d give it to me directly.”

Birch nodded in agreement, “She said that would be exactly what you’d say, and to respond that ‘she already did’. This is extra, because it will serve your war better than it could hers.”

Upon motioning to the youngsters hiding behind a fat Adansonia, the spry Elves swung from the branches like trained trapezists. Landing in almost exact unison. The last one dropped down on a taller root and lost her footing, ruining the entire presentation as she fell to her butt. She blinked in confusion, not understanding what had just happened.

Artorian smiled with the usual grandfatherly poise, even if the youngest among them was still older than him. Time and aging just worked differently for them. “Practice makes perfect, my dear. Keep at it! It is better to try a thousand times, and fail a thousand times, than it is to try and get it perfect only once.”

The girl nodded in understanding. That meant only a few more attempts to go and she’d be at a thousand failures! Artorian shook his head in minor disbelief at the interpretation written on her face. His expression brightened when the children handed over… a wrapped package?

The philosopher had questions. A wrapped package? What sort of… when did Emby learn how to wrap things? The folding work on the foliage was superb! He looked to the children in the hope they had answers, but they shrugged and ran off to play when Birch gave them the go ahead. “She said, ‘open it like I would’.”

Artorian had never heard easier instructions, and blew up the present with concentrated fire. No warning, no fuss. *Fwoosh-boom*. Just as Ember would do.

The exposed Baobab-wood box made him laugh. Fireproof! Of course it was. Undoing the slightly seared lid, he pulled out a letter and a very familiar bag. This was Ember’s spatial holding bag! He already had one, why give him this?

Unfurling the note, he read a short message that must have been attempted a dozen times, given the utterly messy wrist and palm prints on the side. He admired the hard work regardless. When the Fire Mage devoted herself to something, she really went all-in.

‘To my favorite fool,

Had I a friend such as you centuries ago, the color of life may not have drained from my sight. I wish you all the best in your war. If your children are even a tenth as clever as my favorite human, who kept gushing about them over the last several years, they will be fine. Merely find them when you have the strength to do so.

They wait for you.

I could not bear to tell you the following to your face.

So I wrote this letter.

You are currently not strong enough.

I have ceased writing the letter at this point several times, not knowing what to say further. This is the point where I would like you to open the pouch.’

Artorian put the letter down a moment. There was more text, but effort had been put into this. Might as well follow her wishes as best as possible. Birch remained quiet and let the old man go through the motions. The texture of Ember’s pouch was scaly. It didn’t look as such, yet was bumpy like the texture of a large, sturdy fish.

The pouch opened to his touch. It didn’t have a cinch or string, and now that he inspected it, he could not figure out how he was supposed to close it. As soon as he had the thought, the pouch closed by itself. “Well. That’s advanced.”

Sticking his hand in, something *thunked* into his grasp. A stone tablet? He pulled the flattened rock free. A stone tablet! It contained a carved list of items? A big list. Why stone? Perhaps things in this bag decayed and stone did that slowly. Did all material in spatial bags decay? At what rate?

Artorian shook his mind from that thought before a full hypothesis on that subject was formed. He'd have to write it down, and then he’d get distracted. “Must be everything that’s in here, I’m still not following why she needed me to check the b…”

His voice stopped short as his eyes hovered over certain entries. She wouldn’t have… left those here. Hurriedly checking, he reached into the bag and pulled free an Iridium helmet.

“Oh… Ember. Why did you… this is too valuable.” He frowned, but relaxed upon remembering that the armor didn’t do anything for her anymore. Anything that could challenge her was either a specialized nuisance, or a powerhouse of a Mage that could punch through this extremely heavy full plate set like pudding. He handed it over to Birch to hold a moment, but both the helmet and Birch’s hands thunked to the ground.

“High Human! My fingers! Why did you give me something so heavy?” The rest of Birch’s Elves managed to lift the item once they worked together, but Artorian picked it from their grasp with two fingers. How incredibly odd. Birch was stronger than him in all respects. “Thank you. Why isn’t that so heavy for you? You’re lifting it easily? That root-cracked helmet almost crushed my hands!”

Artorian scratched the back of his head. “I don’t know. We’re missing something here. Also, what’s with this shape? I don’t mean the polish; it was clearly cleaned well, but the sizing is different.”

He plopped the helm over his head, and tried to stay calm as the shape altered around his skull to fit as snug as a bug in a rug when his Auric Essence rolled over it. Closing the faceplate, he turned to look at Birch and spoke with muffled voice from behind the obscuring helm. “How do I look?”

Birch rapped a set of knuckles on the helmet, but the human remained unphased. “You look like an angry golem. Impossible to tell what your face looks like.”

Without warning, Snowdrop popped up like the shrubbery that she was, attracted by the *humm* the equipment gave off as her synesthesia went wild. Had Artorian’s peripheral vision not been cut short, he’d have jumped. Instead, Birch did it for him in a burst of panic. “Wow!”

Belle whipped around like she was looking for something, and her searching gaze settled on the helmet with a big grin. “So that’s where that noise is coming from!”

Artorian looked about until he came nose to faceplate with an albino face that was utterly uninterested in personal space. In fact, her hungry expression made him feel like this girl wanted his blood. She looked at him like he looked at honey snacks.

He was suddenly very glad the helmet was present. “Oh. Hello there?”

Snowdrop crawled around him like a prowling feline, using dozens of roots as additional support struts to facilitate her peculiar movement. It made him think of a kraken, if the watery beastie walked on land and was grown entirely out of bone-white vines.

Attempting to re-establish herself as the primary conversation partner, Birch coughed loudly. Her efforts were cut short as thorned whips erupted from the ground, binding her in roots. The newcomer was preoccupied, and Birch was interfering. “Hello! I’m Snowdrop. My friends call me Silverbelle.”

“Very confusing, thank you.” The helm made a nodding motion to show Artorian’s understanding, and the snow-white lady pushed away on her vines.

Her fingers pressed to her lips, and she giggled excitedly as her eyes sparkled during observation. “That’s colorful. I’ve never seen a land ownership effect contained in an item before!”

Grumbling while taking the helm off, Artorian laid the protective helmet in his lap. There had been several words in a row that he didn’t understand. Having a proper look at Silverbelle, the longbeard was confused how a five-foot-tall Elf could feel so… imposing. A glance to the side let him deduce that some hierarchy foolishness must be at play here. No one was interfering with her antics, and Birch wasn’t being teased in an elaborate fashion. He filed the thought away for the future. “Terribly sorry my dear, what was that?”

She grabbed at the helmet so Artorian let her take it. Unfortunately for Snowdrop, it instantly *thunked* to the ground. Somehow, it was far too heavy for her to lift. She grunted; she wasn’t about to be outdone by a hunk of metal! *Hnnnn!*

Silverbelle released the unmoving helmet. “Fine. You win this one. High Human, I have synesthesia.”

There was no way she was making headway with the rude piece of headgear, so her attention was now fully on Artorian. “Synesthesia causes one type of stimulation to resonate with another. To me, hearing a sound also produces a color. Since I’m special, items that have been Inscribed or are Runic give off a specific sound. That sound then shows me a wonderland of colors, and I can even tell what sort of ability has been placed on an item depending on the hue.”

Snowdrop coiled around the object, studying without pausing her words. “When the Fire Soul wore this gear, every piece of her armor played a somber, lonely melody. The notes have changed; it’s so much louder now! It sings a tale of deep belonging. I want it.”

Artorian folded his hands as he listened. “How interesting! From that information, can I guess that this helmet is keyed to a particular person? Given I can lift it, I’d say that it’s keyed to me?”

Silverbelle pouted as she backed away from the helmet, dropping what she was doing to leer at him. She didn’t appreciate having her thunder stolen, so she glared at the unmoving metal like it had betrayed her. Artorian smiled as he regarded the petulant thief. Well… if not a thief, at least someone who seemed used to getting what she wanted.

Artorian could hear Snowdrop’s cursing as she slinked away… something about stupid things that don't like her when she wants them to like her. It should have made music for her, and her alone! If Wood Elves had Nobility, given her behavior, Snowdrop was likely a part of that standing. Artorian resumed reading his letter as Birch got up, finally freed from the root by his friends once Snowdrop was gone.

‘Until you Ascend. I am gifting you my old armor.

I have repurposed the Runes to easily resize the gear, but I cannot prevent their activation cost. If you wear it, the needed Essence will be taken to fit its new shape. I would rather you use this armor than have you attempt to copy my Ascended ability of changing the structure of my body.

While you might succeed in changing your skin to metal for protection, it would be permanent, and you run the risk of statuification. Avoid this foolish errand. Use the full-plate. Treated Iridium is dense, and will protect you against both blade and blunt impact. Small weapons will do little to you.

Only words should be able to hurt you, and this armor cannot protect you against those.

We’ve spent years on your Aura, and Infusing your mind was necessary to prevent your own presence from tearing you apart. Sadly, merging your Auras cost us the time we had set aside to get you into the C ranks. You have developed great Auric skill, but are physically weak.

Take my Spatial pouch, and use the items within it to survive your war. The tablet is a record of what remains in the pouch, and will alter whenever something is removed.

When I have finished with the matters of my homeland, I will seek you out… my friend.

Until the future, my dear Sunny.

Signed, Your Fire Soul.’

Artorian folded the letter neatly, tucking it away so it didn’t get wet from all this impromptu rain. “Terrible time for rain.”

Birch looked up at the clear sky. If anything, there was a firework now and then. “There’s no rain, Starlight Spirit.”

The old man obscured his face, hiding the lines running down his cheeks. His grip on the helmet tightened. “No, my friend. It’s raining.”

Baobab handed over some newly minted umbrellas to Birch as water droplets began to sprinkle down from above. The party in their human’s general vicinity had quieted. Water Essence swirled in the air, and the sky rumbled. Rain fell.

Artorian smiled into the crook of his robe as he heard the pitter-patter touching his new umbrella. How nice it was to have supportive friends. He dropped his arm, exposing reddened eyes as he quietly listened to the water.

The lull in the festivity made a great number of Elves decide that this was a good moment to give Artorian some going-away presents. Not that they wanted him to go, but Artorian had always been clear about his intent. Heaps of bear rugs, plants of varied sorts, a small mountain of hookah blend and matching tool, entire clothing lines from Rosewood, and even a few boxes from the Dwarves to be opened at another time.

Mahogany gave the human a folded-up package, silently winking as it got stuffed into the pouch without explanation. Hawthorn beamed in the background. “You should stay a week or two! Take some restful days, cheer yourself up?”

Artorian shook his head. “I’m afraid my desire to be still has been shaken. I believe I’ll be leaving shortly; after I say my goodbyes to everyone. The Academy awaits.”

When it became clear he wasn’t staying for the festivity after all, the young Elves mobbed their human, bowling him over and bearing him to the ground. They screeched the entire way so they couldn’t be told to stop; clearly they must have forgotten about the Forum.

Mahogany silenced them with a single thought. Now sour and sullen, the kids who were all older than Artorian gave him a big group hug. “You’ll come back to visit?”

The old man agreed. “I don’t know when, or how. Yet, you will see me again. Perhaps you’ll introduce me to the new saplings when that time comes around? I can’t wait to see what unique little sprouts you will create in the future.”

While most of the young Elves were mature enough to understand what Artorian was saying, not all of them did. He held that child the longest, as the tiny Elf wasn’t willing to let go of his leg. He considered a supportive solution. “Remember that plant that made it easier to breathe?”

The child nodded, and Artorian handed something over to him. His finger was kept in front of his lips with a silent, conspiratorial shush. “Here’s something for you to use with it. You show me what you come up with when I return, alright?”

Gaining a purpose, the youngster perked up with a big smile. He was glad to have something to keep himself occupied, and to have a project to show off when the High Human friend came home.

A few hours later, Artorian stood at the edge of the forest. Hawthorn had been hanging around the man, apparently simply lounging. In reality, the Elf was holding Artorian up. The old man was reeling from his first ever tree-step travel. For someone without nature Essence, calling it an ‘experience’ didn’t do the journey justice. The bizarre method of movement had been worth the earth corruption. “How… far did we just…”

Hawthorn laughed at the usually wordy human’s lack of cohesive thought. “Far. Did you like it? They’ll never let me live it down once they find out I took you the quick way. Everyone wants you to stay, and they think that travel on foot would convince you to remain.”

Artorian rubbed his eyebrows, still not used to how it was evening where he’d been, and bright afternoon where he was now. “This might be a good time to open that Dwarven box. They said this was to help with bright light, correct?”

Reaching under his robe, Artorian pulled the carved stone box from Ember’s spatial pouch. A pleasant grind of stone made the back of his neck tingle as the lid smoothly slid open. The gift contained several pairs of… darkened goggles! Artorian picked one up and rolled it around between his fingers before sliding the spectacles onto his nose. His smile warmed to a smug grin. “Even better than I dreamt of!”

Artorian glanced around, and the sun-blocking glasses prevented the orb in the sky from stabbing him so deeply. Success! Staring directly was still a bad idea, but heavens did this help. For all the grief Oak had given him, this crazy idea had been fabulous!

Sunglasses on his nose, he recalled that Haw had asked him a question. “If I had to describe that trip… it was like being pulled through a root system at a velocity I couldn’t comprehend. That’s saying something. I couldn’t discern color or sight, only humidity, heat, depth, and a rough sense of direction. I sort of knew we were going south. I recall there being lines of Essence that we zipped through, but I thought those were traps when I first saw them!”

Hawthorn nodded. “They are! When triggered, the break in travel stops you cold. It’s not difficult to replace the trap lines, since the network will prevent you from swift-traveling further. I’m warned when a line breaks somewhere, and arrive on-scene shortly after. Now that I’m no longer the only one watching the border, I may even have company. Especially if a large amount of connections break at once. That’s what Ember used to do to warn us about Blight. We knew to stay away from that area, and it prevented us from getting trapped mid-transit.”

Artorian looked at the mountains far, far away in the distance.

Haw followed the gaze. “Is that where you’re going?”

The academic pointed, “There and past there. I know how to get where I’m going. I may bounce along and test some of my new techniques on the way. You know… jump around some, speed up the process of getting to the Academy. I really want to copy Elm’s ‘jump good’, Oak’s ‘solid Essence’, and Eucalyptus’s ‘wall’; perhaps see if I can’t find anything interesting.

“Also, as much as I want to do so, it would take me years to replicate your ‘trap lines’. Mahogany’s ‘Sonic Voice’, Bao’s ‘fire immunity’, Cherry’s ‘petal dance’, Cotton’s ‘fluff expansion’, and Purple Heartwood’s ‘Instant Bo’. Even Rosewood’s ‘flash tailoring’ is going to take me a decade. No amount of seeing that over and over made it any easier.”

Hawthorn held out a wrapped gift bundle to stop the academic.

“What’s this now? At this rate you’re going to fill up my spatial bag!” Unwrapping the sizable bundle, the end of an oversized bow and arrow fletching poked through. Artorian was bewildered at the gift. “No… isn’t this your bow?”

The Elves shook their heads in unified denial. “Only the arrows are ours. The bow is… *ahem*… it was Sequoia’s. Bao wanted you to have it.”

They swallowed back their emotion, watching a touched Artorian glide his thumb over the wood. He nodded quietly, then made an Ember-inspired quip. “Sturdy. Strong willed. A memorable companion. Ha! Thank you, my friend. You and your family have given me many memories. Never would I have thought that those burning eyes of yours would ever look at me with such sadness. You don’t wish me to go either, do you?”

Hawthorn’s Elves embraced Artorian tighter than the children had. The old man didn’t fight it. “When you return… let’s have that party, Artorian.”

Artorian smiled at the use of his name, and agreed before setting off, “Let’s! Though, don’t be surprised if trouble is on my tail when I dash across your trap lines. After all… you know me.”

Haw laughed and let their friend go. Artorian started gathering air Essence. The wind around him swirled and gathered below his feet, layering several techniques within the confines of his expanded Presence. He fully capitalized on the fact that usage was ‘free’ so long as the Essence remained contained within your ‘body’.

The philosopher had puzzled on that fact for many a pleasant day. What was a body? Did it refer to one’s physical confines, and only that? Did that hold true once someone became a cultivator?

An answer had come after his individual Auras merged to become his Presence. The physical was a part of it, sure. Yet… such limiting views were no longer the deciding factor where Essence became concerned. The last thing Hawthorn heard from his friend was an outburst of pure liberation, the old man shooting off with an exhilarated “Whe~e~e!”

They rose their hands in goodbye as the human winked over his shoulder and leapt into the sky with an explosive *poof*! Hawthorn stayed. Watching the fluttering form rise above the clouds, vanishing to the size of a pinprick as he went; only to bounce off one of the puffy clouds and bunny-hop along.

“Of course he found a way to fly before the Mage ranks.” Haw chuckled, and didn’t go back home just yet. He stayed, staring at the sky as the dot in the distance became smaller and smaller, eventually vanishing altogether. He remained not for himself, but for all the others looking through his eyes.

There went their first ever human friend, off to brighten the sky for someone else.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Kinnan the bard tuned her lute with fingers that were slowly succumbing to frostbite. At least, burdened by the banter of her fellow lyricists, she was trying to do so.

“If you can’t make it rhyme, then don’t give it the time,” Pollard sagely declared, ripping off yet another sheet of musical notes to throw onto the dying fire. Abyss it was cold.

The third bard, Jillian, shrugged and pulled tight a cover around his neck, a cover which was supposed to go around his instrument. He had a good reason for this: he got cold, the lute didn’t. “Sh...sh...shut up unless you’re about to make a joke that involves thyme. It’s bloody cold, and I am too cold f… for such garbage.”

Jillian hated this; he was barely able to feel the tips of his purpling fingers. He was just about touching Pollard’s head with his own from how closely the trio leaned over the dying campfire. Kinnan heard the ‘twang’ of another string snapping from the cold, and gnashed her teeth. Kinnan had told herself repeatedly not to tune her instrument unless she was going to play; strings were protected from the cold by loosening them. “I told you those maps were outdated. The road had a canyon in the way.”

Jillian pushed his hands closer to the remains of the campfire. “M… map shows no canyon. How were we supposed to know? We packed for a quick journey in warm w… weather.” He sucked in a breath, shivering badly. Pol and Kin knew he wasn’t likely to make the night, they just didn’t have the means to stay warm. They could burn their instruments, but that would buy them a few hours and cost them their living.

Pollard checked his bag for the seventh time. No additional rations had mysteriously appeared in the corner between the seams. Not a crumb. The bag went into the fire. An extra handful of minutes bought.

“Why did it even snow? It’s supposed to be warm in this region!” Pollard shrugged at Kinnan’s question. Kinnan was seriously considering burning her lute as the cold stabbed deep. “Adventurer’s Guild had rumors of heat being sucked out of the region off and on over the last few seasons. The ground tremors that reached all the way to the capital were a very good reason not to go this way.”

Kinnan held her head and tried not to break into a sob between her laughing gasp. “All this to find some dungeon that supposedly creates puns instead of traps? No wonder there’s no information about the place! It’s not even real! Or if it is, nobody makes the trip because the weather betrays you. Can we even make it back?”

Neither Pollard nor Jillian wanted to entertain the thought of that question. “If you can’t make it rhyme…”

Kinnan spat back at them with a groan. “Don’t give it time. Yeah, yeah. I know.”

A gust of wind made them jolt and push closer to the flickering fire. Anything but letting that go out. They managed to save a tiny little flame, but bringing it back meant they’d have to… sacrifice.

“Watch out belo~o~ow!” a voice the bards didn’t recognize bellowed from above. They’d lost it, apparently. The cold and lack of food had finally caught up to them. Voices didn’t come from above, unless it was from an angered love interest about to throw a flowerpot.

The ground shuddered from an impact that bounced them the full length of their bodies up into the air. They hit the frosted ground hard, and the last remains of their fire died as the remaining coals flew off. Spitting out a mouthful of grass and snow, Pollard rolled onto his back and pushed up with his arms. The cold hit him immediately, stealing his voice. “W… wha?”

An… elderly man with a robe crafted from golden and pink flowers brushed himself off. There was a glow surrounding him, a glow that dissipated before he was properly visible. He took something off his head and put it in his pocket bag, but the bard couldn’t tell what it was before a hand reached down to help him up. “Terribly sorry, my boy! I tried to adjust my way down, but falling can be horribly imprecise.”

Pollard was pulled to his feet like he weighed less than a stone, and the old man went around gathering his other two fallen companions. His shivers had stopped, but Pollard was too distracted to notice that the snow in their vicinity was melting. “Did you just fall from the sky? Who are you?”

“Now, now, boyo, no need to be brash. I did apologize. Was it not enough?” Artorian pushed his fists to his hips. The old man muttered to himself for a moment, fingers holding the base of his chin. “I have not been out in a while… it’s possible. Well, why don’t I give you a bite to eat, then? That should suffice!”

He opened his coat partway and pulled a still-steaming confection from seemingly nowhere. The tantalizing treat released a freshly-baked scent, as if it had been pulled right out of the oven. Toasted wheat stuffed with sweet filling…? “Would you like some honey pie?”

A perplexed trio of bards each received a piece of bark with a hand-sized slice of honey-stuffed, sugar-oozing pie. It even had fruit inside. Their complaints vanished into the background as their immediate needs took center stage, and the hot meal did much to silence a cold and empty stomach. *Oof.* “A bit nippy down here, hmm? Even the sky is warmer.”

Kinnan choked on her confection, flecks of it sticking to the sides of her mouth. She was burning her tongue trying to eat it too fast, and her mouth sprayed pie-crust as she spoke, “Mwhy were chu in the shky?”

Artorian sat and crossed his legs, leaning his cheek on a pensive hand as he stared upwards. Clearly he was stuck somewhere, pondering the problem. “Why, I was trying to figure out how to fly, of course!”

The remaining two bards choked on their meals, then proceeded to hit their chests with balled fists to get the food down. No way was that coming back up, bonkers news or not. People couldn’t fly.

The old man appeared to have some kind of epiphany by the way his eyes sparkled. “I just had an excellent idea.”

Glowing light encapsulated the figure, and the surrounding snow melted fast. The gathered fatigue of the bards joined the snow, and minor injuries they sported mended without their knowledge. They just knew they felt better, though they thought it must have been the warm meal.

Jillian couldn’t find his words. He just started sobbing as his shivering stopped, and he realized that he could feel his fingertips again. More than just not being cold, it meant his gift for his instrument may not vanish as frostbite took everything from him. The old man shifted to sit next to him, laying an arm across his back. “It’s okay to cry. I had the same reaction the first time.”

The bards believed he referred to just about freezing to death, but Artorian was talking about the first time he’d eaten honey pie. He’d snuck off with an entire stash of it on this trip, enough that he figured he could get back to the Elves before he ran out if he rationed carefully. After rubbing the crying man’s back, he realized just how chilly the clothes were, even if they were getting cleaned from the inside out as his Aura worked its magic. “Dear me. You’re freezing! Didn’t you notice that…?”

He looked to the others and noted they were in a similar state. “Oh… why don’t you lot take these.”

Three full-sized bear rugs were again tugged from nowhere. They just… appeared in the old man’s grip. He must have hidden those… somehow. Kinnan started mumbling manically, “Yeah. Don’t question the strange man that falls from the sky and gives you food and blankets. Gift horse. Mouth. Don’t do it.”

The pelts were massive. They covered the bards entirely, and their warmth was amazing. “What were you all doing out here? It’s the middle of nowhere! The empty landscape goes on for leagues… I didn’t even see a town from up there.”

Jill and Pol looked at one another to decide who was going to answer. Kinnan had fully burrowed herself under the pelt, and was currently not interacting with them. Pollard, being the oldest, picked up conversation with the odd deity in human guise. “We… we were looking for a dungeon. Supposedly it held intelligence in the form of speech, and made pun-based traps?”

Artorian made an *ah* sound, nodding sagely. “Yes, I know the one. It’s gone now, the earthquakes got it. Sunk right off into the depths of the canyon. It’s either eradicated or buried under several countries worth of stone.”

The bards around him groaned and deflated. Artorian had just lied through his teeth, but he wasn’t about to subject these common non-cultivator folks to days of having earth-corruption-filled feces thrown at them. That dungeon didn’t need to be… visited.

“We came all the way for nothing!” *Aaaargh!* Kinnan returned to the conversation, just to complain. This was her specialty, according to the others.

Artorian coughed and moved on. “Sorry to hear that… by chance, could you point me in the rough direction of the City of Walls? It might be called ‘Oldwalls’, or ‘Menhir’s basin’, depending on where you’re from.”

The bards pointed eastward, and now it was Artorian’s turn to groan. Based on the direction they pointed, he’d gone too far south. He didn’t comment on their near-perfect synchronization; that had become normal to him. That very normality was also preventing him from noticing some otherwise key details about these three people. “Thank you kindly. Will you three be alright on the journey back to wherever you’re going? It’s quite chilly out.”

The bards shared a look of concern. “We… need to find provisions and something to burn so we can stay warm. We likely won’t make the trip back even now that we know there’s no point to going forward. Even if we found a way across the canyon-”

“Canyons. Multiple,” Artorian corrected the man. An aerial view gives a great idea of landscape design. He could likely scribe a killer map if he had the time or tools. Alas, he had neither. “Why not just cut some wood down?”

Jillian shook his head. “No axe.”

Artorian reached into his supplies pouch and pulled out a Dwarven Axe, tossing it handle-first to the man. “Axe.”

He said it matter-of-factly, not bothered by the loss of a single axe. He had a few throwing axes stocked up from Dwarven games after all. Jillian was rendered speechless, a shock for the verbose bard group. Kinnan continued muttering since the sunny man had just pulled a weapon from nowhere. It may be a bard’s need to get as much detail as possible, but this wasn’t the time to do it. “Don’t ask. Don’t ask. Don’t ask.”

A package of nuts and dried fruits was set next to the dead fire. The mixture was vast and extravagant. To Artorian, it was only a day’s snack since he needed a hefty variety of nutrition to keep in tip-top shape. To the bards, this was a week of meals. “Snacks for the trip home.”

Pollard’s face shifted into a slack-jawed expression, and Artorian brushed himself off as he stood, getting the rest of the snow off his petals as he looked to the sky. “Give this old man a hug before he goes, you all look like you need one.”

The bards didn’t deny the request from the person that was guaranteeing their survival. Artorian smiled, nodded, and looked the three over with confidence. “I think you’ll be alright.”

He winked and patted his pocket. “I’m off now, I’m sure I’ll find someone else to give some pie!”

The jovial old man adopted a pose full of style, flushing out his robe behind him. Wind blew past the bard’s ears, gathering under the elder as he prepared to… jump?

“Take care now, youngins!” He slapped hands on his stomach, drumming a makeshift tune. It was music to the bard’s ears, who all suddenly recalled their professions. With a wave of his hand, a crater formed in the ground where the elder had been standing. A *poof* heralded his exit as he shot up into the sky and out of view.

The bards clutched their bear pelts as snow once again fell to touch their noses. They realized they felt warm, and good. The shivering had left them, and their skin was no longer chapped or bleeding from chilblains. Pollard held the axe in hand, and Kinnan carried the woven ration bag that smelled suspiciously of vines.

Jillian looked between both of them and threw his hands up, but not enough to throw off the bearskin. “What just happened?”

“A ballad. A saga. A miracle.” Kinnan still stared, and some words came to mind. “Old man Sunny fell down from the sky.”

Pollard continued, tuning the same lines of thought. “Said ‘young lad, you look hungry, have a slice of honey pie’.”

Jillian clicked into gear, and glanced at Pollard. “Patted him on the back, said it was okay to cry.”

The bards shared meaningful glances. “Have a little snack, I’m just trying to fly.”

“Sort of just writes itself, doesn’t it?” Kinnan beamed at Pollard's words, then switched to listen as Jillian copied the belly-slap tune. Didn’t even need an instrument for that.

“It really does.” They came to an agreement in unison.

“It sure does, and we certainly have the Thyme to make something of it.” Jillian grinned widely as he finally got to make his joke, the other two groaning.

“Celestial, man! Did you have to say it?” Pollard's grumpiness made Jillian’s grin continue, and he wiggled his functional fingers at the both of them.

“Couldn’t resist, got so much of it on my hands now.” A second round of groaning died off, turning to laughter. It was time to go home and write a new song.

‘Oh, Mr. Sun’ was going to be huge.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The D-rank Morovian Sabertooth-Liger was emperor of both steppes and plains. Waking in the morning, the mighty seven-foot-long male stretched. His jaws extended in a yawn, matching their namesake as massive fangs protruded from its frontal jaws.

It wasn’t hungry. Yet.

The day before, a party of pink-fleshed walkers had attempted to cross its domain. Though some had crunchy shells, that had not prevented a juicy red meal. The pink-flesh were walking treats! They ran on occasions, but what prey didn’t run when faced with the might of claw and threat of fang? Ten-inch claws fully exposed from both puffy front paws as the elaborate stretch continued, and a nearby marula tree was used as a scratching post.

The yellow-purple ball of sturdy muscle and fur would likely have gone ignored if not for its morning ritual. The creature was known as a Moro for short, mostly because only morons tried to tackle it. This thing was a predator. You avoided its territory if you knew what was good for you. It could see clearly for miles in any direction across the plains, and had a sense of smell that put Bloodwolves to shame.

If there was anything the Moro did not like, it was birds. Birds could fly away, avoid its claws, and flee from its twenty-foot pounces. No other prey was out of reach for the beast. No pink-flesh could sneak up while it slept in the yellow wheatgrass. Only the purple fur gave away where it might be, and that blended smoothly with the green stalks of the baby wheatgrass.

A Moro knew where you were better than you did. Especially on its home turf. It knew all the smells, all the sounds, all the expectations that came with its terrain. Every brush of movement against the ground was but another source of food to sate the beasts’ hunger.

There were no sounds that were foreign to it, and even the *humm* of Essence was no stranger to the Core in its forehead. A Core that *thrummed* with the gathered energy of its meals. It didn’t know the words, or what it was; only that it was tasty, and made the hunt better. Faster. Easier.

A sharp whizzing whistle that filled the air made it freeze up and look around. That was a sound the Moro did not know. A high-pitched… cutting sound? A bothersome, painful screech that irritated the ears. The Moro flicked its sizable, fluffy ears. They swiveled around on its head as it tried to find the source, but the pitch was gaining intensity.

Up?

The Moro squinted as it looked up at the sun, blinded for a moment. It could not see past the bright rays of aggravating sunshine.

“Paws off my friend!” A bone-breaking impact cratered the Moro. The majestic creature’s skull took a blow that made its contents explode outwards. Its muscle and bone were too sturdy to fracture so easily, but the soft gelatinous bits had no such protection against the traumatizing blunt impact that sent said skull six feet into the ground in the timespan of a blink.

Artorian balanced on one leg atop the voided Moro skull. He knew what the creature was, but slapped himself upon realizing that Marula—the wood elf he knew that matched the tree this Moro had been clawing—was nowhere near this place. This cat creature hadn’t actually done anything to his friend, and he’d killed it via orbital drop. “You old fool! We’re long out of Forum range.”

“Sorry, kitty. Thought you were hurting a buddy of mine.” Artorian sighed deeply. He missed the forest. It was just so convenient. Rubbing his forehead, he tiptoed off his kill and grumbled at his own wastefulness. Well… dinner? He’d not planned this landfall, and replenishing his stock after hopping through the sky for a few weeks might be necessary.

He’d been practicing hard-light platforms to balance on while high in the sky. It was such a bother to have to come down all the way after each jump. The technique extended his airtime and counted as practice for a trick-set of his while he was at it. Hard-light was one of those off-the-wall oddball ideas that didn’t make sense on paper.

A section of space was ‘hardened’ by filling Essence with the idea of ‘solidity’. The amount of Essence it required made an insanely fragile ‘brick’ of glowing energy from the gathered intensity. Once he’d stepped on it, the Essence keeping it together shattered from the downwards force. It was good for one launch, but he really only needed one. With a wide enough presence, he didn’t lose the majority of the energy. Still… was it necessary to do all this work?

He was so close to the base of Skyspear that he could see it from here. Well, if ‘here’ was bouncing around near the cloud layer. That was significantly easier than the hard-light technique, but he had found that he couldn't always count on having clouds available. That was similar to walking on water, except you used more air Essence in the formula.

Water was a staple, and somehow altered the amount of ‘bounce’ you got out of a vapor cloud. The angry lightning-filled ones… they could kiss his keister. He’d rather hard-light around those or drop to the ground for a fresh launch.

Picking the dead cat up, he threw it over his shoulder. There! Nice and supported. The thing wasn’t going to fit in his bag unless he carved it up, and he wasn’t in the mood to chop up a dead Beast. Perhaps he would take it slow and walk the rest of the way to the City of Walls? Actually, that might be favorable to dropping in unannounced from above, which could reflect poorly if he fell on a house.

He’d forgotten about that. Yes. Enter through the front door, see if there’s any delicious paperwork that needs doing… huh. It was a strange thing to miss paperwork. Maybe they’d recognize him from his younger days? One could only hope!

With the animal hoisted over his shoulder, Artorian broke out a military whistle from his Socorro days and marched to the Oldwalls with his Starlight Aura activated only on the minimum. He didn’t want to stand out in the grassland, but didn’t want to get tired before he got there either! It occurred to him that while in the middle of a town, he may want to turn off his Aura effects. They may not be the best thing to have active, as his Auras were indiscriminate…

Ah, who was he kidding? Starlight Aura, maximum blast! No glow, let’s go!

His expected half-hour tromp turned into a multi-hour trek, and he was booking it! Things looked much smaller when you had a bird’s eye view, as it turned out. Artorian just about bowled over a few people on the way by as he hustled along, hollering ‘sorry’ over his shoulder as he didn’t have the time to see who or what he had passed. Unless you saw him coming, Artorian was a blur of bright colors to a non-cultivator.

If you did see him coming, the Moro was seen first. Since he was on an upward incline, the onlooker view tended to be from above. Now, Artorian didn’t realize how feared this beast was in the area, and he also didn’t pay much mind to screaming people. Mainly he thought that he had simply surprised them in passing. He’d needed to flip the creature over, since the soft stomach was far more forgiving on his shoulders than the spine was.

So, to the half-awake guards in a two-tier pavilion on the outskirts of the Oldwalls, a sprinting apex predator was coming their way, only to neatly… wait at the end of the line? They quickly flagged down a Captain, who went to investigate.

Trouble at the entry station was a constant, and a platoon at minimum remained stationed nearby so they could handle any threats. People in queue gave Artorian and his cargo a wide berth. It made him wonder what was wrong since they kept glancing at him.

By the scribes! His beard! It had become long over the years; borderline unkempt, really. All that air travel had undone some of the binding keeping it neatly together, so he must not be up to snuff with social norms when it came to beard-maintenance. He smiled at the people staring and gave a small wave. “Yes, yes. Sorry, sorry. Please don’t mind the beard.”

The refugees in front of him huddled their children close, but the younglings stared between him and the burdensome beast on his shoulder. They wanted the story. The children were hushed and made to look away. “Don’t bother the strange man.”

Ah. That was a good—if hurtful—point. Artorian didn’t know anyone here. He’d best be on good behavior. He’d been in almost no situation other than socially favorable ones for at least… oh, the last few decades. Looking ahead, a good three dozen small groups of people were ahead of him in the queue. That was fine. He was finally here; he could snack on berries from his pouch while taking the occasional step forwards. What was a few more minutes of waiting?

A crowd had gathered on the wall to check out the oddly polite and non-aggressive Moro. Seeing it was being carried, the majority decided they wanted nothing to do with whomever was able to bring down a big cat like that. They made themselves scarce. This was not the right town to be popular in. It painted a nasty target on your back, and affiliations were no better.

Captain Marquis had decided not to take unnecessary action. He sat next to scribe Timmy, a new recruit added to the fold of the guard. Then again, that was the fate of most who got kicked out of the Academy. Staying here was the only way to still gain some trickle of knowledge that came down from Skyspear. Or… knowing someone that was going up. That eccentric with the Moro? Yeah.

The Captain was a man of meager action and great sloth. If he could avoid doing work, he most certainly would. His muddy boots rested on the table, and he leaned back in his chair while chewing on a sugar reed as he watched the refugees come and filter through.

Always filtering through. That’s what those Abyssal raiders were here for; the lost and the desperate. Recruits for their precious Golden Hand. Sod ‘em.

When the old eccentric was finally up at the entrance table, Timmy didn’t flinch. He recited a speech rehearsed several times a day; so often that his voice hurt. Or… at least it had until the old man showed up. Timmy actually felt pretty good at the moment. The old man looked down at the scribe and didn’t interrupt.

“Welcome to Xi’an, a city of endless walls and wonder. Please sign your name if able, or describe it as best as you can. State your reason for coming, and your expected duration of stay. We apologize for the smell and-”

“Timmy.” The Captain stopped leaning back, falling forwards in the chair as he took his boots off the table. The scribe perked up from his mechanical speech, startled by the interruption.

“S...sir?”

Artorian leaned down, took a quill, and effortlessly scribed the details in. “Look at what kind of person you’re speaking with.”

The scribe blinked, and his mouth fell agape. Artorian just waved it off, “I know, I know. Apologies for my beard. I’ll get it sorted, lad. Am I all set to enter?”

The scribe drowned in a fit of mumbles as he checked over the paperwork for missing fields, but everything was written with a stylish flourish. The scribe had rarely seen such fine penmanship, and his respect for the elderly man was immediate. He knew how hard proper calligraphy was. “O...of course sir. Are you here for the Academy?”

The scribe’s eyes sparkled; the old man might be a way back in! Unfortunately for Timmy, the person he was talking to had seen through the ploy from the expression plastered on his dubiously scheming face.

“Hmm? Oh. No, I’m just here to deliver something.” He smiled wide, an absolute lie of a statement. Not that the scribe could tell.

“Oh. Yes. I can… see that.”

“I’ll be off then. Have a jolly good day!” The elder was far too enthusiastic for anyone’s liking. The crowd in the vicinity was entirely put off by the… colorfully dressed man’s mirth. It sent discomfort through them, even though they hadn’t felt so lacking in aches and pains in ages. It was downright unsettling. “Xi’an huh? They renamed it again? I wonder why the name keeps dying and getting replaced.”

Artorian entered the gate and turned to begin climbing the stairs. He also didn’t understand what the ‘smell’ comment had been about. Everything was fine? Oh! Right! His Aura was always cleaning, especially his immediate vicinity. He got up on the wall after a few minutes while thinking his interactions over.

Maneuvering his Beastie on his shoulders through narrow halls wasn’t easy. Once atop the wall, he saw lanterns lining the lee side of all the highest-tier walls, and found that everything was so… bleak and brown. Where were the blues of the ponds, the reds of flags and lamplights, the vivacious yellows of merchant stalls? He looked over the wall and… oh. Hmmm. Latrine problems.

He suppressed the Aura for just a moment… a critical mistake. The smells and awful attrition assaulted his senses. He clamped his nose shut, eyes watering as he felt the supreme need to hurl. He held it in for now, but the awful fugue wafting about was everywhere. Not even the torch fires were burning off the methane hanging in the air fast enough for the smell to dissipate.

He cycled his eyes: another mistake. There were a lot of people on the walls. That was where everyone lived, since the initial site had been built in a bog. The walls didn’t sink, so people lived and worked within and atop their layers. The deeper into the walls you were, the less savory your company. If you were atop the walls, you could see the tiered Pagoda’s with lanterns hanging from every corner. The red lights were familiar enough, but the smell… ugh.

He needed to get out of here. His enhanced eyes caught glimpses of people’s corruption; filth that had settled and remained impure. He sank to a knee, but people didn’t look twice. After all, what they saw was an old man carrying a heavy burden. Artorian wished he had taken the option not to look.

The horrors he now saw struck him right in the stomach. Advanced cultivator senses were not being helpful here. Nobody wanted to be aware of a cesspool like this, and he had to concentrate and physically force himself to stop cycling to his eyes. Just to stop seeing the garbage that had accumulated inside of all these people around him. There were so many of them, and they were all… ugh.

He’d been spoiled by immaculate Wood Elves. This was the human world; the filthy reality. It needed… cleansing. Then, he saw the raiders. Yes. He could make time for some cleansing.

Chapter Thirty

“This must be a joke.” Even in his war days, society hadn’t been this downtrodden. Abyss, the warzones had better living conditions than what he was currently looking at. There were refugees as far as the eye could see; coughing and illness ran rampant. Raiders openly walked the walls, and the guards were preventing nothing. What was the academy doing?

“Yoo hoo! Are you looking for a nice warm night?” A feminine voice called over, and he saw the Pagodas had been repurposed. Oh, not this, too! It hadn’t been him that had been called, and for that he was thankful.

He stalked off, hopping onto the edge of the wall to bounce along the crenellations. Nobody used those, and it kept him out of the crowd’s way. Sure, it was odd for the common folk to see a colorfully dressed grandfather bouncing along carrying a Moro, but he didn’t give them the option to interfere.

“Magic techniques! Buy your magic techniques here!” Artorian stopped on a copper and looked down to the lower wall. A merchant street? Yes, based on the shoddy carts. “Two coppers for a manual of insight and power! One copper for mighty strength! Half a copper for impenetrable health; never get sick again!”

Essence sight was risked. It did the job, and he read the rough pamphlets that had the gall to be termed manuals. Those scraps of vellum were barely fit to be called scratch notes. The pamphlets contained herbal mixtures that, as far as he knew, did nothing. These were all swindlers and thieves.

“Learn the power of the earth from a Master cultivator right here folks! Master Quan can teach you anything for the low, low price of a silver!” The academic glanced over to this ‘Master Quan’. An F-rank two with less corruption than the surrounding awfulness, but the man didn’t even possess a Chi spiral. It looked like the corruption had been stripped from him, and that in turn had made him comparatively healthy. Otherwise… this was a nobody playing pretend with lots of pomp and fancy beads.

Several more of these so-called Masters hung around the area. Artorian looked at one of the training areas; a repurposed square where the general public had been kicked out by ‘students’. Unsavory.

The ‘master’ there was at best doing warm-up exercises and selling it as ‘Chi channel improvement courses’. Such malarkey! That was it. Patience gone. Fury active. The academy needed to answer him for far more than the information he was here to collect… if they even had it. This was where he had been sending writs? Surely not. It hadn’t been like this nearly forty-ish years ago. What had happened to this place?

He hurried up his parapet hopping and made his way to the base of the million steps. Nope. Artorian would have, had a new-looking gate not been in the way. He was irritated now, and the line was so long. He steadied himself, reminding his old soldier self that he needed to try and make a positive impact. Try. He got in the queue, and the same pattern from before emerged.

People avoided him, and a higher up was once again present at the table by the time he got there. Another mindless droning speech spewing from another overworked scribe. “Welcome to the Skyspear, we are sorry and cannot accept applicants that cannot pay the tithe to register.”

The academy scribe got slapped on the back of the head by the robed figure. “Xi, you fool! Look at this man. He’s brought more than adequate payment for tuition!”

Tithes, payment, and tuition? At the Skyspear? How… new. He was starting to dislike this place’s idea of ‘new’. The academy ‘instructor’ rubbed his grubby, fat hands together. “Welcome, welcome, prospective student. I am low-grade instructor Justice Heron. I would be delighted to accept your tuition and allow you passage. Please leave the tithe with me, and you’ll be given a writ of proof when you get to the top and arrive at the main gates.”

Several things had been said that Artorian didn’t care for. Forget trying to make a good impression, there was nothing here to impress. He was going to kick that door down and start demanding explanations. “I think not.”

Heron placed a hand to his chest, acting insulted and accosted. “Oh, that won’t do, that won’t do at all! It is necessary that one receives permission from one such as I, low-grade instructor Justice Heron, to be allowed enrollment into…”

“Why would I need permission for something I already am? You can’t make me a student any more than you could make yourself a bird! I already belong here. Explain yourself, or step aside.”

The scribe snorted and got slapped on the head again by the instructor. Well… ‘Instructor’. The man was F-rank eight at best. His cultivation was a mess, if you called that a cultivation technique. Artorian had seen larger Chi strands on shrimp!

“Now, I really must insist…”

“Right then, farewell.”

Heron had begun to sputter, but was cut off as Artorian skipped the formalities, and the gate entirely. He jumped over both and landed on the other side, starting the climb on utterly filthy stairs. “When was the last time these were cleaned? I’m thinking that I may need to burn this place to the ground and start over.”

Not even a hundred steps in, and he was furious about what he was seeing. Lies? Swindling for admittance? Bureaucracy? No. This was not the academy he had left. This was an insult. An atrocity. He’d get to the bottom of this, or rather, the top of it.

“Did he just jump over…”

*Whap*!

“Shut up and write it down!” The scribe was hit a third time, and it only fueled Xi’s ire as he begrudgingly got to scribbling in this awful, oppressive work environment.

Someone was going to have a very bad day. Artorian remembered the climb to be more… arduous than it was. Then again, he’d been in his earliest of teens when he did this the first time. The steps spiraled around the mountain, going up and up until the air turned thin. He already knew it wouldn’t remain thin long, and now knew why.

An abundance of air Essence hung about the Skyspear, and once you went past the third-lowest threshold, breathing wasn’t difficult. It was just a scare for first-time climbers, something he’d expected and hoped to see more of.

This was a place where you rose on merit and ability. Yet none climbed the stairs with him now, and the contrast of the past and the present made him ache. He remembered the dozens of people attempting the daily struggle. Artorian missed the camaraderie at the bottom, and the fellowships one made in the rest spots.

Those same rest spots were now overgrown with scraggly weeds and abandoned. Artorian stopped at an old favorite of his, and he could only recognize it by old familiarity. The seats had been trashed, the great statue of Woah the Wise was toppled and befouled, and the pond… that was brown.

Artorian was absolutely livid. He was going to start throwing people off the mountain. In particular, the head administrator that had allowed this descent into dereliction to occur. Starlight poured off the furious philosopher. He glared a challenge up the mountain with unabashed resentment. Essence was aggressively drawn in from the vicinity as the air around the old man rumbled.

Tradition had been tarnished. The good name of one of his favorite places had been besmirched. The people he’d seen and met were foul and casually abusive. Artorian launched into the sky like a Dwarven firework. Branches snapped and water gushed from the resting spot. Small rocks and broken benches took flight as the back blast of his ascent sent the loose debris spiraling outwards. The head of Woah the Wise spun in place like a top before bouncing down the mountain stairs.

Artorian skipped rounds and rounds of steps he would have ordinarily have loved to climb for the sake of nostalgia alone. No. There was no pleasant welcome to be found here. His feet created an indentation into the rock as he landed before ‘the gates’.

A snoozing D-rank seven kept it propped open with a foot, his round straw hat covering the snoring face. The gate itself was dilapidated. The proud cyan paint had faded, and the sun-bleached wood had chipped. What was happening?

Moro on his shoulder or not, Artorian took a powerful stance and repressed his Aura-effects so that he could use the energy elsewhere. The muscle in his body bulged and strained, his leg power skyrocketing. A calm intake of breath followed an explosive outburst of power as a spinning back kick collided with the door.

A cacophonous *gong* resounded, as if a steel beam had just struck a church bell. The metal-lined interior of the door exploded in fractured shards right off its hinges, blasting into the introductory courtyard. The heavy wooden frame skidded to a screeching halt only to catch fire from the sparks the grinding metal had created.

A fitting fate. The old man’s leg remained outstretched as he stood flamingo-planted upon the ground. The additional weight of the beast used for extra balance. The door ‘guard’ fell on his face before scrambling to his feet, ears ringing.

“Wh… stay where you are, villainous scum! There will be no entry to Master Pigong’s personal holy grounds! Students, assemble and throw this miscreant out!” The guard crossed his arms, still groggy as he found his footing. He wondered where part of the gate had gone. What was it doing burning in the courtyard?

Students stood paralyzed in the open courtyard as they watched an old man with an extremely long beard return to a standing position. They didn’t know what to make of an expert dressed in clothing made of petals, with a well-known apex predator hauled over the shoulder. They weren’t going to do an abyssal thing, and most of them crossed their arms in an ‘X’ at the door guard.

“Impudent mongrels. I, mid-rank instructor Fei-jing will remind you why you obey me and take my lessons! Chi-breathing exercises, all of you! I, the great Fei-jing, shall vanquish this…”

*Paf*! Fei-jing went flying in a twisting spiral as a shining construct of hard-light mimicking the back of Artorian’s hand swatted him through the air. The instructor’s slippers flew from his feet and landed in the place he’d been boasting. A crash informed them all that he’d smashed face-first in the nearby crates. Herbs spilled from the broken barrels, and Artorian stepped into the courtyard, calm as a fiddle now that he’d blown off a little steam.

He didn’t like what he saw. “Students?”

While he was asking a rhetorical question, the students who had gathered in the courtyard from all the loud noise didn’t understand it as such. They took it as a question to their status. Seeing as their direct instructor had just been backhanded by might that wasn't seen outside of the high-instructors, they clasped open palm-to-fist and bowed. This was not someone they wanted to cross. “Students greet unknown Master!”

He blinked at them. “None of that now. I’m but a student myself… although if this is the caliber things have sunk to, I may indeed have some teaching to do. My list grows ever longer. Where are Masters Sho-lin, Fen-que, and Diomedes?”

The highest-ranking student stepped forth. “Honored Master! This student shall speak for the class. Honored Master! Those names are not known to us!”

The frown on Artorian’s face spread, and the students bowed deeper as result with the head speaker retreating back to his position. Learning through fear? Oh, he didn’t like this. He didn’t like this at all. Artorian walked over to the barrels and laid the body of the Moro on top of the supposed mid-class instructor, the name of whom he’d already forgotten. He sighed and got his head in the game. When building a structure, you started with the foundation. For a school, the foundations were the students. All else could come only if you had those willing to learn.

Striding back to the bowing head student, he inspected the boy that could not be more than eighteen and put a hand on his fearfully balled fist. He hadn’t dared move while the Master approached. “Open this up and stand straight, my boy. You’re going to hurt your back. The rest of you as well. Come now. Stand and relax, this isn’t good for your postures.”

He kept a hand on the head student, the status of which he discerned by the stripes on his belt. The practice Gi was too dirty to divine rank from. It looked like they’d been forced to work in mines or something! When the head student relaxed, it was done with much confusion. The other students were wondering why they weren't being attacked.

“My name is… Artorian. Call me Artorian. Not Master. Just Artorian. I am not your better. I am only a fellow student. Now tell me what happened here in the forty to fifty years I’ve been gone, in as much detail as is available to you.”

The head student made a motion to put his palm-to-fist again, but was stopped by the grandfather. Artorian’s expression was no longer one of anger or irritation, but one of dire concerns. These youngsters were here to learn, and they’d been abused. He’d not have it.

“M…” His hesitating hand was squeezed by Artorian, who was not interested in being called by the term of their oppressors.

“Please, my boy… had he lived, I would have had a son your age. Don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be for either of us. You smell of dampness, and a mine.”

Cycling Essence to his eyes told Artorian plenty. The hidden bruises on their bodies. The purple lines around their necks. The scab marks on their bloodied knees. “Tell grandfather what’s been happening here.”

With a swallow and a trembling lower lip, the boy tried to speak. The grip he took on Artorian’s inner robe only tightened. They’d been conditioned not to do this exact thing; they weren’t allowed to speak freely! They’d be punished!

The head student found his face pressed into the old man’s shoulder, the back of his skull gently held as a tapping hand brushed across his shoulder blades. Artorian looked up, speaking without pause. “Can anyone tell me the tale? Anyone?”

A hand rose in the back, and the crowd of shaken students parted. “Yes, my dear?”

The maybe twelve-year-old girl was glued to the spot from the attention. The grandfather held out a hand for her, inviting her to move. She took hesitant steps forwards, but that’s all she managed. “Could… could I ask a question?”

The grandfather nodded slowly so they could all see, and verbally confirmed the movement. “Of course you can, my dear, anytime. What is your question?”

She looked around at the other scared gazes glassily returning her uncertain stare, “That golden light… was that you? Was that Chi magic?”

The confusion was apparent on Artorian’s face. “That’s not what it’s called, but I think I understand your meaning. You meant to ask me if what you saw is a technique being used? The answer to that is yes, and…”

He stopped. They were giving him the look. The look that screamed that nothing of what he was saying was known to them. “I see… can I ask something in return?”

The girl nodded, but the grip on her practice Gi was tight.

“Would you like to see what Chi can really do?” A glint of hope blossomed in the glaze of her dulled eyes, and she nodded again.

Artorian looked down at the head student, who was ready to be let go. Care was not something he’d been afforded in a very long time. The allowance to be weak, to show it, to be allotted freedom of emotion and action was… the lad didn’t understand it anymore.

The Aura Artorian had been repressing glimmered, then blazed to life as he extended his presence out the full eighty-eight feet he could currently muster. He pressed his hands behind the small of his back and stood, letting the starlight lance the filth, dirt, and misery out of their clothes and off the top layer of their skin. It didn’t replace a bath, but it helped.

Their bruises knit; the purple lines faded to red, then pink, then nothingness. Their pain faded and the cuts on their hands closed as they all gained a shared sense of wonder at the living sunshine before them.

When the elder eased off his Aura and dampened the shine it was giving off. A shine those within eighty-eight feet were completely surrounded by as their environment turned resplendent. Hope rekindled in each student. Now that he had their attention, without the fear, he tried again, “Hello everyone. My name is Artorian, and I’ll be staying here a while. If you’d like to learn of Chi and its uses. I will teach you.

“If you’re here for the Academy knowledge, I will teach you. If you’re here to learn anything I have wisdom on, I will teach you. Do not call me Master. For I am not your better; I am merely stronger. That does not entitle me to your respect or fear.” He smiled at the crowd, and finally his heart felt a weight drop away. They smiled back. “Now could I please be told what’s been going on? Who can tell me?”

A hundred hands shot toward the sky.

Good.

Chapter Thirty-One

The story from the students made Artorian reach maximum emotional capacity.

He hid his absolute lividity behind a fake smile, but his surroundings were heating up in response to his emotional state. Specifically, fire Essence in his Aura was reacting to him, similar to how Ember’s Aura reflected her emotional state. It was a mechanism to cope that she had taught him, and it did actually help.

The heat was the physical representation of Essence expanded into the world, and the outpour of power helped his overflowing emotions. It felt liberating to let his energy be one with his state of being, though it was dangerous to do so unchecked.

“So… if I understand you correctly… the Academy is a fancy name for little more than a labor camp. People get dumped here, swindled, and tricked to come here due to its ancient reputation. Yet the place has entirely fallen to shambles… the Masters that normally upheld the order have disappeared; one every ten years. Finally, the current Headmaster is an unsavory unknown.”

That was terrible news. From how he now understood ranks, Diomedes had been a middling C-rank, and the others had been in the low C-ranks. He’d been hopeful to have a peer to speak with… but it was not to be. Instead, there was housekeeping to do.

It seemed the current Headmaster was possibly in the C-ranks, given the explanations. Artorian deftly stepped over to the name-didn’t-matter lesser instructor, moved the Moro, and picked the unconscious man up. “Could someone state a redeeming quality of this one, or any good he’s done for you all?”

“Anyone?” The response was resounding silence. “I understand.”

Artorian tossed him off the mountain. Surprised and full of disbelief at what had just happened, the students ran to the edge to peer over it. Some saw the mid-grade miscreant break the cloud layer, gasping with hands in front of their mouths. Did… did the old man just…? The grandfather didn’t even lose his smile as he turned back to the students.

“I require some volunteers to help me with something. I’m going up, and cleaning house. I need a few students to come along and rescue the remaining students on the higher tiers. I can’t imagine life is any better for them. Would anyone-”

The entire crowd stepped forward. He hadn’t expected such a powerful group response. “All of you... ?”

The head student remained the voice for the class. “All of us. Our lives were… not worth living. That guard was there to prevent our escape, not teach us. Then an old M… Grandfather… shows up and mends our wounds. He treats us kindly, offers to teach us rather than demand we obey. Like we’re real people. People that matter. He asks if any of us want to help our friends, and for some of us, our family?”

A girl from the back punched her fist into the air, invigorated. “We have the numbers, and we’ve been praying for something like this! Someone strong!”

Glancing over his shoulder, the head student nodded in full agreement. “How could our hearts say no? What do we need to do?”

Now that the boy had found his voice, he’d turned out to be an intelligent one. Not that Artorian had ever doubted this: the people that would have been lured in with the Skyspear’s reputation would be the smartest of the bunch. They all had electricity in their eyes. Not entirely a metaphor, since a few of them all had very strong affinity channels for air and earth.

They could, with a few decades of practice, make notable lightning cultivators. “Leave the giant cat here for now. It’s not going anywhere. We go up.”

The students looked at the corpse and swallowed hard. Since even as a group they couldn’t pick that one-ton beast up, taking the Moro wasn’t even an option. Artorian had just been carrying that? He might not want to be called a Master, but in comparison to the hacks present here… he was one.

Artorian studied the path upwards that led to the Outer Pagoda courtyard. The Pagoda was located inside a cavity within the Skyspear mountain. He remembered the seas of wind chimes, and yet he couldn’t hear a single relaxing tone though the air fluttered over his robes. His feet spurred him forward without conscious decision, and it was the rustle of followers that brought him to his senses.

Instead of a sea of windchimes, there was a wave of vengeance-seeking students. It would do. He paused when he noticed how they were carrying themselves. Hunched, defeated, working hard not to garner attention. The students came to a stop when they realized he was looking at them, having stopped for an impromptu lesson.

“I need you all to stand up straight. Imagine your spine as a string. Lift it from the nape of your neck, and let the rest of your body come to rest as you let yourself back down. Let your bones do what bones are meant to; support your stance. Let your muscles do what they are meant to, rather than expend them to hold yourself up. You’re all slouching forward. Maintain this position, and it will fix your composure and stances. Your back pain will lessen, and your head will not feel as if it is an added weight. This will be useful when you learn how to walk.”

The students shared looks. But… they knew how to walk already? Maybe that’s not what the old man meant? A few tried his advice, but didn’t notice any immediate effects. Still, lessons were lessons, and this was the first real one that hadn’t been accompanied with a beating.

Artorian saw that they didn’t understand. “If your body is busy spending energy on things it’s not supposed to be doing, you can’t spend that energy on the things you want to use it for.”

He turned and showed them an example as he straightened himself. Artorian walked with his shoulders squared and his chest forward, hands behind the flat of his back for support as he reminded himself of his commander days. Without being aware, his walk evolved into a firm, imposing step. An unyielding tread that would crush and flatten the path before it by sheer weight of will.

The students followed, climbing up the winding path. They passed through wooden wreckage and ruined hanging string where the chimes used to be. Rotted by time and collapsed from neglect, they’d succumbed to the elements. Artorian paid them no mind. There was no room for yet another reason to throw people from the mountain: he already had plenty.

“Hmm. Shall I knock politely, or announce myself?” When they reached the outer Pagoda guard doors, the bulky bulwark was closed. He looked to the students for a decision, but only the latter option received any votes. They all craved more explosive destruction, and they knew they would receive it when the old man smiled a smile that was all teeth. “Announcing it is.”

The upper D-ish cultivator pressed his hand to the door. Nothing happened at first, but the students still took a wary step back. The door creaked and moaned from within as it started shaking against his hand. Pressure grew inside, and fresh branches forced entire vertical panels out of their sockets as Artorian flooded the living plants that had crept inside of the gates with life.

“Bamboo, my friend… you’re up!” The hinges burst from internal pressure. Flowers bloomed out from the wall sections as the gate crumpled and fell inwards, rotten fuel for the plants that now consumed it as rampant bamboo further splintered the fallen doors from within.

A bewildered crowd stood behind a fat carcass of a monster. Artorian called it a monster, but it was hiding in the shape of an unfathomably… *ahem*… portly man. His fat rolls had fat rolls, and Artorian immediately dismissed physical strikes against the behemoth. He’d need a scrub bath just to get the oil removed from his fists.

“Who dares invade Master Pigong’s holy ground! Begone from the private sanctum you-” The instructor’s eyes crossed. That, or they attempted to look at the gaping cylindrical hole bored through his forehead. Artorian had shifted to a side-stance, arm outstretched to aim. Two fingers pressed together as the last vestiges of light dissipated from the tips, feeding back into his extended presence.

Artorian didn’t spare the falling corpse a word. He moved with a flutter, grasped the monster by the wrist mid-drop, and flung the ‘meat’eor off the mountain. Just as the first group had, Outer Pagoda students flocked to the edge to see the body fall. Some courtyard students went to watch the show again, but they knew the result. With a wave of his hand, the courtyard students registered their grandfather’s intent and ran to calm their Outer Pagoda family. Residents of this tier were all several years older, and many seemed to have been separated from their families.

The first group of students explained the events to the second group, but were only convinced after Artorian smiled and became a miniature sun, doing for their wounds what he’d done for the others. After the restoration, one could tell that the Outer Pagoda students wore red practice uniforms. Some even knew a few of the theorems and sayings from the wall of virtue.

That wall had recently been destroyed, and Artorian bit his lip while he faced the rubble that remained. He’d rebuild it. Artorian knew the messages on the wall by heart. He’d written them next to scores of other students a thousand times, and a thousand times again.

A screech erupted from the Outer Pagoda structure, and a scantily-clad woman ran for her life as a watery lash whipped behind her and latched about her exposed ankle. She screamed, and an equally bulky monster of an instructor made himself visible. The slob strolled through the opened double doors like he owned the place. Well, based on his behavior, he probably thought he did.

“Deny not this Master! I, Master Pigong of the holy ground demand…” His greedy rant faltered, his attention diverted by the oversized crowd of mixed servants that looked too different for his liking. “What are lesser servants doing on my holy ground?”

“Is that thing Pigong?” Artorian leaned over next to a red-robed student. The student fearfully nodded. “I understand.”

Pigong unleashed his trademark water whip. The swirling technique of agony made the crowd wince. Their backs knew well the suffering such a magic Chi weapon could inflict. He flicked it into the air, about to give chase to the entire body of ‘lessers’.

The raised water whip seemed to have different plans. It recoiled from the people and instead twisted around its wielder’s neck. Sharpening for a bare instant, the coiled Essence smoothly decapitated the perplexed fat man. Pigong’s body flopped to the ground, and his whip reverted to water vapor before his failing brain could begin to grasp what was happening.

Artorian wasn’t here for a fair fight. He wasn’t even here for a fight. This was pest control. Striding forwards, the academic punted the still-blinking decapitated head off the edge of the cliff face. The body was unceremoniously tossed off right after without so much as a mention or clever quip. These pigs weren’t worth the breath it would take, and every second the students saw them was another second they would need to heal.

As the head launched into the air, he half expected a smattering of Elves to pop from the brush and start scoring. Ah, he was missing the forest more every day.

Artorian hopped onto a nearby rock and introduced himself. He gave the same speech to the students that he had given to the first crowd; the promise of teaching. When he asked this group if they too would come with him, maximum support was their reply. Other students that had remained in hiding were gathered so they too could experience the shining zone of warmth and resplendent recovery.

“Mas… Grandfather.” A red robed student got Artorian’s attention, performing the palm-to-fist bow. Ah. He’d forgotten to mention that. No matter, the Courtyard students would fill them in later.

“Yes, my boy?”

The students went quiet since the Master… elder? The old man was speaking. That was going to take some getting used to. Artorian’s desire not to be called by the common title was tripping the students up. “How did our previous master… perish? His weapon appeared to attack him?”

Artorian brushed a hand through his frazzled beard and considered how best to answer. “You’re going to learn this over time, but I’ll give you the easy version. That weapon was made using a concentration of energy forced into a shape. It wasn’t a very stable or well controlled shape, just a floppy noodle with some unbalanced water Essence in it.”

He smoothed out his beard. “The premise is basic. When striking, it would deal damage as if it were a real whip. Unfortunately for him the design was poor, the workmanship shoddy, control abysmal, and he knew little about what he was actually doing. I took all the parts he wasn’t influencing and turned them against him. Since the majority of that technique was so poorly controlled and exposed, it took but a thought.”

Finishing his grooming, he warmly smiled at the gawking crowd. “Don’t look so baffled. You too will do this one day. All it takes is practice and a little nudge in the right direction.”

He strolled off to the next set of stairs without another word. The disbelieving gaggle of students caught up, talking amongst themselves as they ascended the spire. Artorian overheard parts of the story he’d missed before. Not the entire school was in this state of disrepair, but something bad had happened after the last Grandmaster entered seclusion.

The overall tone was more pleasant. Forward thinkers had raided the supplies from the pig that had hoarded every scrap of food that made its way to the mountain, which gave the group something to snack on.

Growing food on the spire wasn’t impossible. In fact, it was quite suitable to many crops. The humidity was stable and sunlight shone aplenty. If only there were better plants to grow. Well… didn’t he have some seeds literally in his pocket? An adventure to pursue after this mandatory pest control.

They passed through twisting mountain tunnels until they reached the Inner Pagoda. This was the cavitatious area where the actual Pagoda stood… what was left of it. Bodies littered these grounds, and green-robed skeletons were visible everywhere. Cuts on the bones and the cloth were indicative of a very one-sided fight.

A hoarse voice hiccupped from a darkened corner. A barrel it seemed? A barrel with feet sticking out of it. It shattered from within as a drunk stumbled out, also clad in green robes. Stolen green robes. This man was a cultivator, and a decent one at that.

*Hiccup*. “More blood for the distillery!” The drunk’s jar of alcohol deflected Artorian’s lance of light. His gourd remained undamaged save for a little scratch. Holding it close to his eye to inspect the chafe, the stumbling drunk hiccupped again.

“Ppfft. You’re going to face a Fallen Cleric with these weak celestial feces? Y-y-y-ou must be drunker than I am. Just… stand still and let me harvest you, I’ve got blood Essence to cultivate!”

Chapter Thirty-Two

*Crash*! After draining a deep drink from his gourd, the drunk dropped the jar, shattering the ceramic container. The remaining red goop drenched the ground.

Artorian calmly flipped through his mental notes. Red fluid. Bloodshot eyes? Bloodshot eyes. Blood cultivator? What does that mean? Time to check the patterns!

Hints of rogue celestial, fire, water, and… something else? Another four Essence channel cultivator! It was nice to know that he wasn’t the only one. Artorian guessed that fire corruption was at play if Dwarven brandy was being drained. It seemed that an effect was in place, one that both kept his blood free from impurities while also empowering the Essence flows along his channels. Artorian could just start to tell what the pattern was going to be at a certain point.

So, this man would be incredibly easy to anger then? Since the cultivator was only pretending to be a drunk, Artorian snootily caused a scene. Two could play the pretend game. Artorian performed a funny walk to the edge of the cliff, where he held his nose high and started to act with great drama. “Give my blood? To whom? You? Hah! You couldn’t take it if you tried. You’re far too slow, and far too drunk. Can you even see me, or are you seeing five of me? Which one is even the real me? You couldn’t tell had you been sober!”

Enraged and fueled by fire corruption, the blood-cultivator blindly leapt at this insulting, unwelcome guest that hadn’t brought anything to drink.

“That worked? Too easy.” Artorian scoffed at being correct. He didn’t side-step as the angered blood-user expected. Both of the drunk’s hands split, splattering out a wet red mist that formed talons of crystalline crimson mid-charge. As he swung… the cultivator felt the old man step on his head, hopping up and over.

The insult! A push to the back of his skull made the blood-user falter, and now he was drunkenly teetering on the rocky edge. He wasn’t about to be done in like that! Spikes of blood jettisoned from the man’s feet, impaling the ground and preventing a fall from such a minor tactic. “Hah! Not so easy, am I?”

A ball of condensed air tore the rooted cultivator right out of the dirt, sending the Wilhelm-screaming annoyance spiraling into the clouds below. The man complained in a drunken rage as he tumbled down the steep mountain.

Artorian made a single sharp nod, pleased that his plan had been successful. He had known that a push of air alone wouldn’t have done a thing. But so long as he uprooted the chunk of rock drunky was latched to. That long, long fall to the bottom would do all the hard work. Repeated impact was only a bonus to ensure the one-way trip. Did he have any methods of negation?

He highly doubted that Ember’s inertia-dampening trick was well known. Peering over the edge, the academic felt pretty sure when the blood cultivator made a sudden crunchy stop. The shimmery blip of drunky’s aura winked out from Artorian’s vision. On an unrelated note, did people release all their essence when they died? Something for another time.

Returning to the two groups of cheering students, he ignored that he just used a swirling gust to hurl someone off the mountain. While he considered mountain-tossing as a trend that was likely to repeat all day, the students celebrated the roaring victory. With equally roaring cries.

Artorian was somewhat jaded from being around gifted cultivators for his entire tenure as a cultivator, but these students didn’t even have the corruption cleansed from them. His techniques were whispers of fantasy to them. To the students, what he was doing was otherworldly.

“Check the area for survivors. We might get lucky.” A few hours later determined that they did not get lucky. The Inner Pagoda had been… emptied. With the structure a shell of its former glory, Artorian tried not to think of the polished halls it had once contained. He remembered weeks of scribing practice. How to spell. How to hold the quill. How to grind ink. How to wash ink out of clothes… that last one had been very useful. He was so messy.

A breath of mountain air broke him from the fugue and another set of stairs were beneath his feet shortly after. He told the students to stay behind and rest; they didn’t have his stamina, and were in dire need of some rest and relaxation.

He said he’d be back, and made the next climb alone. It was for the best. A skilled cultivator was waiting for him, as was… something else. A hole in the world that drank in Aura but didn't release even a hint of it.

The influence of each person was unique. Where the drunken blood cultivator had carried a hint of malice in comparison to the unpleasant feeling washing down his skin; this was a grinding darkness that clawed at him. Where Artorian radiated starlight filled with the celestial, this person waiting for him below the spear’s apex embodied the Essence he’d had the least contact with: infernal. They’d sensed each other all the way from the Inner Pagoda.

His Aura emanated the infernal, and electricity crackled in the air when their Auric fields met. Both men were confused when the environment acted up, and their Auras showed a significant difference in where their power was. One would expect Auras to meet cleanly in the middle when two opposing, hostile cultivators were within a few feet from one another. But here… the crackling static buzzed maybe a few inches from Takaviri’s skin, while Artorian remained eighty-eight paces away.

What an interesting comparison of Auric skills. The crackling only got worse as the space between them diminished; not at all what either of them had expected. The infernal cultivator quirked a brow as the old man slid on a pair of sunglasses.

How… new. The cultivator considered it time for a flashy entrance speech; after all, this was a great stage for a climactic battle! “I am Takaviri, direct disciple of the Invulnerable One.”

Takaviri was a proper C-ranker, possessing a fully built body and partially infused Aura. He didn’t let a little detail like ‘Aura size’ get to him. Abyss, it even meant he could let loose for a change! He was so sick of wiping the floor with that boring blood cultivator. Takaviri’s voice matched his Aura, both prickly and cutting as he began to laud himself. “You might be an actual challenge for this mighty cultivator of despair. I will show gl-l-l-l-hrk…”

Being a C-ranked cultivator supposedly provided one a lot of perks. Powerful body, powerful Aura, and a solidified cultivation technique for speedy Essence movement and enhanced control.

Now, when it came to Auric protections, it was well known that like rejected like. Fire bounced away fire. Air crackled against air. On the other hand, opposites cancelled. A fire Essence technique striking an Aura filled with primarily water Essence counted as rudimentary shielding. Both were expended equally if nothing else was at play.

But adjacents? Oh, those were fun. Adjacents interacted.

Arcing rays of metallic electricity wrenched between their hostile Auras. The infernal in Takaviri’s Aura wrestled the celestial in Artorian’s, dispersing in an air-Essence abundant environment. Going through the same motions as before, the old man indexed his opponent and started work on his attack. Takaviri wasn’t just an infernal cultivator; from the patterns surrounding him, and the contents of his Aura, the academic deduced his opponent was a dual Essence cultivator. Specifically, infernal and air!

That must have been why lightning snapped and sparked? Though it was strange to call it lightning. The clashing Essence mimicked the look, but it felt as if something was missing for it to really be ‘lightning’ as metallic electricity crackled. The opposites in their fields actively cancelled around the agitated, remaining Essence where like was rejecting like. Now, celestial and infernal didn’t have ‘official’ adjacents. Only each other, and only as opposites.

Air, on the other hand, had two adjacent types. Sharply pulling away the ambient heat behind the enemy cultivator, Artorian flared copious heaps of fire Essence in front of the man. That such actions were visible or not didn’t matter for the moment. The academic didn’t know the term for the environmental effect he was encouraging, he just knew nature worked as intended when given the correct conditions. It wasn’t the heat itself that was important, but the alteration of natural factors already in the local air.

Having been basics-trained by Ember, Artorian no longer needed to move his hands or body to throw Essence around. Making the somatic actions tended to make fine control easier. For this sleight of hand, not moving his arms made it seem as if he hadn’t been doing anything save closing the distance.

When Artorian could see the natural crackling between opposing Auras intensify from the temperatures he was upholding, he considered the right conditions to be in place. Taking an extra strong step forwards, he ‘falcon knee’d a gust of refined air Essence into the mixture to connect the dots.

Takaviri was overconfident. Having no Essence cycled to his eyes to see what his opponent was doing; he didn’t notice the pre-existing electricity being amplified by the violent addition of air Essence.

The active influx of high-quality Essence connected itself to the heavily laden positive and negative ion pockets in the area. Specifically, those in front and behind the infernal cultivator, which conveniently bordered active sparks. While Taka had been distracted by his own hubris and Auric size comparison, the man became a living conductor contained inside of a hard-light sphere, trapping him and the newly formed rampant plasma in said confined space as adjacents interacted.

Metallic-purple lightning rippled, snapped, and cracked with repetitive flashes through the quickly fracturing container. The temperature-influenced ion pockets and free-roaming Essence fully expended itself mere seconds after it had begun, but the damage was dealt.

Artorian watched as the infernal cultivator fried from the inside out by an Essence effect he couldn’t defend against. He didn’t cease his forward stride as he pondered mechanics. Lightning was likely just compounded air Essence rubbing against the ground, or earth Essence, but adding water and fire made that odd electric-purple stuff.

Takaviri slumped to the ground as a smoking husk. He gasped an oven-baked breath, regardless of being mostly charcoal. What was that absolute cheat of a move he’d just been hit by? That old timer had walked towards him, and bam! He’d been blindsided and struck by lightning? Had he been anything other than C-ranked, it would have already been the end of him. His Aura was fully expended from blocking as much of the damage as it could, he’d had to use his refined Essence to defend against that! The insult! “Ah… I… I’m going to butcher you!”

The old man wasn’t having any of that ‘second wind’ nonsense. A beam of light extended from his finger as he finally strolled past the broken cultivator, unceremoniously slicing his head off with a *Vmm*. Without an external Aura protecting the disciple, the old warrior didn’t even feel a hint of resistance as the Essence blade passed through.

Artorian rolled his shoulders, and the remaining free-floating Essence in the area re-absorbed into him via his presence. He supposed he wasn’t exactly fighting fair or in a manner that was sportsmanlike; in short, he wasn’t giving his enemies a chance. But what was wrong with that exactly? This wasn’t a sport; it was his life on the line.

Copying the blood cultivator’s Essence claw concept, he replaced the one-finger lightblade so that he could indirectly grab and toss the corpse. With a throw of the arm, another enemy joined the others in a journey off the mountain. A shame that Artorian didn’t have the luxury of time to study. He’d have loved to know more about infernal Essence and the people that cultivated it.

Unfortunately, he didn’t need to be told how despair was cultivated. The robed man had signed his death warrant by being in the way, and Artorian put it out of mind as he walked several hours to reach the next hollow. Pushing open the metal gate, he stepped into the open-air royal gardens. The previously romantic location was now overgrown, wild and unruly. No matter. Two parallel blades of wind cleared the entire path forward in a quick and easy straight line. He knew the way, and so tread purposefully across the cleaved greenery. At the end of the path, he looked up and sighed in relief. He needed to take a moment for his feelings to settle.

There it was.

The Academy.

Carved into the side of the stone mountain, with a waterfall curtaining every open window and walkway. Gnomes had chiseled it in ages past to run experiments both out of sight and out of mind. It had eventually found a different path in the pursuit of higher learning. The question of how they got the water up here was no longer a mystery. Not since he had seen the drunken stunts his Wood Elves pulled with their waterspout trees.

If they could do it in a drunken stupor, a calculating group of Gnomish inventors from a golden age gone by certainly could have as well. Unlike the rest he’d seen of the mountain, The Academy retained its majesty. It was untouched by time, save for the additional greenery that had crawled its way inside, reclaiming for nature what belonged to nature.

There were no more exterior steps from this point. One had to reach the center point of the academy, and ascend using the stairs within. He hurried to do so, cutting down foliage as he went. He’d hoped this place would be bustling with activity. He’d hoped scribes, scholars, and ancients alike would be studying here, reading scripts and scroll, losing days of their time in stories and written wonders. Empty ground crunched under his feet as he traversed the abandoned halls.

The inner stairwell was a massive construction, round and twisting like the inside of a lighthouse. Ascending to the first academy level, his hands brushed over a familiar black door. The airtight seal was intact, even if the lock had fallen off the handle from how rusted it had become. He’d told them long ago not to use sub-par material to lock important places. At least make it of the same meteorite as the door itself.

“Please… at least this place. Please…” His palm came to rest against the black door, hand on the lever. He didn’t know who he was asking, or even why. It was either there, or it wasn’t. *Chunk*.

The door slid open like greased butter moving in a hot pan. Artorian covered his parting mouth, and his heart leapt even as he sank to his knees. It was there. It was all still there! The door he’d opened… the door had been sealed airtight!

It was the gateway that led to the land of truth. It was his favorite place in the entire school, save one. It was… The Library.

Ancient volumes laid preserved in their sealed boxes and sand-glued jars. Scrolls hung pressed between panes of glass that remained locked between wheeled stands, allowing them to be moved during exhibitions. Flags of Kingdoms long fallen hung from the walls, and writing desks with empty inkwells still lined the windows. Closing the door behind him as he wandered through a world of memories, Artorian ended up at a particularly heavily-marked writing desk.

Someone had carved into the wood itself, a boisterous youth with no regard for the rules and no interest in learning. Ah, what a problem child he’d been. He brushed his thumb over the carving of his name. His first name. The original. The ‘M’ was carved deepest. What an experience that had been, before it all went awry. How different life would have been, had he spent it all here.

The reminiscing had to end. He tore himself away from the desk, though it physically pained him to leave it behind once again. This was not yet the time to get emotional. There was still work to do. He’d have all the time in the world to have a sit down… after. His eyes fell on an open book at the Headmaster’s private desk. It was a Headmaster’s duty to put up books and set a good example. He detoured, and checked the contents.

He frowned. No. Who would have been reading… “Scriptures of a secluded hermit, donated by the church. Corruption as an immutable energy, volume one.”

He flipped a page, and found his handwriting. Someone had turned his mess into a full volume, catalogued and ordered by relevance per chapter, in order of… ah. Appearance. So still out of order for what mattered content-wise. Still, this was unexpected.

He closed the fat tome. Someone had compiled this and read it recently. There was no dust or residue on the open pages. He checked the entry of where it was opened. “Ah, yes. Regarding the removal of the immutable.”

Artorian recalled writing this chapter. Nothing but bad news with the conclusion that it couldn’t be done unless you had external help, or possessed something special that let you remove it over time. This was before he’d tested shoving it into someone else. What an… unpleasant feeling that had been. It had felt so wrong.

He left the Library. It existed, and the knowledge survived. That was good enough. Ascending more stairs, Artorian ignored the next several sets of doors. He needed to be at the spear. The tip. He’d never been to the apex, as it had always been reserved for the Headmaster alone.

The flapping of robes battered by the wind reached his ears before he left the stairwell; just as his footsteps reached the ears of the current Headmaster. This was the hole in the world that his Aura had found, but… Artorian didn’t know what to say when he saw the wreck of a man. This thing was in a worse situation than he had been before his cultivation technique, his body made of practically nothing but corruption.

One glance at the unprotected man showed a complete lack of external Aura, yet a functional pearlescent Chi spiral. Solidified, but small and simple. Non-fractalized. You could reach the C-ranks without fractalizing? Artorian wasn’t one to speak about doing things in an odd way; he’d also gone the roundabout method.

“No need to kill me, old student.” Now that was an eardrum-damaging voice. Artorian was chipper and spry in comparison. “If you would sit with me and do me the honor of a wisdom-off, we c—”

*Twang*!

That was not the sound Artorian had expected to hear while trying to cut through a person with parallel wind-blades. Twang? He slowly took his sunglasses off in disbelief, just to make sure it wasn’t a trick of the light. The fallen half-corpse sighed and shakily stood back up after the momentum of the effect had toppled him.

“Or we can fight…” How had this shambling wreck bounced off an Aura attack without having any external Aura themselves? The ancient man was spindly, thin, didn’t look like he had eaten in a month, and… had an awfully thick amount of Essence packed into his body. The academic couldn’t even find an Essence pattern to discern since the wry mummy before him didn’t have an Aura he could pick apart.

A different kind of opposite was suddenly in Artorian’s face, and he was painfully sent flying into a boulder. His nose broke with a crunch as the Headmaster decked him with the weight of a mountain.

This mountain.

Starlight Aura did what it could after the grandfather painfully cracked his nose back into place. The Auric effect would heal the rest, given time. The punch didn’t impact him as hard as Ember could, but it was a stone’s throw in difference.

“Internal cultivator.” Artorian’s laconic speech pattern made itself known as the philosopher got up and brushed himself off. “All body, no Aura. I guess I know what that looks like now.”

The Headmaster made a sagely motion of understanding. “As do I. I’m looking in a mirror of opposition, in more meanings than one. So… shall we talk, or shall we dance? We can test how little your Auric strikes accomplish against the Imperius body technique of the Iron-Shelled Mastodont Kings. Or we can talk about the future of this tall rock that was once an academy, and your place as a servant in it.”

The Headmaster adopted a stoic fighting stance. “What do you choose, flunked student who now goes by Artorian?”

Chapter Thirty-Three

*Boom*!

The fallen door in the courtyard detonated, and shrapnel splinters scattered as a blurred form slammed through it from above. “Argh!”

Students busy stuffing their faces with food were blown from their benches as the displaced air displaced them as well. Seeds, nuts, and fruits went flying as the student body got pelted by searing wood chips. Mere hours after waking to a new day, the youngsters who thought all the fighting was over watched a tattered hand claw its way out of the stony crater.

Covered in charcoal and burnt soot, Artorian wrenched himself from the wreckage. Being hurled to the ground was bad for one’s health, being hurled into it was certainly no better. Pain lanced through his broken left shoulder, and a stabbing ache stressed his hip. He could at least force himself to fight through the pain as he extracted himself. It helped that his Aura was mending the harm done.

A few of the concerned bystanders got to their feet, shuffling hesitant steps to come and help. “Stay back!”

The panic and natural command in the old man’s voice made the already unsure students freeze to the spot. The majority had backed off when a whistling sound pierced the air from above. It didn’t take more than an upwards glance for them to bolt like their lives depended on it. Where the grandfather’s fall had been ungraceful, the person in pursuit remained entirely unphased when landing at terminal velocity.

*Boom*!

The Skyspear Headmaster opened a similar crater-sized hole upon impact. He didn’t even do anything fancy like a three-point impact. The man just stabbed the ground straight as a stick. It made the academic wince, and complain. “Abyss it, gravity! You had one job!”

Unlike a battered Artorian, who was crawling out, the previously spindly man was as damaged as he was bothered. That is to say, not one bit. “I’ve seen you throw at least three of my students off this mountain. You thought it would be easy to do the same to me? I’m surprised you aren’t paste already. What was that wavering field around you just before impact? No matter.”

Blood and spittle were coughed to the rocky ground as Artorian tightly pulled his Aura in. He couldn’t afford to heal his opponent as well, even if the heavily muscled man had been smacking him around like a paddle-ball. Wait. Muscled?

Artorian frowned and had to make several snap decisions. He could either direct the majority of the healing effect from his Aura to his shoulder, or his hip. Without mobility only death awaited. Hip it was. The philosopher didn’t have the chance to address his concern about sudden muscles as something brittle shattered in the background. Oh! It was the ground! Why would the ground have-

*Wham!*

A furious fist caved in his face with enough force to send him tumbling away. His body violently rolled through the air, beard twisting. A follow-up chaser fist ‘nudged’ him on the other cheek, while the third combination strike back-handed his left lung out of commission. The finishing roundhouse kick redirecting the direction Artorian flew off in.

Launched upwards from the strike via high-powered punt, rock spewed from the side of the mountain as Artorian broke through the Outer Pagoda wall. He painfully skid and bounced into some red-robed students on the other side. From the unpleasant sounding *crack* that came with the trip, Artorian knew that his ribs had severely disliked combination strike number three. That, or casually breaking through a rock wall. It was very difficult to tell when one was so thoroughly being used as a mop.

It didn’t take more than a glance at the crumpled figure making the most unpleasant of restorative popping noises, for the students to understand that it was time to hide again. If the lightshow elder was getting his butt handed to him, they needed to not be here. They cleverly scrambled. No amount of wanting to help was going to make it a reality.

Another spew of blood splattered to the ground as the long-bearded warrior wobbled to his feet. Gritting a broken jaw, Artorian pulled his Presence skintight against his form rather than keep it expanded. Specifically, in the pattern of what an intact, healthy body should be. Difficult breathing eased when he flooded his combined Aura with celestial and refined Essence, popping the bones forcibly back into place before mending them… too slowly. He wasn’t going to have the time for this, and to say it kindly: the matchup didn’t seem to be in his favor.

A gladiatorial being made entirely of corded muscle broke through the same exterior wall via shoulder-check, and continued ascending up well past the courtyard. The Headmaster must have thought he’d punched the flunked student significantly higher. Because his momentum kept going to carry him further upwards.

It gave Artorian an extra handful of moments to come up with something while his body cracked and popped from forceful mending. It wasn’t pleasant, but it kept him on his feet. Bouts with Ember had done worse to his body than this, and he’d put himself back together plenty of times before. Not that it made the restoration technique any less agonizing.

The Headmaster’s miscalculation was enough for Artorian to get his head in the game. That momentary reprieve was worth the world. A golden ring pulsed to life around his eyes at the same time the muscled cultivator dropped back down, forming another spectacular crater. Different area, surprisingly identical crater. Artorian didn’t like what he saw.

Specifically because instead of the usual prediction lines, movement patterns, golden outlines, and possibilities of action, there lived a black stillness in the space the man currently stood. No patterns emanated; no designs unfurled. He couldn’t see the world move around the Headmaster. A bleak nothingness surrounded this cultivator. Just a black void where… other things should have been.

Artorian felt his back hit the wall before his face realized it had been punched. His already questionable vision went wonky, causing prediction sight to wink out from lack of focus. Who was this guy? He’d developed from half-corpse to six-foot tower of muscle in what had maybe been a minute, after no longer being in Artorian’s presence. His adversary snarled when he spoke. “You’re not the only one with multiple Essence channels. I don’t even know what it is you have, but something within me is screaming to rip it out of you!”

Artorian picked up the muscle-tower’s choice of words, and patted his mended hip. That, at least, felt better. His opponent was in the process of laughing at him, so Artorian put his mind to work on analysis. Abyss. That long-winded named technique the Headmaster had spouted off must be seriously impressive, because the creature before him clearly wasn’t done growing.

He radiated self-assurance, pausing in his stride to cross his arms and gleefully boast since the match so far had been amusingly one-sided. Perhaps payback for what the old academic had done to the infernal man’s students? “You seem lost, failed student. Never had your tricks completely negated? It appears you still don’t understand. Why don’t you try another?”

Confident as a prideful peacock, the now nine-foot-tall tower of muscle smiled and flexed his crossed arms. He was toying with his food, and Artorian knew it. Artorian also thought it was ludicrous, but he wouldn’t say that out loud. The hubris this monster in the form of man was hanging over him doubled as time to heal. The Skyspear Headmaster didn’t seem to be aware of that fact, and the academic fox decided to play that up. After all, warfare is based on deception.

Remaining hunched over, Artorian slumped to the wall, even though he didn't need to in the slightest. Coughing loudly for effect, he held his mending ribs while maintaining the appearance of a weakened and severely injured combatant. All of it was just to buy himself more time. “Might… does not make right! Those beasts were your students? You should be appalled as an educator at what they’ve done! A fallen cleric blood cultivating? A despair cultivator feeding from misery and fear? Despicable. This was an Academy, not a cheap fighting pit.”

The smug look on the nine-foot man faded. He wasn’t about to lose in battle nor discourse. “Might doesn’t need to make right. It only needs to provide power. This was an Academy, before all the old Masters abandoned us to enter into ‘secluded cultivation’. They left us to rot when the raiders came! They left us in the cold when the refugees came!”

He spat on the ground to vent his frustrations. “The raiders at least cleaned that up, so I took their gifts and made them better. So what if it just led to their slaughter? Strength is everything in the cultivation world, and all the writing, reading, and studying was a farce! It didn’t get us there. We were pigs, fattened and auctioned off for our brilliance. W…”

*Pop*!

In Artorian’s experience, getting someone riled up always made them talk, and he was guilty of the same. With his wounds mostly handled—at least keeping himself out of critical condition—his Presence expanded once more. The added space was a breath of fresh air, and that breath had given him a great idea based on what Ember had off-handedly mentioned about the moon.

Even cultivators needed to breathe. Forming a sphere around the towering man, Artorian refined and popped a cavitation bubble after building the pressure between two stacking layers. This was similar to what Ember had done the first time he’d ever seen her cook a bear. Soft tissue such as eardrums and nasal cavities should have felt that one, and it was possible his opponent’s lungs might outright collapse.

The hulking tower blinked at him, then looked around for a moment. “Were you expecting that to do something? Was that your move? Trying to affect my body? Here I thought you were a student—turns out you’re just a fool.”

Artorian weakly smiled. The Skyspear Headmaster spoke of being a fool, yet didn’t seem to be able to see through the ruse properly himself. Artorian quietly thought that the Tower, which he was using as a name for the moment since it was very inconvenient not to assign one, should have spent more time with his own studies. The next Essence technique in line went off. *Pff.* As if he’d prepared only one.

Air collapsed around the Tower, accompanied by a blazing heat wave as fiery cylinders spiraled through the space his opponent occupied. Beware of backdrafts! The technique broke like spun glass as the Headmaster backhanded the pillar of flame. The upset Master was singed, but unscathed. No! He was scathed!

That was burned skin! Progress. Artorian’s momentary glee died on the spot. Dark veins pulsed and bulged beneath the Tower’s hardened flesh as the seared skin flaked off. The man didn’t even bleed when an impromptu air blade infused with a sharp edge of water sliced across the weakened section… cutting only an inch deep.

“You absolutely have to be joking. Nothing?” The Tower laughed and clapped his hands together at the flunked student’s incredulity. The injury didn’t heal, so much as blackened ooze pulled the wound together, stitching it up from within using something moist and dark.

“I just realized I forgot to introduce myself. You likely don’t remember me. I am Cataphron the Invulnerable. Headmaster of the Skyspear battleground, steward of the fallen academy, body cultivator in the impervious techniques, and proud holder of three natural Essence channels. Flowing water, unyielding earth, and perfection infernal.”

Cataphron’s smile showed a row of black, sharpened teeth. The now ten-foot tall, one-ton monster was still bulking up. Muscle mass just kept piling on as time went on. Artorian realized it wasn’t just him who had been biding his time. The longer this went, the uglier it was going to be.

Infernal opposed celestial; that was a good indicator as to why his predictive sight saw a whole lot of nothing. With students dedicated to ‘blood’ and ‘despair’ he had a strong hunch on the thematic this muscle man was going for. His Aura abilities so far had failed to damage, or do more than tickle the Tower; who also seemed to have a non-celestial way of quickly healing.

The lack of external Aura blinded Cataphron to what Artorian was up to, but he had the luxury to not need to know with those ridiculous defenses and raw physical attributes. This was a real hard counter for Artorian; someone that didn’t care for all his fancy techniques and simply punched right through them. Honestly the man had swatted a fire column and killed it.

Wait. Couldn’t see his Aura. At all, perhaps? A clever plan formulated within Artorian, and in the hope it might actually work, he capitalized swiftly. “Oh, so what. You’re telling me that you’re so untouchable that it won’t matter what I do. You’ll blow right through me, and I’ll just tickle you?”

Another prideful laugh bellowed from the Headmaster, who posed just to make his pectorals bulge. “Realized your powerlessness in the face of the unstoppable? Everyone eventually does. It is as inevitable as my superiority, and that is why I stand supreme. You’ve killed my apprentices, and now I want the pound of flesh I’m… what are those ridiculous things on your face?”

“Hmm, oh these? I call them sunglasses. They’re designed to prevent party fatigue.” The old man struck a pose of his own, pointing at the darkened goggles on his face. “They’re made for dealing with party poopers.”

Cataphron raised a thick eyebrow, which also had muscles at this point. “Enough of this foolish- Argh! My eyes!”

Artorian set his Starlight Aura to full-blast, except he switched up the doors. Effects? None. He simply needed to brighten up! In fact: “Why don’t we add some sound? Let’s drop into full party mode!”

Cataphron screamed, blindly whipping his fists through the landscape of resplendent, eye-stabbing brightness. Just as the thought occurred that he should just keep his eyes shut and listen for his opponent, a set of deafening cavitation bubbles popped and exploded next to his head. Even though he was disoriented, the damage was minimal. There was no way that light and sound was going to do any real damage, but this time he couldn’t make it stop.

Without an external Aura to help influence his surroundings, his highly sensitive C-rank attuned body took in the burdensome vibrations and fluctuations. His sight couldn’t be harmed, but it could certainly be overwhelmed. His other senses were no different. Popping sounds beat at his hearing, endless streaming light stabbed him right in the eyes if he so much as peeked. Heat and sticky wetness rolled over his skin, and the smell wasn’t doing him any good.

Artorian grimaced; this was a complex set of techniques to uphold. But it was this or get pummeled. Even with the Essence costs not being as harsh as they should be thanks to his Presence, this was a significant Essence expenditure. Sure, this couldn’t defeat the current Headmaster, but he could inconvenience the mountain of muscle until he was nothing but a severe, endless migraine.

This complex network of distractions wasn’t the main attack. Only a way to buy some time. Since gravity couldn’t do the job, Artorian settled for an alternative. Cataphron should have never told Artorian his Essence combination, but since he had… it was time to go to work.

Beams of light connected between points in space where panels of hard-light appeared and smoothed to mirror finish. A single woven lance combining light, fire, and air bounced between the mirrors and struck the infernal, water, and earth cultivator specifically from an angle where Artorian wasn’t standing. These attacks shattered upon striking the thrashing giant, but that was acceptable.

Cataphron’s speed was as impressive as it was frightening, lashing out in the attack’s direction. Artorian’s Essence mirror was Essence dust a mere eyeblink after the lance struck. He considered using physical weaponry from his pack, but he already knew that even a Hawthorn arrow was just an inconvenient splinter here. Plus, through sunglasses sight he could deduce that the specific counter-combination most certainly found success. This was now a battle of attrition.

Either Cataphron was going down via a thousand cuts, or Artorian was going to drop from exhaustion and Essence loss. There was too much loss to pull it all back in, and the immediate surroundings became stuffed with the runoff from his incomplete and unfinished abilities. He was cobbling three different techniques together, for crying out loud!

If he saw Ember again, he was going to hug the living daylights out of her for making him infuse his brain. Artorian would have never had the calculating power for this complex mess otherwise. In fact, without it he would have certainly been powder-paste on the floor by now. Had they both been at the C-ranks, Cataphron would still have kicked him about.

*Crash*! Artorian winced and forced a calming breath. Cataphron was getting much better at smashing mirrors, reacting faster than Artorian could refine them. To make it all the more stressful, the twelve-foot man was still getting bigger. Artorian’s lances were doing more to damage him as a result, but he’d badly miscalculated some Essence math.

The basic theorem of Essence was that opposites cancel. Artorian wasn’t getting anything back from the lances at all. This meant that there was no way was he ever outpacing this hulking beast. He was just irritating the abyss out of it.

From the perspective of the other man, life wasn’t great right now. Cataphron had been having a decent day. Then some old guy showed up and threw his food-loving friends, students, and cultivation sources right off the roof of his house. This geezer then proceeded to inconvenience him with some papercuts. Honestly, that all was fine. None of that was unbearable. But this? This was an irreconcilable offense.

Every time he smashed something, it wasn’t the old man. Every time he tried uncovering a sense to determine where that annoying fly might be, he was stabbed by a sensation of pain. He’d been immune to pain for decades! What was this absolute nonsense? He wanted to get out, but couldn't even tell where the edge of the dratted mountain was! Chancing his vision was an agonizing mixture of staring into the sun while fireworks went off in his eye sockets. His highly adaptive hearing sickened him from the uneven, untuned, cohesion-lacking explosions that popped, screeched, and twisted his eardrums.

This was awful. No amount of being strong was getting him out of this unless he could get away. He just needed to get away and throw a rock at this fiend. End it all. Just end it all.

“Yield!”

Cataphron thought he was going crazy as the noise made sense for a moment. Was that a word? A real word in this collapsing castle of sound? “Yield and swear non-aggression!”

“Not unless you do the same!” Cataphron bellowed back, his voice roaring with the depth of an elephant’s lungs. The Headmaster kept his hands over his eyes and his arms to his ears, but Artorian knew exactly when there would be a lull in the sound.

Artorian was making them, after all; mostly to mask the steps he was taking as he danced around the battleground to stay out of deadly swipe range. “Deal! Swear to do no further harm to me!”

This was embarrassing, which was infuriating. Him, the invulnerable Cataphron was being made to yield by an annoyance well past his prime? He’d need to go into hiding after this, but was certain his head was going to explode if he didn't get out soon. Or worse, one of those strobing spears was going to get lucky. His head hurt too much to think about this. Nothing was worth this horror, so he bellowed, “If Artorian so sweareth in kind, I, Cataphron, shall harm Artorian nevermore!”

There was a moment of trepidation for the Headmaster; his exoskin protection was cracked internally. That constant barrage was doing far more than he was willing to admit, even if there was no way that his attacker could see that. The next lance was going to skewer him.

“I so swear! I, Artorian, shall harm Cataphron nevermore.” Thunder cracked through the sky, the cacophony crescendoing into abrupt silence. Cataphron collapsed on the ground as his body contracted in on itself. His arms were still wrapped around his head, protecting it from the ceaseless blaring still ringing his skull. He twitched in distress, but was attacked no further.

Artorian was covered head to toe in sweat as he hit the deck, panting severely while his hands quaked. His body was shaking. Vision hazy as he squeezed his eyes shut, barely managing to pull his Aura back to only his physical form. Having so many effects out did a number on his consciousness, and he needed a very long rest. His tired eyes turned cautious as his swimming vision collected itself. Artorian found that his Essence wasn’t doing the best, but he lived; so he chalked it up as a win.

Both old men remained slumped on the ground long enough for the red-robed students to find the courage to be curious, recuperating in their own way as the sky around the mountain rumbled with the ambient Mana that always seemed to accumulate around the Skyspear. The land itself had taken notice of their oath, and would uphold it if they went against their word. It wasn’t at the level of a Mage’s oath, but the consequences of a vow—especially at certain locations—were not to be taken lightly.

Cultivator or not, natural forces tended to win. Artorian took a deep breath, pressing his back to the courtyard wall as he took his sunglasses off. “Now. Cataphron. Get off my mountain.”

Chapter Thirty-Four

“No,” Cataphron denied lethargically. “It’s not your mountain.”

The academic pushed himself up, an equally unpleasant groan leaving the man. “Yes, it is.”

Cataphron rumbled, “No, it’s not.”

Artorian shot back, “My good man, I claimed this mountain using your own rules. You admitted defeat by yielding, and the last I heard from a certain infernal cultivator, the strong decide how things are done here.”

A scoffing cough was the reply to the slumped old man. “Was it? I remember saying nothing of the sort. You must have hit your head too hard.”

The Headmaster hurt all over, and he despised the feeling. There was no way in the whole of the abyss that he was giving this party-grampa another finger’s worth of leeway. “I didn’t yield, we entered an armistice.”

Since he was keeping his Aura to himself, Artorian’s clarity returned. He got a grip on himself and the space he occupied. He was never going to throw that many effects around at the same time again; that mad party had eaten a chunk from his mental clarity. “I demanded you yield, and your retort was ‘only if’. Since your response were the terms and conditions, it doesn’t negate that it was still in response to your yielding. Otherwise, you would have said ‘no’.”

Cataphron felt doubly irritated. Once from having to deal with the physical headache of the encounter he’d just survived; twice from being locked in a debate with a nuisance that seemed skilled in twisting the truth around. Make that three ways of irritation. He could no longer punch the problem away, as much as he dearly wanted to. “I don’t yield to the terms of property ownership. We came to a ceasefire and can now no longer fight, but I am still the Headmaster.”

He didn’t like it when the old student laughed at him. “No, no. Not quite. ‘Headmaster’ is the term provided to the position within an institute, in this case one of learning such as an academy. From your own admission, there is neither an Academy here, nor do you have active students. You do not hold onto that title, and I hereby erect a new Academy on this unclaimed space of my own. I also make an open invitation for new students and faculty to attend and teach.”

The worldly ex-Headmaster groaned. “I want to throw you off the mountain.”

Artorian smiled back with bloody teeth, even as the smudges of red liquid were vanishing trace by trace as the starlight did its work. “If only you were able, right? Well, if you won’t go, then stay and teach at my new Academy.”

Cataphron threw some loose rocks in the direction of the old man. Had the old man had to stab him so often in the kidney with those Essence lances? “I deny your assumed claim. You left. I stayed. You still don’t seem to remember me, but I remember you. You’d never have the qualifications for a teacher, much less an administrator. Even in the old days you were a menace. You did everything on your own terms, shirked duties, and we had to drag you to classes. I was in the class above you, so it was my academic duty. Masters Sho-lin and Fen-que were soft-hearted fools; at least Master Diomedes had vision.”

He spat at the ground, the dark veins under his skin still trying to knit his flesh. The only positive was that the harm was on his exoskin rather than his actual body. Abyss those lances. “Then there was you. The entitled runt with the endless streak of bad luck. You, Headmaster? None would even be willing to call you Master.”

Artorian got to his feet and made a show of brushing himself off, causing Cataphron to glare. Half in shock and half in anger. Artorian was up? How was he up? Cataphron had personally broken half the bones in the old geezer’s body, and the uppercut that had flung him into the outer courtyard should have destroyed him. At worst, the longbeard was holding his arm. “Shall we bet on that, Cataphron?”

The infernal warrior wasn’t about to be outdone, madly shaking as he got to his feet. Cataphron’s legs were unsteady not from anything wrong with the body, but from the discombobulating discord still steadily ringing in his ears. “I’ll bet on nothing when it comes to a sly old man like you. You’ve always resorted to tricks. I shouldn’t be surprised your cultivation went the same direction.”

Artorian shrugged, he was taking his sweet time mending his shoulder and arm but making sure he was being loud enough for the hiding students to overhear him. He saw them peeking from barrels, lurking behind window corners, and keeping cover around large boulders. “Then how about this. Since I can’t make you leave this mountain, and you don’t want me to stay… we can decide by an old staple of the Academy.”

He eased into a tall pose. “Victory to the virtuous.”

The leer from the ex-Headmaster deepened. “There are none left to judge. No Masters remain to decide the claim.”

Artorian let loose some of his nature, and craftily smiled. “Yet, we do have judges! We don’t need a Master for the deciding party. This is an academy. We have the students. Over the span of the next five years, we will both rebuild the Academy to the glory it was, and better. We will propose our ideas to the student body, and they will decide which way they want it to go. The instructor between us who has the greatest popularity, or choices taken, becomes Headmaster of the new academy. In the interim… nobody will have the title. A true test of virtue, as it was chiseled on the wall.”

Cataphron averted his gaze, which were once again horrendously thin and spindly. “That’s drivel I’d expect Sho-lin to sermon on and on and on about. I would prefer to just crack your face in, but I know the rules. I so much as look at you too hard and the sky itself will split me in two. I can already guess that you’d throw yourself in front of the students if I threatened them.”

*Tsk*. Artorian mentally crossed one option off his list. Abyss. He was hoping the C-ranker wouldn’t have thought that through. It would have been clean and quick.

Cataphron snapped his vision to some sound, forcing a student to dive back into hiding. “That will only sort out the title. The loser must either go into seclusion, or leave. That way I never have to see your annoying face again when it’s time for you to get off my mountain.”

Artorian waddled over as the clothes he wore wilted, falling off him one leaf at a time. The life in the clothing had been expended from the fight, and even starlight wasn’t helping anymore. If anything, it removed the needed cleanup as he extended a hand. “It sounds like we have ourselves a test of virtue. Five years. Winner takes ownership of the mountain, with the title Headmaster of the academy. The student body is the judge.”

He held up his other hand with all five fingers outstretched. “Five points of contention and judgement. The students’ well-being and quality of life, the physical appearance of the Academy, quality of lessons taught and absorbed, rebuilding the information network this place used to be famous for, and quality of life for the people in Xi’an. The latest name, for the Oldwalls.”

Five points of contention meant there couldn’t be a tie. Three was generally too low for a test of virtue, but five was just fine. Cataphron slapped his hand into Artorian’s awaiting palm. The sky rumbled since both were hurt a little, and their oath was immediately tested as a bolt of lightning crashed down where their hands held together. Only the swiftest of releases let neither of them take the harm after being forewarned, but it cemented they couldn’t even do that much. Oaths of the land were not to be taken lightly.

Skyspear mountain could, and would, zap them.

“I so swear.” Cataphron was confident on the deal. As if he could lose this one with his local knowledge and superior years spent at the academy. Him, the best student the Academy had, versus a student that had flunked out and been chased away? Hah! All this would do was give him five years to think of other schemes.

“I so swear.” Artorian was all smiles. He was secretly starting with a huge advantage, and capitalized upon it posthaste. “Would all the students present please gather everyone else and meet us down in the outer courtyard? We’re going to cook the Moro and have a talk about the future while roasting it on a spit. If one of the students is good at skinning, please give them the tools to get that pelt off. We can likely do something with it!”

The red-robed students took off at a full sprint for the safety of the lower quarter, rousing everyone they could find on the way to spread the news. Between the two terrifying old men currently involved in a stare-off, being given an out was much appreciated. Also, there was food involved!

Cataphron and Artorian were soon the only people remaining in the area, still mostly at a standstill as their injuries healed. They collapsed at the same time, no longer needing to hide just how banged up they were to save public face. The students were their judges, after all. A mutual and unpleasant sound erupted from both of them. “Ghaah.”

That bout had taken so much out of them, but that was something that neither would admit. This was the end of the rope. Artorian pulled a waterskin free and downed a significant amount before tossing the rest to his opponent. “So… infernal, huh? What’s that like? Can’t say I’ve ever gotten to talk to someone who has it until now. Are they all self-righteous sods like the Clerics?”

“I don’t want to hear that from your shiny mouth, baldy.” Cataphron snorted. He downed the rest of the waterskin and threw it back. “Noise notwithstanding, if I ever see anything that bright again, I’m killing it on principle. Infernal is by far the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I only had the other two before.”

Artorian pulled out a sack of rations, and threw a second over. He still wasn’t willing to get too close if he didn’t need to. It was snatched from the air without effort. “Before?”

The spindly man grumbled. They were on speaking terms already? Weren’t they supposed to be at each other's throats? Was it going to be like this for the next five years? He hated it, and they’d barely gotten started. “I’m still mad at you, and I want to pickle your guts. But… since we’re going to be stuck talking to each other for the next few seasons, I may as well be the more sporting academic.”

Artorian bit into a piece of honey bread, loudly tearing a whole chunk out. Cataphron felt appalled when he heard it. All these years, and still this uncultured little… forget it. “I’m only going to give you the quick history. Read the rest yourself.”

Artorian crossed his legs and prepared for a story, lounging sideways as a growing list of items made their way into a smorgasbord around him. Each additional item only unsettled Cataphron further. Artorian lived for that glare, so he maintained direct, uncomfortable eye contact.

“When we were enrolled as youngsters, the Academy had nothing to do with cultivation. It was all knowledge for knowledge's sake. Wisdom, Mathematics, argumentations, philosophy, and many other fields of study that all ended in ‘y’. Around two decades ago, things changed when Master Diomedes took over as Headmaster. He veered away from the previous teachings. Different kinds of ‘instructors’ came to the mountain. They offered us ‘favors’. Very strange favors.”

The spindly man took a bite from an apple he stole from the pile and crunched through it while he continued. He wasn’t bothered in the least that he was pilfering from his opponent’s food supply; it wasn’t breaking the rules of the oath.

“These men were strange. They offered to open the pathway to power within us, if only we spent time studying on how better to use it. As an academy of entitled snobby know-it-alls, this deal was laughed at. We all took the offered favors, and nothing was ever the same. I unlocked infernal Essence, and became aware that I previously had two existing Essence channels. Since you’re a cultivator, you know the drill. Rip your connections open as far as possible, have the corruption be gifted to the tankard, and twist the Essence into a string to form a spiral.”

Artorian nodded. He followed so far, even if the beginning was entirely new. He decided to hold his questions for now.

“When the ways of cultivation came, every other field of study fell to the wayside. This Essence gave us power. Boys that were picked on and mocked brooked such insults no longer. The goal shifted from knowledge for knowledge’s sake, to an acquisition for power’s sake. We still gathered knowledge, but it was no longer for everyone else. Mine, mine, and mine alone is how it went. Master Diomedes encouraged this behavior… then things got… suspicious.”

A flagon of elderberry wine was loudly guzzled from, forcing Cataphron to pause his short history lesson. He was going to complain until the wine was tossed over to him. It tasted excellent, if a little too sweet. Where was this geezer getting all this food from? A project for later. “Infernal does one thing very, very well. It breaks down anything it comes in contact with, or at least it tries. The difference between losing something normally, and losing something to the infernal is… profound. When infernal Essence takes something apart, you gain exquisite, masterful awareness of how it was put together in the first place, in some truly impressive detail. It doesn’t matter what that something was, and that includes the body.”

A large gulp drained the flagon, and it was tossed back for a refill. “I understood the way my body worked, and the best ways to improve it from that point forward. I understood muscle, skin, and bone on a level… you can’t get it from a book, from study, from dissection. It’s just not possible. No amount of explanation opens your eyes to the inner workings of something like feeding it to the infernal. Then, once you know, it allows you to remake it. Better. Stronger. Faster.

“You saw that your air blades did little? It is because I no longer bleed. Also, my body is no longer made from weak flesh.” He smiled his sharp teeth at the other academic, expecting to have just thrown a revelation so large at the old man that he’d hold his face and wail like a spurned lover.

Artorian sucked on a grape, unperturbed. He chomped it down after as he rolled his wrist, wanting more. Cataphron continued as sourly as the grape he tried: “We started using it on anything and everything, and we found that decay, rot, decomposition, and concepts similar to infernal natural functions are what allowed us to cultivate from it. Then one day a student died… and the three of us next to him jumped two ranks. Madness reigned that day, and most of the upper academy didn’t survive the night.

“Those people you met on each level? They’re all that was left. They lived in the remains of the deceased; it’s amazing for cultivation. We all needed something a little different to stop gaining so much corruption. So we settled on the layers we were compatible with, and promised not to interfere with one another unless it was for lessons.”

A large pink cloud rose to the sky. That nuisance of a man had set up a smoking device? Artorian was taking big, aggravating puffs from it. Cataphron might not be able to harm the old student, but that pipe thing was free game. He leered at it and put the idea aside for later exploration.

“Master Diomedes said that he ‘found a great disturbance of the dark’ and left us for what he called ‘secluded cultivation’. Meaning he left us as he descended into the tunnels. We’ve been trying to mine our way down ever since they collapsed from earth tremors. Rather, we made the slav… students do it. Our surroundings began to reflect what we needed to grow stronger. You came in through the Oldwalls? I’ve not heard that name used in ages. I know it’s Xi’an now, based on some mad Noble that came through and bought the whole thing. Then he got stupid drunk one day and made a glorious exit, never to be seen again.”

A loud slurp made Cataphron shoot up. “That’s it, I’ve had enough of you! I’m going down.”

Artorian watched the infernal cultivator stomp off with a pleased expression until he was well out of sight, not even bothering to pick up his lavish treats. Once gone, Artorian’s expression turned into a hostile snarl. His nose scrunched up as he regarded the empty space with disdain. He could only keep the ruse up so long. It had been taxing, though he agreed with part of that last-mentioned statement.

“Yes, you are… you are going down.”

Chapter Thirty-Five

Cataphron tore half his hair out after a single week. He sat on the ground to center himself, just to clear his senses of the recurring nightmare. Ever since that ‘party’, his senses played tricks on him. He saw spots of light where there were none, heard sounds where there was silence, and felt pricks of pain though he was unharmed.

His mounting frustrations were vented on a venue currently known as ‘the cave of a thousand screams’. It was his retreat. It was cold. It was comfortable. The brightness and the sound didn’t reach him, preventing the post-battle migraine from resurfacing. At least It was a nice cave. Many screaming punches had gone into its creation. Crafting a lasting image of himself had been a plan for a few years now, but never before had he felt the need to leave something behind with any urgency.

Not until recently.

Cataphron spent so much time in his man-cave that the students matching his Essence channels now came here to find him. While it was the common social norm for the student to approach the Master, the Skyspear ex-Headmaster was neither hospitable nor cordial. Meetings were an unpleasant experience for all parties involved. Questions received only grunts as the agitated academy remnant worked off his irritation by grinding granite to dust using nothing more than his fingers. On the few occasions Cataphron did leave seclusion, it was with a quick pace and the sourest of expressions.

Jacobsen and Makkah—both earth-Essence students—had been hoping for some actual guidance from someone they’d been told rolled the same boulder they did. They knew beforehand that the original social rules applied, so they had come prepared. Unlike with their new teacher, this one required a great deal of fealty. They both had to remain bowed in the hand-to-fist stance until the Master addressed them.

Unfortunately for them, the water, earth, and infernal cultivator wouldn't spare them a look. Dealing with people caused the echoes of a migraine to resurface, and those made him irritable. This didn’t change that not showing propriety was unhealthy. It dropped your chances of a reply from grunt to a dissatisfied sneer. The C-ranked cultivator reacted poorly when the slav… students, drat them, didn’t show him appropriate respect and fealty.

He expected to be bowed to; being Master entitled him this. Cataphron didn’t even notice when the waiting students departed without having received answers. He hated this sudden upheaval of order. He hated the colorful leaf-and-petal robes the students now wore. He hated knowing where they’d gotten them, and how that insufferable old bird seemed to have them in spades.

Why did such a fickle man have years worth of clothing with him? Entire collections had unspooled from one of his spatial pouches. He put it out of mind, and wondered where it had all gone wrong. At first it had been him in charge, and those initial few days had been perfect.

When he’d left his adversary, who was smoking from that ridiculous pipe, he’d descended the steps and gathered the students with a command. Cataphron made the students understand that following the directives he wanted was better for them, and they’d bowed to him. Excellent. Exactly as it should have been.

When he passed, they bowed with their fist to palm. He snapped at them for pose correction now and again, but they learned swiftly enough. Cataphron thought to take his time and pick choice students over the next few weeks depending on who showed promise. Pleasing the entire student body? Ha!

He’d teach only the strong and let them oppress the rest for him. Cataphron needed to focus on his own cultivation, as he had been for years before that bothersome geezer arrived. There’d be a few weeks of turbulence, and then everything would equalize in his favor; as it always had.

Then he’d missed a day. One. Miserable. Single. Horrible day. Artorian had irritated him with some nonsense, and a few hours of strength-training to get his mind off the matter had turned into a full moon’s worth of body tempering. Upon returning from self-seclusion, the Skyspear Master had found an entirely different dynamic active in his school. No longer were the students divided by tier, rank, or residential level. They had been provided new robes and clothes, and they had all been put on equal footing.

Currying favor with cheap gifts? The gall of the longbeard! Such tactics wouldn’t work against the tide of his fear-mongering. The students were told to do ‘what they were good at’ and ‘what they liked to do’ in pursuit of growth. Where Cataphron had done the intelligent thing and cultivated after securing nutrition, that old miser wasted his time giving lectures and lessons without regard to who had the skill to apply those lessons.

Artorian had the students in a tizzy. After encouraging the students to teach each other to read and write, he locked his next lesson behind their ability to all read and write. Not even the gifted were given lessons if the worst student couldn’t use this basic ability. This ultimatum spurred them to chat and debate amongst themselves. In fact, they learned that nothing taught a lesson as quickly as needing to teach it to someone else.

Cataphron felt ill at the restructuring. The world is too unfair for such things! Artorian would fail eventually when he ran into the inevitable wall that some people simply couldn’t learn if they didn’t have the innate gift. “Phah.”

After the change of clothes, Artorian had given out bundled bearskins. ‘Pillows’, he’d called them. Wasn’t much of a pillow when you could unfurl the skin and use it as a blanket, but it was a meaningful gesture when they hadn’t owned anything of their own during their tenure here.

Cataphron scoffed again. Those starved, scrawny little beanpoles certainly weren’t going to stay warm just by huddling together. He’d show them how to make a proper fire one day soon, for now he needed to regain the exoskin lost in the fight. Abyss those light lances!

Many things seemed odd as Cataphron went on his stroll. He saw new varieties of seeds being planted. Some kind of cleaning effort was ongoing, and baskets of food were being hauled up the steps. When had they even acquired woven baskets? Where were these mountains of nuts, fruits, and giant meat chunks coming from? Thinking about it just made him see spots, the migraine returning in an instant.

Holding his head, Cataphron turned on his heel and returned right back to his private, little dark sanctum. These minor changes in his academy didn’t matter. He could address them when the residual damage he suffered was gone and he wasn’t feeling completely awful.

Unlike his predecessor, Artorian neither needed nor wanted any of the filial propriety, nor compulsory acts of respect. He pulled students from their bowing, brushed them off, and poked their noses with a smile. “Tut, tut, tut. None of that now.”

He’d gone around and met with the students as groups. He attempted to shake wrists with as many as were willing, he asked their names and tried to get to know the students on a personal basis; learning of their joys and complaints. Most importantly, he learned how they got up here and what they’d like to do from now on. He gave them choice. If they wanted to stay and learn, he had presents for them as inductees to the new academy he wanted to build.

Artorian had gotten those who wanted to remain out of their rags and into significantly better robes. The size wasn’t a perfect fit all the time, but clothing was clothing. A warm bear rug went a long way to help with the cold mountain nights when they didn’t have much of anything to use for fire. Artorian directed them to take pieces from the old estate and burn them when needed. The building had to go regardless; it was a wreck.

Those who accepted the robes were assigned basic tasks. Clean up the courtyards, the steps, stairs, and resting areas. Clean it all, empty old filth, toss the broken, make room for the new. When asked about the ‘new’, Artorian was a bundle of excitement, “Wouldn't it be grand if we grew some new types of food? We have the water, the air, and the sun! All we need is a few well-maintained areas.”

Opening his hand, he showed seeds they’d never seen before. He explained some would grow food, others trees, and some were for a different purpose altogether. It was important to get a great variety, after all, he wanted to get bees up here. Then they could all have honey!

So, like the enthusiastic, invigorated students they were… they got to work. Groups cleaned, gathered, cleared rubble, planted seeds, and hauled water. The grandfather taught them how to weave baskets from long grass, and not to address one another by the old ways. They were all students of the new academy.

He received many questions about his magic, and responded carefully and with many pensive beard strokes. Answering was both important to retain their interest and properly grow their skill sets in the future.

An enthusiastic young lady had been first, “Can we do what you do? Someday? Can it be taught?”

Artorian had nodded while sitting on his rock, a book from the library open in his palm. His response had set their hearts alight, “Of course you can, my dear. You all can. Though the journey is long and the path is arduous. You must know a great many things before you can even begin. However, you are in luck!”

He snapped the book shut for effect, and motioned all around him. “You are within the crumbling walls of an academy that once knew all there was to know. If we can rebuild it… those who devote themselves to betterment here will certainly find success. One must only persist. The only way to fail is to cease walking the path.”

Hands shot up with questions, and he motioned the book at a student, who nearly shouted, “What do we need to know before we can do magic?”

A pleasant chuckle left Artorian. “Well…”

He brushed his beard, and took a moment to think it over. He didn’t actually need to pause, but the wait glued the students to his words. “One must be able to read and write. We shall start there. Once all the students can do so, I shall give a full lecture on the next step. This pattern will continue as you help one another learn. Lessons in the future will open up to all of you when none have been left behind. Those who grasp content quickly would do well to become a teacher for those who struggle the most. In doing so, both will learn great lessons.”

He motioned the book at another raised hand. “What comes after reading and writing?”

Artorian merely held up the book and tapped the spine. “Study. After one can do the basics, they must understand the ways of the world. The lessons and teaching of those who have come before shall lay the foundation of understanding. Once you have understanding… well.”

He raised the hand not containing a book, and an orb of light slowly constructed itself. The bright glow strengthened as more of the orb wove itself into being, adopting a steady hum of light. The students *ooohed*, wide-eyed.

“This is formed from my understanding. Can anyone tell me what I’ve done? Something that I’ve taught you recently?”

Some mumbles went between the multicolor-robed masses and a few hands shot up. Artorian was starting to see a pattern in those who had quick answers. He motioned at a repeat offender in the smarty category. “It looked like that orb wove together, like the baskets we made.”

The orb shifted from a *hmm* of light to a pulsating swirl of fire at the answer. “Correct!”

The students gasped out loud. Some shuffled away, while those in the front pressed forwards to make sure their eyes weren't playing tricks on them. “Nothing I teach you will ever be without purpose. Many abilities you’re currently calling ‘magic’ simply require a great deal of knowledge regarding things you’d learn through study and practice. It took me an uncountable number of baskets. Weaving. Unweaving. Weaving again. Unweaving again… all in order to grasp the nature of a weave.”

The ball in his hand extinguished as a watery blue aurora coalesced around it. The reflective orb looked like a contained puddle hovering above an open hand. “People who can do what you’re seeing are called Cultivators. Frankly, most of them are unpleasant. I dearly hope those same horrors won’t befall the students at this academy. It’s a lonely, tiresome path. Yet I shan’t stop you if you wish it. I find myself to be a poor teacher; if anything, I am a decent administrator. So if you need me to repeat something, go ahead and ask; I shan’t be offended.”

The watery orb spun faster and faster until the reflective glow turned etheric. Visible wafts of snowy mist swirled in place as he cycled through the elements. This particular orb he motioned towards a few people. “You will find that not all of you are gifted with the same skills. What comes easy to some, will be hard for others. This holds true both in cultivation, and in learning. Many of you that reside here have the gift of air lurking within you.

“Specifically, waiting for you to have the needed preparation to unlock it. Others have fire. Some water. When it comes closer to showing fruition, and you have learned my lesson on why trees grow, I shall sit with you each to uncover your actual affinities. I will say up front that I am not well-versed in all affinities.” He put down the book, offhandedly splitting the orb into several smaller ones that hovered over a finger. His four affinities were presented on outstretched fingers.

“There are six affinities, and there are two I do not possess. Earth and infernal are affinities for which you may need to seek out the old Master of this place. He carries those.” Artorian gave a solid stare at two young male students in particular. Jacobsen and Makkah. “You two are the only ones I’ve seen at a glance, so far, that have earth affinities. I will apologize that I may have a difficult time teaching you. If you wish me to do so regardless, I will do my best.”

They showed their understanding with the hand to fist motion. He’d get that behavior out of them eventually. “What I would like to see is all of you helping one another. I will be judging your progress based on your environment. If your youngest sister sleeps in misery, I shall be disappointed. If your youngest sister sleeps in health, stories will be read and new lessons given. If you have not grasped the old, I shall not teach the new.”

A round of bowing went around, and Artorian released his control-practice orbs. “I will warn you all not to haphazardly accept cultivation advice. Even with the knowledge I shall help you with, your bodies are not ready. You are filled with energy preventing you from even starting, and I can provide you the means to get around that. It will require a sound and strong mind.”

The philosopher smiled to himself with a chuckle and looked to the sky. “Oh Bernoulli, how would you have felt if you’d known your containment technique would one day be used to trap corruption and allow a new generation to become cultivators?”

He shook his head, finding that the students were giving him odd looks. “Just talking to myself a moment. You’ll find I have many little oddities. Please forgive my eccentricity.”

Artorian motioned for another hand with a question. “What do you want us to do now? What we have been doing?”

The old man winked back in response. “Exactly that. Well done. We’re going to improve the basic area, clean up the entire academy, and rebuild it where we can. New plants and flowers will grace the halls and walkways. New fruits and vegetables will populate the hanging gardens. At the end of the week, I’d like to gather those with an interest in mercantilism. We’re going down the mountain to sell the materials from the Moro. The meat was tasty, but there are some things we really do need to buy.”

“For that we need coin. I am going to leave the task to the most skilled among you. I seem to recall that some of you have merchant family backgrounds?” The pointed mention caused those in question to perk up, and they rose their hands up to designate themselves. Going down the mountain wasn’t great, but their new Master had just said that nothing he taught was without reason. The chance for unique lessons they could explain to the others was enticing.

Artorian clapped his hands together. “Time for a good night’s rest. We all have much to do. I’ll be handing out some things to eat, since we don’t have the facilities up and running to grow our own quite yet. I’ve seen what’s been used to keep you all fed so far, and it’s not going to be enough, especially when new students arrive. I want to get those mountain rest stops renovated quickly.”

“We’re going to get new students?”

Artorian raised a brow at the outburst. “Why, yes. This is an Academy, and I will be opening the mountain to any who have the courage to make the climb. By the time it happens, I expect any single one of you to be able to find them lodging, meals, robes, and to teach lessons. When the new wave reaches our peak, it will be all of you who are the teachers… rather than me.”

Nervousness ran like a shiver through the group. Them? Masters? It was too soon! They couldn’t do that!

The old man just smiled at them as they fretted. “I’ll be here to guide you, my dears. Now, off to sleep with you. The stars are bright tonight, and I must think deeply of your well-being.”

Easing himself into a lotus position, a straight-backed Artorian didn’t fit the old-man profile as he sat upon his meditative rock. Gentle glowing poured from his frame as the area around him increased in Essence density as he spun up his Center into active cultivation. A soft luminance soon filled the area, and tiny fireflies filled the welcoming Essence-rich space around the starlight cultivator.

Not all the students left right away. Some remained to enjoy the serenity of it all.

Bright-eyed hopefuls, the lot of them.

Chapter Thirty-Six

Artorian made it about halfway down the mountain with his pack of students before the complaints started; he wasn’t surprised. No, that wasn’t accurate. He was surprised, but complaints had been expected near the quarter mark. They had made it all the way to Woah’s head on the stairs, and then only because they stubbed their toe against it.

“Aiiii!” The pelt of the Moro dropped from their collective hands, and a pained student hopped about on one leg while holding the afflicted foot. Why did something so minor hurt so bad! It gave the other students a good laugh, and the head of Woah the Wise was returned to the previously overgrown resting spot. The rest of the statue was still crumbled, but a crater existed where overgrowth had been. Plenty of sitting space for a snack and a break.

“Could I ask something?” Artorian passed around the waterskin as he started the conversation. Given he was usually asked the questions, he found that he desired a change of pace. The looks of ‘what could we possibly tell you’ bored into him. “When I first arrived, you all appeared like you’d been digging. I highly doubt that it was just to clear a path.”

Java stopped chewing on a set of flavorful beans and spit them out. Always full of twitchy energy, he pulled a piece of raw metal from his pocket and nearly dropped it in his haste. When he spoke, it was a torrent without pauses. “It’s the academy’s original source of income, or it used to be before we had to stop digging the ore up; this mountain is full of metals for weapon making; sells better than a well-carved charm; they used to buy food with the coin back when they could; we didn’t hear why but food stopped being for sale down there; we haven’t seen Oldwalls in a long time; most of us only ever made the trip up.”

Their teacher brushed the dust from his hips, but stopped when he heard the name reference. “Oldwalls. Not Xi’an?”

Java popped another bean into his mouth and got to crunching; shivering with more jitters. “Shian? No Master; never heard of it.”

Artorian noted that pronunciation of the city name was difficult. Perhaps they’d change the name to something that rolled more easily off the tongue after affairs were sorted. That entire town needed an overhaul, starting from the base of the million steps. Thinking of the base, he considered that gatekeeper. That swindler took goods from people to enter the academy, and yet never made the trip up to deliver them.

He scowled but shook his head to wave off his student’s concern. “I had a thought; it wasn’t about you. When I made my way up here. I saw some things in the Oldwalls that need to be… rectified. Wrap cloth around your noses before we get down there. Merchants, you all go right to finding the best price you can for the goods we’re bringing in. Don’t buy anything today. Not a single thing. I want you to spend the whole time nosing around and discovering the market price for everything, just to make sure we’re not being swindled. If I had to make an educated guess, there are many petulant peddlers who are ready for us.”

He motioned to the city, though he wasn’t exactly sure what he would be doing in there. Fighting raiders, attacking poverty, or healing people. “I will be handling… other affairs. If you see people getting tossed to the sky, just… ignore it and keep at it.”

Vividly recalling the old man tossing their prior abusive Masters off the mountain, the students nodded with small smiles. They weren’t about to intervene when justice was being done. “When will we know when to go back up?”

Artorian scratched his beard, pondering what would work. He realized there was really only one way it was going to go. He had a point to make. “Oh, I have a feeling you’ll know.”

The puzzled students asked no further questions. Descending a mountain was easy. Plenty of food, rest, and water went a long way even while hauling cargo. Their new teacher approved the workout, saying it would be excellent for tempering their bodies. He was even likely to add it to the curriculum! Students groaned, and their complaint only solidified that it would happen.

They arrived at the base of the mountain near the start of the next morning. Early enough that the sun still bounced light between the two moons. Each of the students hurriedly wrapped their faces to deter the abhorrent, vicious stench. Artorian felt just peachy, wrapped in his purifying multi-purpose Presence. Compound Essence was a marvel.

He considered letting his Presence roll over into an Auric effect, possibly even an indiscriminate one that radiated past the boundaries of his zone in order to mitigate the unpleasantry of his youngsters. After all, normal, uncontrolled Auras defaulted to such settings. Bu~u~ut, this was a lesson his students needed to learn: find measures to work through the smell. So he decided against mitigating it for them. Overcoming adversity builds character. That’s what he would tell them. Yes.

The large double doors were closed as they reached the base. The droning voice of the smiling thief in stolen academy robes was easily overheard as he attempted to entice people into giving up their valuables for a trip that took them up the wrong stairway. The academic knocked loudly from the back side, and the harping words ceased. Keys clinked, and locks were undone, the *chink* of a massive bolt unlatched. Added security? That seemed unnecessary. The door creaked open and a familiar face peered through.

The low-rank swindler came face to face with a tensed mid-finger held back by a thumb, poised to *flick*.

Heron’s head shot backwards several feet. His forehead careening away from the parted door. The supposed low-ranked instructor’s body twisted through the sky, struck by what turned out to be a harmless blow. His head felt like it had just been rung like a town gong, not that he had the time to indulge in the thought for long as he flew right over the far wall. Tumbling into the murky brown waters with a nasty *splutch*.

“That’s one.” Artorian pushed the rest of the door open with a powerful swing, and the heavy door crashed into the side of the mountain pass with a *wham*!

Passersby stopped what they were doing, startled by the noise. Neither the merchants, refugees, guards, nor lingering raiders knew what to do, or what to think about the colorfully dressed entourage. Their eyes instead skipped past the people, settling right on the valuable prizes they carried. Artorian had refused to put the Moro components in his holding pouches. More opportunities for student development.

Artorian made a sharp nodding motion with his head, sending all eight of the students off to ply their mercantilism skills. He watched them go and made a mental checkmark on his long-term progress list. First things had to get up and running; he couldn’t get the information network in place if the foundation wasn’t built, and he needed that network more than a Noble needed gold.

The Oldwalls were horrendously crowded; worse than they had been a week ago even though streams of refugees had been escorted away by raiders. The Skyspear Merchant Troupe had documented it all while resting on their outcrop. Raider flags littered the cobble paths that twisted all the way to the Eldani hills. What the raiders wanted with all these people, Artorian did not know.

He continued straight while his students veered off. Bouncing onto the parapet as before, Artorian hopped directly across the crenellations. As before, those were devoid of people regardless of the thick crowds, allowing him to speed through without interruption. If anything, he was the interruption. An old man in a bright sage and cerulean set of robes dancing from outcrop to outcrop? He was pointed and laughed at, but didn’t pay the mockery any heed.

The Oldwalls had several layers to them. He ignored the top layer since those had devolved into pleasure centers, bounced right by the middle layer since that was nothing but housing, and landed on the bottom layer where stalls sold knick-knacks and other assorted goods. How quaint.

It would have been great sightseeing had the smell not doubled in intensity with every layer he descended. On the bottom rung, he could actually feel his Presence working overtime to cleanse and eradicate the impurities.

As he started moving, an object on a blanket-rug caught his eye, only because it was… familiar. He dropped down from the crenellation of this level and smoothly landed in front of the ‘stall’. Artorian considered becoming a living bug-zapper just to get rid of all the flies that were swarming said ‘stall’, but unfortunately that would drop his cleaning efforts. That wasn’t worth his sanity.

With that thought in mind, he shifted his Auric effect, allowing his Presence to indiscriminately scrub the world around him. For some reason, this removed the drain on his Essence. He didn’t quite know how far the indiscriminate effect reached, but entertained the thought that surroundings as dirty as this would offer all the data he could ever ask for.

He picked up a small ruffled pocketbook, and read the title. ‘Jiivra’s Fate’.

Oh. Oh no. Of course he was familiar with this scrap paper. It was his piece of scrap paper. One he’d given away to a good lass with a good heart. Why was this here? “Excuse me… where did you get this?”

Artorian’s tone was sharp, demanding attention. The dilapidated peddler who didn’t remember what fresh air smelled like seemed to come back to life. He felt… good. Was he getting cleaner by sheer proximity to this customer? “I… eh. Oh. Some starving lass traded it to me for a few coins. Could barely walk, that one. Didn't ask why she wanted to let it go, but I saw a good trade and took it. Maybe… oh, a few moons ago?”

Braun the merchant pressed his grubby hands together now that they no longer ached. “Are you interested in…”

His words cut off as air refused to escape his throat. Color bled away from his face, which bleached pale in response to the complete turnaround he felt in his gut. Hadn’t he been talking to a flowery person just a moment ago? His eyes were deceiving him. He knew they were. The shape before him wasn’t a person… it was a monster.

Braun could feel pressure holding him like the deep waters from his days diving for clams. An all-encompassing force squeezing his skin and innards. Something larger than life, and certainly larger than the man seething in front of his stall.

Whatever it was, it was vivaciously angered. Gravity-laden words made Braun tense up, and it didn’t really feel like the words were being spoken. Rumbling sounds filled the air around them, Artorian’s Essence-infused voice washing over the merchant as he did his best to keep it together. “Where. Is. She.”

It wasn’t the merchant Artorian was angry at; it was the conditions of this place as a whole. The turn of events required for this situation to come to pass… scenario after scenario roiled through his thoughts. It consumed him, and Artorian’s burning eyes held those of a thoroughly intimidated peddler.

Shivering madly, Braun pointed a shaky finger down a level. The dredges level. The vast majority of people here were homeless, so that wasn’t a qualifier to measure living conditions. Neither was cleanliness, nor the ability to feed oneself. Everyone in the Oldwalls was struggling. But the dredges… they were a place anyone with a spark of hope remaining avoided like the plague. It’s where those who had nothing went to die.

“My… thanks.”

The merchant pulled in a deep breath, finding that once again the air was foul. The heavy presence before him had vanished, leaving only the memory of an oppressive ocean. The man had also taken the booklet, but that was a small price for his life. Actually, it hadn’t felt like he’d been threatened? Truth be told… Braun felt pretty great. No, better than great. He felt amazing!

Braun’s aches were gone, his injuries were mended, and even his eyesight wasn’t blurry anymore! Forget the coin! Whatever had taken this booklet could keep it. He turned to tell his wife the news, and realized that perhaps he would have been happier half-blind.

Wind swirled around Artorian. He moved with such haste that a thundering whine filled the space he passed, the air rumbling to fill in the empty pockets he created just by running along the walls. Essence cycled in his eyes as he tried to find a combination that would let him find the specific trait he was looking for. Jiivra was a cleric; that meant somewhere in these walls there should be a concentration of celestial Essence. There weren’t going to be many false positives here, so all he had to do was locate the area that was rich in that Essence. Or find the spark that remained. That might be more likely.

There wasn’t much celestial about this place, but the process of finding the correct combination and using it as needed took him hours. Obviously, that was hours more than he would have liked. Sixty-four units of celestial, and twice that number in refined Essence allowed him to hit the jackpot. Everything else about the world became an indistinguishable mess, but the dot of celestial was found, hiding in a literal hole in the wall.

He was on scene a moment later, and Artorian wished he could unsee what awaited him as the Essence sight rolled back, revealing the mundane truth. His voice spoke as a hushed whisper. “Oh, my sweet. What happened to you?”

Jiivra was a malnourished, dying thing. Her skin was thin, dry, pale, and cold. A dirty grey blanket wrapped around her chest, and it was the only thing preventing him from seeing the sharp outcroppings of her ribs. The girl likely couldn’t even walk anymore. ‘Deathly’ was a poor description for the appalling state she was in.

He looked into her Center, and was devastated by what he saw. Her cultivation… it was just… gone. No spiral lived in her Center. No Essence ran through her veins. She was dying from Essence deprivation, and he had no idea how she’d been hanging on for so long.

Then the blanket twitched, and a tiny head raised from Jiivra’s bony shoulder and blinked at the old man. When realization and memory struck its mind, it attempted to flail, scream in excitement, and hop into the familiar old man’s arms. The Glider could not manage it, and fell.

The oversized Sugar Glider—easily the size of a large dog—was caught by arms it had very much missed. Starlight poured over its form, and its pains vanished; leaving only the hungers. It didn’t take more than a heartbeat for Artorian to produce a snack for the Sugar Glider to munch on. Honey from a vial: no chewing required.

While holding the hungry beast, Artorian eased into the wall and settled next to Jiivra. He started inspecting, and pushed out his Presence to include her. It would not sort out all the issues her body was having, but her immediate survival was ensured. He held her hand, and took a breath. “You taught me this. Remember?”

Celestial Essence poured into her through her hand. A free gift of Essence flooding her system. Dying, starving cells gorged themselves on the energy, providing enough life to the collapsing system for her to wake. Jiivra gasped in a sharp breath, opening her now dull grey eyes. Where had the color of her irises gone?

Her beautiful voice was nowhere to be found, but she tried to make a sound. Artorian pulled his waterskin free and eased it to her cracked, dry lips; slowly letting some water down. “Easy now. There’s plenty. Take your time.”

The half-corpse frowned, but didn’t have the slightest ability to fight back. A toddler could do more than her at this point. Her breaths came easier. The harsh air no longer befouled her lungs while within Artorian’s warm embrace, his loving presence. Slums or no, Artorian was the center in a world of his own, and he’d pulled his old friend right into it. He sat with her for a long time as she dipped into unconsciousness.

She had no Aura, no spiral, no cultivation mechanism present at all. Though she barely had any corruption, her Essence draw was also muted. The complete lack of defenses allowed Artorian to mend and repair her at leisure. Something or someone had ripped a vital part from Jiivra and done damage to her… what is it called? Her Essence-drawing circuit? Ah! Affinity channels, that was the proper name.

He was currently looking at something he’d not encountered before. How odd… it would have almost been required for him to come across this. Yet, there it was, laid bare for him to see: her celestial affinity channel. It looked damaged and bloated, like it had been forcibly closed.

Similar to his honeycomb webway, the channel occupied a space between unseen areas. The mysteries of cultivation kept eluding him, only to appear at inopportune moments. Could he heal that at all?

A wave of celestial energy washed over that piece of ‘space’, and the results were immediate. “Oh, thank the heavens that worked…!”

The wound on her channel mended, slowly restoring itself into a strong connection rather than a puffy, blocked off one. That’s what celestial was good at, after all; removing flaws and damage from a system. Artorian complimented the energy. “Good job, you!”

He’d also found some foreign celestial Essence in Jiivra’s center, but had swiftly discovered that it matched the Sugar Glider’s. The tiny beastie must have been sharing Essence with her, which is how she made it this long. It was interesting to him that such a thing was possible from beast-to-person.

Since it seemed not to be an issue from person to beast… a thought for another time. Jiivra must have treated this sweetling well, for it to care for her such a great deal. Truly, he’d not been wrong when he’d told Jiivra that she had a good heart. “We’ll get you back on your feet my dear. I promise.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Jiivra woke up thinking she had died, for one main reason: there was no pain. Everything felt good. Her surroundings were bright, and she was lying on something pillowy. Yup. Dead. She’d ascended to the heavens. It was time for her to sing in the eternal chorus!

A Sugar Glider used her face as a stepping stool, which popped that blissful thought and brought her back to reality. Jiivra’s hands squeezed together, and her fingers found a waterskin already present and waiting in her grip. She downed some, and raised her arm to rub her pained eyes. Wait. She could raise her arm?

“How are you feeling?” A calm, patient, and above all familiar tone reposed her.

Swallowing, Jiivra found her voice. “A… towian?”

Rolling her ‘r’s’ was still too hard. Given her health was making leaps of improvement, such a minor flub was, at worst, cute.

“Present and accounted for.” Artorian smiled and one-finger high-fived the Sugar Glider’s entire paw. She was awake and functional! Success! “Drink some water, dear.”

She did as directed, and tried to move more. It ached too much, so she stopped quickly. “How did you… find…”

He brushed his palm over her head and laid the small booklet on her chest. “I found your story, and figured that it was unfinished. So I found you.”

“Nothing left… to write.” Jiivra swallowed between words. It was still difficult to talk. “Vicar… ripped out my spiral. Said Paladin was a pipe dream. Given to me… make me see the stars. Said go be… a Keeper. Didn’t… agree. Got destroyed.”

Artorian scooped her up. Her face pressed into the side of his neck and shoulder, that little bit of talking fully drained her. Her limbs dangled, but Artorian safely tucked her arms against her chest. He’d heard all he needed, and decided that no good would come of staying down here any further. It was time to go. He bit back his anger, but Artorian let his Essence roil.

Responding to his emotions, his body—tightly wrapped with his Presence—began to glow. Not the soft, gentle glow of soothing, but a brightness without distinction. His features became so obscured that it was impossible to look directly at him. Those in the vicinity suddenly found that they wanted to give the shiny man some extra space.

Iridescent beams of light broke through the gaps of the Oldwalls from below, exceedingly noticeable as the source moved. Artorian’s aura bloomed, and anyone within his vicinity was temporarily blinded even though they felt leaps and bounds healthier.

Unlike his normal Auric use, he allowed the effect to spill out without concern. He had often theorized that one’s opponents would gain more benefit out of indiscriminate Aura effects than the user, so he liked to have a hand in who did and did not benefit from his healing. Today… today he did not care for the consequences.

He would not detain his emotions for the sake of control. The area around him broiled. Scents were cleansed, and the surrounding muck began to bubble as the copious corruption suffered a case of identity erasure. Foulness was reduced to particulates, and only cleanliness remained behind as the old man’s Aura scrubbed over any area it touched with the wrath of a thousand angry janitors.

Rumors sparked that something had awoken within the foundations of the Oldwalls… and everyone was going to die. While something certainly died, it wasn’t the residents. The downtrodden had visible, near-tangible waves of healing wash over them. Old wounds mended and vigor replenished with even partial exposure to the human-shaped radiance that ascended from the bottom-most layer of the Oldwalls. ‘Human-shaped figure’ was as descriptive as any could get, since none could look at the lucent source directly.

Whispers turned to words, and words turned to screams. Both the guard and the raiders could do nothing as crowds blocked their paths, unable to approach the source of radiance. They were powerless in the wake of whatever was carrying a body into the… air?

New rumors sparked when onlookers figured out the figure wasn’t using the Oldwall stairs, instead stepping on pond water as it rose from the dredges; ripples of ever-clearer water were created as the being walked across the surface. Reaching the edge, it continued upward, making its own stairs. Higher and higher the being rose as the empty space between walls was just… waltzed across as if there had been solid ground!

In truth, Artorian was doing no such thing. He was forming temporary bricks of hard light beneath his feet, which needed to last only for a single step. The Sugar Glider clung to him, happy to spend all its efforts on downing food atop a passed out Jiivra.

Because the murky water beneath his feet was dismal no more, but crystal and clear after he passed, Artorian finally found where the raiders had been breeding their crystal cobras, and associated venom.

Numerous writhing forms lived there. The earth-corruption pits were warm, and it was easy to dump an easily missed person or two into them. The heat Artorian was putting out, however, enticed the cobras far more than any measly snack that had been offered. Wanting to be where the warm was, writhing serpentine masses spilled onto stone, forming a noodly pile beneath him that slithered along with the determined old man.

Refugees screamed, as one would expect when deadly cobras suddenly swarmed. Guards screamed, as one would expect when they suddenly had a crazed, uncontrollable population to deal with. Raiders screamed, as one would expect when they suddenly lost the one thing they were responsible for taking care of. Particularly when all of their venomous charges were leaving at the same time. Catching one snake? Sure. Catching hundreds? *no~o~o*!

The merchant background students were waiting at the gate, together with a few of the local scribes that had put two and two together and decided to increase their standing in life. Skyspear students had indeed figured out what was happening, or at least part of it. Not that their teacher becoming a living beacon to tell them it was time to head out could fall into the category of ‘subtle'.

Artorian had said ‘they’d know’. He wasn’t wrong.

They hustled up the steps when the horde of snakes was seen. The merchant party wanted none of that. In front of the swarm was the only place to be, and they made record time up those initial steps, even with coin-filled pockets.

Artorian passed through, but didn’t close, the gates. He instead went up the main steps then veered off to the first and largest resting ground, very near the base of the mountain. He remained there a while, Aura-purifying the local lake where the Koi fish population would soon see a sudden spike. The crystal cobras were herded en masse to the water. When it looked like the stragglers had found where to go, he released the heating shine of his Aura, dropping the allure he’d maintained for the Beasts.

That should keep people busy for a while. Starting the trek up the mountain, Artorian was none the wiser of the social devastation he’d left in his wake. It took maybe a day for the story to make it around the Oldwalls and the surrounding encampments.

“Did you hear?” A burdened captain was three bottles deep as he answered the query of yet another subordinate from a section of the walls. He was too drained for this, and so kept his head on the table.

“Hear what, cadet?”

The cadet beamed a broad smile; the Captain didn’t know! Brown-nose points for him! “It’s rumored that a Heavenly cultivator awoke below the Oldwalls, and ascended the mountain in seclusion! We’ve got reports from my region in southgate that a bright light cured them of ailments, restored their crops, cleaned their waters, purified their surroundings, and even scrubbed the filth from their homes! There’re heaps of reports that a shiny figure walked on the sky, and many verbal accounts that he was seen. None that really match up a proper description, but still. We’re going to be famous, Captain. Just think! Tourism!”

The captain lifted his head up only to scratch his forehead with the rim of the bottle. Now there was an idea that hadn’t been suggested before. Tourism? Here? In this bleak hole? Nah. Too much work.

“Some of the other cadets and I have put some plans together for how we could change things to receive guests and increase regional health. We can even put some of the refugees to work doing useful tasks! There is a large demand for crafts and farming, and with the plains no longer barred-off because of that Moro, all the long-grass we could possibly want!”

The Captain grunted, sat up, and downed the rest of his bottle. “Nah. Too much effort. Just leave it alone.”

The cadet didn’t budge. “We figured you’d say that.”

“Smart kid.” The Captain waved him off, bottle still in hand.

*Shink*.

A burning pain pierced his sensitive insides. It didn’t really hurt, more of a harsh throbbing sensation that dulled quickly from the alcohol. Speaking of, said alcohol was leaving him through a hole in his gut. “Don’t do that, alcohol! Get back in there, I need you so I can stay drunk!”

The captain blinked a few times, then hit the floor as the sound of further stabbing filled his little bottle repository of an office. Change was afoot. “Our first choice was a change in leadership. Goodbye, Captain.”

Back on the mountain, the students and scribes reached the academy with a new mascot. Sure, the Moro had been in the running, but the twitchy-nosed Sugar Glider—as a living bundle of excited snuggles—was passed from student to student and shared attention all the way around. The Glider loved it as much as the students did. He won the silent vote before an hour had passed, and plans were drawn up to make a statue of the school mascot within another.

Artorian placed Jiivra on a collection of bearskins, and found that her situation was worsening. Healing her Essence channel meant that she needed an influx of celestial Essence to live. While he’d been able to sustain her on the trip up, Artorian knew he wasn’t going to be able to fuel her well enough to still make progress on his own. This needed a permanent solution.

“Go fetch Cataphron! Tell him a new student is dying and we need his knowledge. I don’t care how fussy he is, don’t take no for an answer!” The students didn’t particularly like that request, but a few of the more pragmatic ones left at a full sprint. The life of a student trumped discomfort. Cataphron was present minutes later, arriving in a whirlwind of speed and power as the ground itself buffed his travel momentum.

“Artorian this better not be a j—” He stopped yelling as soon as he saw the half-corpse. The ex-Headmaster even took a knee next to Jiivra, but innately sensed that something about touching the student was going to cause an unpleasant experience, even if he couldn’t put his finger on why. The man glared at Artorian. “What do you need?”

Death was good for his cultivation, but terrible for his image. He needed that goodwill right now, and there were droves of students watching. Artorian replied nigh instantly, “Tell me… everything you know about ‘echoing’ a cultivation technique. Hers was stripped, and if she doesn’t get a new one right away… Essence deprivation will eat her alive.”

Cataphron already disliked everything about this. Everything except one thing. Pulling someone into the E-ranks—the Echo ranks—was costly, and he wasn't going to be the one paying that price. This meant that… for a very long time, the old man wouldn’t be able to oppose him; Cataphron would be unrivaled on the mountain. The infernal warrior smiled and hesitated no further.

“Connect to her center.” Artorian swiftly eased close to Jiivra, holding both of her hands. The connection blipped to life easily, since he’d opened it to get celestial Essence into her for survival.

He responded with a curt, “Done.”

Cataphron rubbed his forehead and sat nearby, then turned to snap at the students. “We’re going to need water, food, and towels. Lots of all of that. Buckets if you can find them, to clean the towels from the filth that’s going to be pouring out of this student. What we’re doing isn’t a pretty ritual.”

He grit his jaw, having partially gone through this himself. “Trust me…”

Echoing wasn’t a quick process. It was time consuming, laborious, and needed a level of Essence control that was nothing less than monstrous. Unless, of course, you were completely and utterly cheating. Artorian extended his Presence, wrapping Jiivra in it.

With her Center both unprotected and lacking any of the Auric defenses a cultivator normally had, he was able to work with his full ability regardless of being in a body that wasn’t his. Temporarily, her body sort of was his, but only sort of. The reality was far more complicated, as he still required a direct connection to her hands.

It took days. Days of constant direction from Cataphron, coupled with the old man and student being wiped down and fed while they remained rooted to their positions. Non-cultivators had no hope of even staying awake that long.

Students didn’t gripe at needing to clean others as they worked in shifts. They’d been doing that for years, and this time they didn’t hate the people they were taking care of. Plus, as an additional freebie, they learned a great number of cultivation terms long before Artorian had said they were supposed to.

This ‘new student’ had been a cultivator beforehand, but lost it somehow. They found out quickly that you needed additional things just to stay alive, and those ‘things’ were what both of their teachers were currently mending.

Or one of them was, while the other grew ever happier. The weaker Artorian became, and the further his rank dropped, the greater the enjoyment Cataphron was getting out of the situation. Skipping cultivation for a few days was absolutely worth this extended show. Artorian did somehow manage to passively cultivate even as he was building a lesser copy of his cultivation technique into the girl, but it was negligible.

If anything, Cataphron disliked that he could see neither the progress, nor what was going on internally. That blasted Aura hanging around them was completely blocking out any attempts to glean deeper information.

Artorian returned to the life of loop, twist, loop. Since Jiivra barely had any Essence, he was using his own purified Essence to strand-twist a Core technique into being. He tried to make a simple spiral. He had tried four times, in fact. He’d royally flubbed it every single time, and had defaulted to a copy of his own. A significantly lessened version, but apparently you could not Echo a cultivation technique you were not currently in the process of using. He had zero time to figure out why, so he simply kept up the effort.

“Bernoulli, don’t fail me now!” It had been so difficult keeping hold of the Essence inside of her that he’d constructed a honeycomb webway around her Center; just to put a hold on the awful, awful Essence loss he was undergoing. Only after did he successfully form an initial ring, settling on a few more as he talked her through how to spin them when she woke. Luckily for him, she was a clever kitten and learned quickly.

When the task was finally complete, and Jiivra was breathing on her own accord once more, Artorian was down to a pathetic, measly F-rank eight. Alive, but what a setback. Cataphron slurped the juice from a peach as he watched the show. “Aww. Stopping already? Come now, maybe just a little further?”

The men exchanged silent glares, and Artorian didn’t even have the energy for a clever quip. “Can… can you protect the mountain while I recover? This is not… not at all how I was expecting this to go.”

Horrendously wobbly, Artorian needed help from multiple students just to stand up. Cataphron tossed the peach pit into a patch of grass and clapped his hands together. “Your little scheme at the base of the mountain? Yes, it would be a shame to let all those cobras and cultivation tools… I mean, ‘raiders’ go to waste. It was a great idea to let two sources of trouble clean each other up, but if I do things my way down there… they’ll all be far more useful, and more importantly I’ll get more out of it for my cultivation. Raiders are just dead bodies waiting to happen, and those cobras are perfect for my earth and water channels.”

He almost clapped Artorian on the shoulder, but stopped short by several inches. If he touched the old man now, he’d break the oath and be struck down. A C-ranker hitting an F-ranker only ever had one outcome. Even so… Cataphron grinned from ear to ear.

Let the weaklings play in the safety of the mountaintop while he raked in both profit and fame at the base of it. They were expecting a cultivator of great power to be on the mountain? They’d find him if they dared to climb it, and he’d gladly weed out the unwanted chaff. Cataphron went off to play with snakes, as Jiivra started eating to regain strength.

Her voice was doing much better, but she had concerns as she concentrated on spinning a dozen interlocking core-rings. “Why did you do this for me?”

Artorian beamed a bright smile at her, though he was clearly exhausted. “I did what any father would when they find their daughter in such a state.”

Jiivra tried hard not to cry. She failed, covering her mouth with both hands. “I… I can’t cultivate. They stripped me of the songs.”

Artorian made a ‘come along’ motion, helped by the students as he reached into her pocket and flipped open a little pocket book before pressing it into her hand. “It is good then, that someone was clever enough to write them all down.”

He winked at her as the Sugar Glider jumped, hugging Artorian’s shoulder. It was time to rest.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

It took the entire five years of the Headmaster bet for Artorian to recover. Infusing Echo cultivation was no joke, and the permanent drain hit him deep. In return, he felt that the cost had been worth it.

What was a few years of progress measured against the life of a treasured friend? Jiivra made an excellent addition as first official academy instructor. While life had been repetitive, the academy and world around them revolved at an evolutionary pace. Every season Artorian spent lecturing, reading books, cultivating in the sun, and otherwise doing little other than being a mentor and recovering his strength, the academy boomed in size and bloomed in its wealth of knowledge, productivity, and general beauty. The health of the place was easily twentyfold higher than before.

Fresh flowers lined the edges of every walkway and miniature garden. Palisades and short stone walls had been built around the mountain’s edges to prevent accidental falls. Beyond the look and feel of the place, the dynamic of the mountain had also significantly altered.

Atop the mountain’s apex, Artorian drew a deep, peaceful breath. His gently swaying cloth robe was simple and clean. It hung about his hips while he balanced atop a bamboo pole, his well-muscled chest exposed to bright sunlight. He drew its radiance in so ferociously that his cultivation alone temperature-controlled the mountaintop. There was no excess light, as he controlled his Essence precisely.

Over the years, Artorian infused his Meridians, body, bones, skin, and Aura. Had he but the requisite energy, he would be fully prepared to step into the C-ranks. His own fault really, as his propensity to get distracted with little side projects never faded. He could have been a C-ranker by now, even with all the setbacks, but had decided against it. He was like a kitten whose curiosity frequently got the better of it.

Artorian stretched on the bamboo shoot, returning his simple robes to his shoulders. The Gi was too big for him, but the slightly baggy outfit did wonders for hiding both his scars and his head-turning physical strength. He still wouldn’t be able to beat Cataphron in a contest of power, but it was an improvement from even before the event that had come to be known as ‘The Echoing’.

The apex of the mountain was Artorian’s personal little cultivation zone. Underneath him tension-spanned tent sheets, with several hookah pipes lined up on a stone table. Baskets of food and bottles of drink strategically littered the tower-shaped ground. Wherever someone went within the confines of the windbreaker screens, they could always find a nutritious snack.

His naked feet tip-tapped down the clean stairs. To his delight, they once again glimmered and shone with even the faintest of light. Artorian didn’t feel the need to check any of the nine layers of the academy. He knew that each was barred by a black-meteorite door, and over the years only some had been unlocked.

Gnomish design was infuriatingly clever. It would take more years than he had to figure out how to unlock the remaining five. He’d puzzled out four; the last only with the help of ingenious students. While five floors remained a mystery, the accessible floors held mystical secrets.

The ninth floor contained an observatory, occupied by a massive lensing artifact that somehow perceived all the way to the stars. The sixth floor held strange bits and baubles he couldn’t make heads or tails of. Gnomish toys… or infernal contraptions? No idea. They didn’t function with Essence, something stronger was needed.

A boring lecture hall was all that was found on the fifth floor. That door had been unlocked the whole time and nobody had thought to try the infernal handle! Gah. Finally, the first floor contained the Library, his pride and joy of all the floors uncovered so far. The black door was open as he passed, and his ears picked up the scribbles of pens and rustling of flipped pages. The existing student body had grown, and such progress they had made! Had they been this gifted the entire time, or were they simply hard-working?

His eyes caught many new students as they passed. Faces both young and old donned the robes of flower and leaf. It seemed that the hierarchy thrived, even without him. His original gifting of robes had been passed down from teacher to student. Since Rosewood’s clothing line regrew itself so long as you kept the article well-maintained and spilled food and water on them every once in a while, they functioned as fantastic legacy items. This also ensured that the youngest students always had the best of the robes.

The original class from five years ago had gifted their robes to the new generation. As for them, simple cloth robes were enough; they no longer needed fancy clothing to help them feel special. As additional reinforcement, they had made their new robes themselves. A testament to their self-achieved accomplishments.

The special clothing made the younglings ecstatic, especially some of the girls. Not only did they gain academy admission, but they got to grow into fabulous robes while they were at it? It didn’t matter if the new students were of merchant, Noble, or otherwise well-off backgrounds. They had gotten past Cataphron and successfully climbed the mountain. That was all the test necessary, and none was required further.

Speaking of Cataphron… Artorian decided that he should go see the man. Artorian had not descended the mountain once since ‘The Echoing’, and it was time to officially collect from their bargain, even if he’d carried the title of Headmaster for a while now.

The open access rooms had all become occupied. Either as lodging, or as cultivation locations. An entire system had been developed by the students for signing up who used what, when, and for what purpose. It was a beauty in administrative bookkeeping, and it warmed Artorian’s heart as he passed the massive ledger. The original students made it themselves, and even the paper had been pressed from plants grown right here on the mountain.

Clasping his arms behind the small of his back, he smiled brightly and stepped into the sunlight. “Good day, Headmaster!”

Young students beamed and waved at him as he passed. Age notwithstanding, he was indistinguishable from the other instructors in the youngster’s eyes. How delightful it was to exist around the young, so full of excitement and wonder!

“Grandfather! You look well. We'll bring you some food later!” the veteran students hollered at him, exchanging pleasant waves. He fondly returned them, not pausing his brisk walk.

More minor interactions continued as he was given the space to pass. The old cultivator was a little slower than the children on his stroll. He passed teacher Xi, who was accompanied by a neat line of the youngest generation of students. You could always tell who they were, as they were still learning the most basic of practices.

While Xi performed the palm-to-fist gesture on the way, he didn’t stop his conga line. His class needed to be washed before introductory lessons, and they were already running late. Xi operated on a tight schedule, and the brats had been giving him grief all morning.

Confused by their instructor providing respect to only one person on the entire trip, whispered realization passed between them. They looked upon the old man with awe. That was the Headmaster. The Headmaster, and they needed to show no fealty whatsoever?

Even though he was the highest in the hierarchy, he just walked along like he was one of them? It blew their minds that he would lower himself to their status. Rumors from adults were one thing, seeing it was another. The newest students were so used to needing to bow to their superiors or be punished, that this entire journey was akin to an unbelievable fantasy.

The rules here vastly differed from their preconceptions. There were no beatings because someone disliked an action you took, or took offense to something you said. Instead, the offender was taken by the shoulder and asked if they knew what had just upset the others. If the child failed to understand what they’d done wrong, the adults around them explained it.

While the lessons weren’t always concise, they ended only when the child indicated they had understood. Some of the older kids remained suspicious, waiting for the other shoe to drop… but it never did. They were welcomed here. They were wanted.

The spacious academy front was open and clean, and served as a major crossroad. It had been kept as such on purpose, due to the consistently heavy traffic. Once Artorian passed the academy gates, he paused in what had once been the royal gardens. It had been converted to something more useful; such a convenient, flat, fertile patch of land was better served used to cultivate food.

The gardens doubled as an easy outdoor place to lecture while students snacked on apples, pears, raspberries, and more. Even some exotic fruit had successfully been planted. The ‘dates’ had to go up on the mountaintop with him, something about heat and sunlight. He left the botany project to the enthusiastic students, letting them plant as needed. His Wood Elf family would have been proud.

Traveling down a brand-new path leading to the Inner Pagoda, he grumbled quietly about the length of the trip. Sure, the structure had been splendidly rebuilt; but the new path spiraled, snaking around the mountain rather than messily zig-zagging. It was a bigger detour than he wanted, and he quietly plotted shortcuts.

Inner space that had once been the old paths had been cleared and overhauled. Now they were used as additional planting grounds for tubers, mushrooms, and sturdy variants of grasses that made for great baskets and paper. The students couldn’t be blamed, the tunnels were optimal for the growth of those vegetable types; some plants required an absence of light to grow and be properly nurtured.

A beautiful building painted in an earthy shade of metallic greens that reflected as jade met his gaze when he reached the Inner Pagoda. The color was chosen in memorial to the fallen who had once laid here; doubling as symbol of shining beauty for the lives to come.

All Inner Pagoda space was dedicated entirely to lodging, housing, and sleeping quarters. It also had the largest kitchens. For a moment, the Headmaster considered sneaking in, but word had already made the rounds that he was nearby. Wary cooks stormed out of seclusion with rolling pins in hand, and looks signifying a hunt scanned the area.

“*Hmm*! Best not do it.” He’d stolen plenty of crunchy oven-baked bread rolls over the last week anyway. It wasn’t his fault the butter they churned in the Pagoda cellar was so celestially good! Secretly still wanting a bun, he passed right by the leery chefs. Nabbing a handful of berries from the side of the path to satiate himself, Artorian strolled through significantly widened, now-illuminated mountain tunnels.

Mosses and other variants of mushrooms grew in spades. A few students had decided to nurture grubs and other mealworm type insects. He didn’t chide them for their passions, some people just loved getting their hands dirty. Silkworms were a fantastic accidental find, though he had a suspicion that the mealworms were specifically bred for the now horse-sized Sugar Glider.

How big was that critter going to get? Sure, it was a nearly C-ranked Beast at this point, but still! The enthusiastic, lovable blanket flapped right into Artorian’s face the moment Artorian left the cave pass. It knocked him right to the ground, and the Sugar Glider chittered with excitement. It snatched up a grub that had fallen on the old man’s shoulder, and clung in place to eat it.

Artorian hadn't even noticed the worm, though clearly Blanket—the Sugar Glider’s name—certainly had! The name ‘Blanket’ was something of a running joke between the students of how it clung to people. He rubbed the clever beast’s head and gave it an under-the-cheek scritch. “Alright, alright, Blanket. You can come with me.”

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Blanket chittered, draping around Artorian’s back and shoulders like a fancy, fluffy cape. The D-rank seven critter was just happy to be along for the ride as the old man waltzed through the brand-new overhanging wind chimes.

Air Essence students practiced by harmonizing the musical instruments. He had to pause to enjoy the orchestra. More rehearsal was… necessary, but the short performance was lovely. A few more deft steps, and he greeted the instructor guarding the red gates of the Outer Pagoda. In contrast to the higher layers of the mountain academy, this place wasn’t restful at all.

People flew across the arenas using elaborate martial arts. Outbursts of Essence rocked the general area as control and choreography were practiced under the watchful guidance of at least a dozen teachers. The Outer Pagoda had become the combat training level. Here, cultivation was practiced as a group, while instruction was handled by the individual.

Waiting on standby to patch injured juniors, herbalists meditated under parasols. They grew Aloe and Kratom on the edges of the Pagoda after they had learned how annoyingly often they needed it. The reaction Artorian received here was much different than the more studious upper sections he’d just passed through.

A shrill wooden whistle blew. All cultivation, drills, fights, group synchronization movements, and training ceased at the drop of a copper. The unified slap of open hand-to-fist was heard, and Artorian sighed. The call went out from the most senior teacher present.

Of course, that was Jiivra. Unlike the other instructors who were just fine letting the formalities slide, she was having none of this ‘treat him like a grandfather’ garbage. A school needed order, a clear chain of command, and a vigorous instant response that could be performed at the drop of a hat.

He honestly didn’t know what else he'd expected from someone fit to be a Paladin; someone with a record as a successful combat leader and drill sergeant. She was the only one present that had previously dealt with his behavior in the Fringe. The Paladin-aspirant had plenty of experience with the old man, and she knew better than to merely ‘go with the flow’. His ‘flow’ was scheming, and she wouldn’t abide it!

“Students greet Great Master!”

Artorian winced a little as the harmonized instructors called out. “Jiivra, you little…”

That was so uncomfortable! He knew it was done on purpose. The apprentices echoed the call; they knew the Headmaster didn’t actually require it, but the devout nature of their primary combat instructor hadn’t eluded them. If she wanted them to greet, it likely had more to do with their teacher seeking a gap in their swift response where a call to action was concerned. They had been taught too well not to snap into action. “Students greet Great Master!”

He had to play her game for the moment. If he broke from her rigid protocol, it would ‘harm the students understanding of order’. Gently tapping his own fist to his open hand, the Headmaster bowed back to finish the social ritual. “Please continue, bright young minds. I only require your combat instructor for a short chat.”

The response was instant from both pupils and faculty alike. “Yes, Great Master!”

Sounds of activity built. For some reason, the novices all put in extra effort while their teacher’s teacher was watching. Their combat instructor followed the ‘Keeper Irene’ school of training, vocally supporting the notion that those who cultivated power should use it when defending themselves. Conservation was irrelevant when your safety was on the line.

Practicing what she preached, the drill sergeant thrummed with celestial power during practice bouts. No one was safe from her challenges, and that included other instructors. When their teachers fought, pupils watched wide-eyed to keep up with the Essence-fueled action.

Even the youngest now saw examples of Essence techniques; it piqued their curiosity. When it came to proper utilization and fighting, none could beat instructor Jiivra in a straight up melee. It had once been said that she had an unfair advantage, and her response had been they all team up and come at her at once. The result? Not even when they ganged up on her was victory attainable.

The tale-worthy victory put hopeful stars in the eyes of all the students, but especially the young girls who had never possessed the raw physicality of their peers. Jiivra took the opportunity to explain that a butt-whooping was gender neutral, and that Essence allowed for an utterly level playing field. Skill, and the willpower to use it, was key in fights at that level. If they applied themselves and worked hard on both their studies and training, they too could stand where she did.

The stories and sights fueled them as they rigorously practiced. Work ethic on the mountain became unparalleled as a result.

Artorian slipped out of sight. He kept out of the way of second-tier new students with a bamboo-stick yoke that held giant pails of water, which they balanced on their shoulders. These pupils had finished the core curriculum of reading, writing, basic understanding, and the trips up and down the mountain steps. This regimen was required of all novices to build their core strength and endurance.

Once they could perform that task without strain, the first-tier apprentices graduated to second tier and were allowed the second level of teachings as result. They knew well that at the third, the Great Master would personally reveal to them their ‘Essence’ gifts and how best to cultivate them from that point.

Once third-tier, a pupil was assigned a teacher with similar Essence sources. That instructor would guide them through the process of containing the corruption within themselves so they could construct a Chi spiral. Beginning the process of cultivation graduated an apprentice into a fourth-tier student.

Once you reached D-rank one, you were given a test by five randomly selected teachers. Those that passed could choose to become a fifth-tier student, guiding those who struggled while studying to take the test once more. Or, if they passed easily, they could become a first-tier teacher directly.

Instructors could continue taking tests given by five teachers one rung higher than themselves in order to increase their teacher rank. At the apex of the teacher tiers, one had the option to request a trial from a Master or Great Master. Success of the trial afforded one both the title, and the privileges of that rank.

Within all the teachers, there were but a handful of Masters. Several of the more gifted, multi-channel students had blown past the set requirements over the years. Several luxuries differentiated a Master from an Instructor. Masters no longer had required teaching schedules. They could cultivate more freely and focus on self-development. Their station allowed them to interrupt any ongoing lesson so long as it was in order to assist, as well as take personal pupils.

Jiivra held the position of being the highest-ranking Master among them, even if the Master rank didn’t have official separations yet. There were simply not enough of them to make a proper system. Above the common Masters, only two Great Masters lived in Skyspear: Artorian and Cataphron.

Between the two, only one was Headmaster. Jiivra accompanied Artorian as he descended the stairs to the Inner Courtyard. This level was new, and didn’t previously exist. Space for it had been cleared out of necessity, and now the location was a bustle of activity in a… different sense than the Pagoda levels.

A mixture of market and refugee intake took place here. Animals were equally present as merchant-minded Skyspear residents worked with abacus and chalk. The math for the next trip for trade goods at the base of the mountain was loudly discussed. So heated were their exchanges that they didn’t even see Artorian and Jiivra as they passed. It infuriated Jiivra, but Artorian loved it.

People who made it up the mountain were received here. Long discussions took place on expectations, requirements, and applicable skills. Everyone had a little bit of everything, and it was good policy to admit anyone that could help grow their community. There was always a need for labor, or help with some project or another. If a profession came by that the mountain didn’t have yet, it was a good day. New space was being added daily as the insides of the mountains were mined and cleared further.

The combat instructor quietly went along with the as-yet unofficial Headmaster, strolling through the Outer Courtyard. The statue of a door marked the center of the plaza as a water-fountain feature. How they had gotten that to work with one of the Gnomish baubles, Artorian would never know. Some distractions even he couldn’t afford.

The area had been cleared further, and sprawled all the way to the mountain’s edge. The outer courtyard used to be the entrance area, but now it was an exhibition and teaching forum for hundreds of students or people at a time. A massive, round arena waited behind the statue while a great multitude of people rested and recuperated. When one finished the trek up the mountain, this was where they slept, rested, and ate before ascending to another level. A surprising number of people successfully made it up the mountain these days.

They were welcomed to stay, even if that stay did not include a life free of hard work. For most who made the trek, it was still a better life. One where clean air, water, and food was plentiful so long as you didn’t step on the rules. Jiivra tapped the lingering old man on the shoulder. Artorian was wasting time. “Yes, yes. I suppose I don’t have the luxury to take the stairs all the way down?”

Jiivra shook her head.

“Drat, I really wanted to see all the repaired rest spots. I heard they carved an entirely new statue of Woah the Wise! One in a pensive pose with him holding a book.” He wanted to see it, but sighed and nudged Blanket, since his companion was burning a hole through him with her eyes. “You ready, my boy?”

A chipper *cheeeep*! replied as the napping Glider woke ready to play. Blanket bounced over to the edge of the mountain as the duo followed. Due to his impressive size, a few nearby commoners called out in alarm. Especially when they saw two simple-robed people standing so precariously close to the precipice. “That edge is dangerous, you might fall!”

“Well. That’s partially the plan!” Artorian and Jiivra each took hold of one of Blanket’s offered hind feet, and to the collective screams of those behind them… jumped off the mountain. Blanket spread himself wide, catching the breathy winds that circulated. He slid right into a breezy jetstream, and the flight was swift.

At the base of the mountain, Cataphron sat behind his mobile food stall. He served grilled eel and crystal cobra on a stake, dipped in sweet honey sauce from the sizable apiary that existed further back on his level. If you wanted to climb the mountain, you had to pass Cataphron.

Not the easiest feat, especially for those of ill intent. The impervious cultivator had swiftly made a hefty reputation for himself at the base. Both as a spectacular cook and unstoppable titan. Wealthy Nobles that made claims and demands, raiders who wanted to use their authority to steal property, or those who attempted to muscle their way past… all became part of his cultivation.

Their deaths were his advancement, which meant that nothing was wasted. Even the bodies went to his prized cobras, whom he loved dearly. No raider party had ever managed to retrieve even a single cobra, and their supply of poison had quickly run dry. Cultivators of repute had come to ‘reclaim’ the cobras of course.

Unfortunately for them, Cataphron was a high C-rank. Sure, his lack of external Aura was unsettling, but it only made his opponents easy pickings as he tore through them like snake tataki. A delicacy which just so happened to be offered at his food stand!

Individuals or families with good hearts he could gain nothing from, so he let those through to make the climb. Not only was this doubly convenient for making sure the students up on the mountain didn’t get put in harm's way, but it ensured that the first experience they had was with a powerhouse. Unfortunately for Cataphron… he’d known how the dice landed. He demurely sat behind his stall, and heard gravel crunch below approaching feet.

Right on schedule, he supposed. “Artorian! Try some of this tataki cobra. Maybe if your mouth is full of food, I won’t have to hear you tell me the bad news. Or talk in general.”

Artorian glanced at Jiivra, who sighed and pressed her fingers onto her brow. Like a small child, the old man hustled to the stand with a big grin and slipped into a seat. “I’ll take four, my good man.”

Cataphron grumbled and prepared four skewers on the grill. Jiivra took a seat next to the bouncy, childish elder who acted like he was about to get an entire bucket of candy. This old man would never change. She cut to the chase and pulled out a vellum. Not bothering to unfurl it, the subtlety-ignoring warrior dropped it on her plate. “Do I need to say it?”

She was curt, and Cataphron looked sour as he grilled. Not that it impacted the quality of his food, but he knew what the outcome of the challenge was.

“Don’t bother… just lay the abyssal verdict.”

She nodded and recited it from memory before levering the result. “On Authority as a Master of the mountain, I declare the test of virtue concluded. The victor is Artorian. He is hereby officially the recipient of all agreed upon terms, titles, and ownership deeds.”

Cataphron leaned forwards on his grill, visually deflated. All the power and might in the world—even gained in haste—hadn’t prevented a powerless old fool from besting him in the arena of public opinion. It was his own fault for accepting such a skewed bet, and he knew it. He could feel the old man hiding his elation under that infuriatingly giddy smile.

“Pretend all you want, you old dog. I know the truth, even if it remains hidden from the world. Under the veneer of that playful, sweet, bouncy persona… a real monster patiently lies in wait. An eternal warrior never free of the battlefield, ever watchful and scheming the next move on the game board. Artorian the Architect.”

“Also known as…” Cataphron held out his hand and exhaled through his nose. “Headmaster.”

Artorian shook the offered hand in acceptance, quietly glad that their Oath still prevented a fight. “Gatekeeper.”

Cataphron narrowed his eyes at the title, but couldn’t say it wasn’t accurate. The handshake released, and Cataphron handed over the last batch of tataki he would cook. He was done. Jiivra and Artorian ate as they watched as the man slumped into his chair. He dejectedly picked up a skewer of his own, chewing on it as the new Headmaster snuck in a question.

“Cat… why did you cultivate your three channels individually, rather than cultivate the compound Essence of the three? Your iron-shell technique seems to be the only one it has all gone to over the years. What even is the compound?”

Tearing a whole piece from the skewer, Cataphron aggressively swallowed before levering the tiny wooden stick at Artorian. Jiivra could tell the Skyspear resident wanted to be snarky, but the mood had left him. Cataphron deflated with a sigh, his gaze falling. “What’s the point? Look, do I seem like the kind of person who wants to sit around crystals and gemstones all day?”

Both the academy teachers shared a look of confusion, and Cataphron hung his head. “Gemstone. The compound Essence of earth, water, and infernal. To me, it’s gemstone. The perfected version of a crystal. Crystals are made of earth Essence. Given perfect conditions, they grow using condensation in minute, granular amounts. Which is where the water Essence comes in. Infernal easily provides the most optimal conditions and cultivates the growth in excess. So diamonds, topaz, rubies, sapphires… any other crystalline structure I come to gain an understanding of… I could cultivate from.”

He nibbled some grilled cobra from another skewer. “I don’t use this for my cultivation. One, because it is against the social norms I grew up with. Two, because instead of the iron shell that coats me, it would be a crystalline shell. I’d only consider diamond, and even that is too glittery for me. The technique instead gives me a glossy, obsidian look while being nearly as good as the compound Essence. Without the… embarrassment of glittering.”

He waved the stick around. “Most people believe the combination would be ‘swamp’, and the hypocrisy of it all is that this answer isn’t wrong. It’s just the same three Essences in a different amount. The water and earth Essence amounts just about flip.”

This was a very interesting topic to his entire audience. Several students under Cataphron’s wing practiced nearby, and had stopped to listen. They were mostly all earth-based cultivators. Over the years not a single infernal Essence user had arrived, but that hadn’t left the old Master without students. According to the records, it was rumored that Cataphron accepted his first student the same day he realized that he had lost the challenge. Loss changes a person, and knowing it before it officially happens? Even more so.

Artorian lacked the infernal Essence channel, a fact Cataphron loved to lord over the man anytime messages made their way up and down. Jiivra wanted to know for certain. “So… you’re saying that a concept can have the same Essence-combination as another?”

Cataphron managed to not disdainfully flick a sharp wooden stick at her. “Of course it can! The amounts will just differ. You can easily have a hundred people with a single Essence available, and it all leads to a different conceptual result. Simply because of everything a single Essence channel is able to accomplish. More channels just mean more options, as well as more limitations.”

Finishing his skewer, he stabbed it into his cart as if it was a steel rod. “I’ve always been more interested in the latter, as in my experience I’ve rarely to never met people whose Essence channel amount didn’t match their intellectual oddities. I’m sure it’s more complicated than this, but those who are simple have few, and those who are not have many. It’s also an easy insult for those who have few, and is convenient for my cultivation improvements.”

Jiivra looked away in irritation. She abyss-well knew that’s not how Essence channels were determined, but actual studies in the field were barren. She was unable to refute him with facts, not having a strong enough grasp on what actually determined the channels. She just knew it didn’t seem to be random.

Initial channels were strongly shown to be inheritable depending on parentage. The environment and location seemed to have something to do with it, and experiences through the course of life had a chance to open new channels. It was theorized that how one chose to react to life and the world around them determine which channels naturally expanded, but the entire topic was mired in speculation.

The ex-Headmaster grumbled, making the decision that he didn’t want to be here anymore. No longer did he need to be around people that thought it was perfectly acceptable to barge in with questions because the status quo had shifted. He considered what the new Headmaster had called him, and denied the position as he felt a tremor build in his spine.

“No… I’ll not be the Gatekeeper. I feel the call, the push of the mountain. Already it rejects me. As I have lost the Headmaster title in earnest, I have failed this place, and it rebukes me. I will be Gatekeeper no further. I will remain no longer. I will descend into the depths of the mountain and seek the fate of my old Master, Diomedes.”

He took off his apron and threw it to one of his students. “This is yours now. I have taught you how to handle my snakes. Cook the meals, protect the doors, and use your earth affinities. I am done, and of this mountain no more.”

He turned to face Artorian, the only person he could ask this of even as his feet tried to move away from Skyspear of their own volition. “I seek permission to enter the mountain’s deep pass and traverse the forgotten depths.”

Artorian gave a simple nod. “Granted.”

Cataphron’s feet ceased forcing him away as the ambient Mana in the area accepted the land-owner’s will. The strained C-ranker relaxed. Turning, he walked onto a path only he knew of. A path that had been left untread for years. He’d never shared the location of this particular cavern; the hidden way into the depths. “My thanks. Goodbye, old student. May we never meet again.”

Silence followed his footsteps as the exiled Headmaster descended into the dark.

Chapter Forty

“Now what?” Jiivra stood with her arms crossed atop the open gate. The large entrance way that led to the mountain pass.

Strongly contrasting their postures as he hunched, the now-official Headmaster locked wrists behind his back for support. They quietly watched the overhauled town as it bustled along. No longer did the Oldwalls smell like a wasteland of earth corruption.

Artorian rubbed his eyes, taking in the new scent of heated forges and plied metal. His ears focused on the *plink, plink, plink.* The sound of ingots being hammered into shape. A momentary memory of For and Hibiscus came to mind, but he slapped the recollection away.

New leadership flourished in the Oldwalls, and the name had once again changed. ‘Jian’ was the new official title of the Oldwalls, by virtue of the new main product and export. The constant mining to accommodate living space had left Skyspear with an overabundance of otherwise useless meteoric metals.

They could do nothing with the massive ore piles that were just taking space. However, everyone and their mother was trying their hand at crafting in Jian. Swords, spears, scythes, and sundry metal products ranged in quality from laughable to Masterful. Fortunately for Skyspear, a shoddy sword needed roughly the same metal as a Masterwork one. They could sell their ore by the basketful, and transporting the heavy ore doubled as training. After all, the ore didn’t make it down the mountain by itself.

Placing his hand above his eyes, Artorian blocked the glare as he peered into the distance. Endless plains of yellow wheatgrass had once stretched to the horizon. Now he saw only farms and livestock. All that earth corruption was suddenly in demand as farm fertilizer, and all the added work for food production kept the need for new workforce steady.

Refugees were no longer a problem; they were in demand! Five years of development, and Jian sported the population of a medium-sized capital city. This place wasn’t even a sanctioned country, but Artorian didn’t care. The raiders had been given the boot, and the guard had reformed. So far, Nobles had attempted to either pass through unnoticed, or tried to make their way up the mountain with far less… favorable results.

New methods were going to be necessary with Cataphron absent. The presence of the Gatekeeper had prevented a great number of problems, and Artorian sighed as he accounted for new factors in the plan. “Now? Now we send some letters.”

Jiivra raised her eyebrow at the plotting academic, while a tired Blanket landed on her shoulders. Blanket had been having a great time playing in the wind, but it was naptime. Artorian only beamed an innocent smile at her.

The grin contained that unsettling sub-note that he was absolutely up to something. So the ex-cleric addressed the concern rather than live with it. “To whom?”

The old man dropped his calculating gaze back down to the town, noticing some townspeople who had stopped to gape up at them. He gave them a pleasant, enthusiastic little wave. When they went on with their lives, he turned to Jiivra and tapped the side of his nose. “The Inquisition, of course!”

Had she not been entrenched sturdily in place, she would have fallen to the ground from the absurdity of that statement. Her insides twisted, and her face recoiled in horrified refusal. “The Church? Why?”

Artorian kept the side of his pointer finger pressed to the tip of his nose. “All branches of the Church used to frequent Skyspear in its heyday. Did you never delve into why I considered you to be the Church, back in the Salt village? I can recognize the values and ideas it was founded upon at a glance. What it has become now is not the organization I quite approve of, but there’s no reason I can’t get what I need out of it before something is done about that.”

Jiivra didn’t even want to know what heinous plans were being drawn up to cause problems for an organization as big and powerful as the Church. She squeezed the bridge of her nose, trying to get the thoughts out of her head. The non-Paladin no longer had love for the organization, so it wasn’t an unpleasant set of musings when she imagined the old man to be standing atop the ashes of the largest cathedral. Perhaps laughing maniacally and doing a dance on the rubble.

Yup. She could see it. An ordinary person might consider Artorian to be a scion of madness, but she knew everything he did stemmed from a basis of love. She knew that if somehow the Church went down by Artorian’s hand, it would not be because of a personal slight to him, but because of what they had done to her.

She exhaled her frustrations away. “Okay. Fine. What do we do about the Gatekeeper position?”

Artorian returned to pensively grooming his beard. “I’ll handle it for a while. Send me down a few students with merchant skills. We really need to move the market off the mountain and down to this section. Why did we even have it up there? It’s logistically illogical, and at best a minor convenience for Skyspear. The traders make a loss just attempting the trip, and I believe business would not be so limited if we catered to their convenience instead.”

He nodded at his own words. “We’ll set up here and establish a presence. I also need a few of the stealthier sneaky-sneaks to map out that previously hidden path Cataphron went down. I want those deets!”

Jiivra turned in confusion.“Deets?”

The Headmaster scoffed with a shrug, “‘Details’. I heard one of the students say it and liked the phrase. Nothing like mangling a language for fun. The youth does it endlessly.”

Disgruntled, Jiivra held her forehead. Only an academic would consider that ‘fun’. She couldn’t bear it. So she snapped her fingers to mentally push herself back on topic. The suggested source bothered her. “Why the Inquisition?”

Artorian ceased beard-grooming, starting to Dwarf-braid it instead. “I need information on my kids. They’re not children anymore, but their old man made them a promise. There’s none better than the Inquisition when it comes to information, and now that the land matter is settled, one letter is all I need. I even know a portly man that will laugh his lungs out when he gets my letter.”

Jiivra leaned back, squeezing her gaze at the old man. “Why do I feel like I know who you’re talking about…?”

Artorian nodded mid-braid. “You should! Hadurin Fellhammer! Poor sod, I knew from the moment I saw his last name on the documentation. Fellhammers are Inquisitorial smiters. Saw plenty of them come and go in the academy, collating information on targets. Even scribed for a mission debriefing once.”

Jiivra’s face contorted, and Artorian smiled when he saw she wanted to strangle him. “You knew and didn’t tell me?”

He quietly tapped the side of his large nose with a smirk. A family passed through the gates below them as they bickered. Jiivra didn’t give the common sight any thought, but a disturbance caught Artorian’s ear. His gut disliked something, and his mind demanded to fill in the blanks. Stepping off the gate, he landed with a *phuf*!

A pillow hitting the ground wasn’t the sound someone expected when you hit paved brick from twenty-plus feet above the ground. This caused the family to stop in their tracks. Caustic snarls snapped from both the adults. “What?”

Artorian nodded in agreement. “Oh, I believe that would be my question! You took it right from my mouth.”

His vision bounced between the mother, father, and daughter. Irregularities made the little girl stand out as she held something tight to her chest for dear life. The manner in which she held her parent was… off. Specifically, she wasn’t holding the hand of her ‘mother’ at all. The woman tightly controlled the child by squeezing her lower arm. Purple rings around the tiny wrist told Artorian that she was dragged around far too often.

Both adults wore expressions that they’d been caught in the middle of something… socially undesirable. Their stances were unstable and uncertain, and it wasn’t much of a surprise when the male turned angry, stepping forward to challenge the old man blocking their way. Unfortunately for the suspicious duo, Artorian raised a hand, signaling the ruffian to stop. The information he gathered at a glance filled in the rest of his knowledge gaps, as he noticed the woman glance toward the cobra lake.

“Throwing your daughter away isn’t a very virtuous action.”

The mother reeled, her expression betraying that he’d gotten it on the nose. The father spat as their ploy to get rid of something unwanted had come to light.

“Forget it! We didn’t want one like this anyway! What do you care? Get out of our way!” There were many things in life you could say that counted as fatal mistakes. Sometimes, it was saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. Other times, the incorrect statement around the wrong person. Or in this case, you could do both at once by mistreating a child in front of Artorian.

“Jiivra.”

The combat instructor snapped her grip around both their spines, lifting both ‘parents’ by the back of their necks. They hadn’t seen, heard, or noticed her. Nor were they able to contend with her might. Her tone was flat, unamused by the behavior of these… was it even right to still call them humans? “Headmaster?”

He nodded appreciatively, “Now, I tend to make it a point not to strike out against non-cultivators. It’s neither sporting nor ethical. So instead I will leave your fate in the hands of the only one fit to make this decision.”

He took a knee, and addressed the smallest among them that had gone free when the grip on her arm unlatched. “My dear child. Could I please see what you have been clutching so tightly to your chest?”

The tiny girl was hyperventilating, vision darting between the different parts of the scene. She swallowed, and realized that she was no longer forcibly contained by the lanky woman’s clawed grip. She darted a few steps away to safety as the pain in her arms acted up. Her wrist always hurt, and she hated being dragged everywhere. The little girl hated the adults. They caused her pain, and she could sense how poorly she was going to be treated just by how the tall ones looked at her.

Something was different about the kneeled elder in front of her. She didn’t feel anger here, and her feet took her forwards even before her mind did. Artorian was shown a few pieces of vellum with a child’s scribbles on them. “Oh, these are lovely. Did you make this beautiful art?”

A smile flickered on the tiny girl’s downcast face, and she nodded. The old man switched through Essence sights, and it took but moments to understand why her parents didn’t like the girl. To a normal person, this little one was ‘defective'. Rather than the corruption in the girl, it was the meticulously numbered pages that gave it away. Even so young, something in the girl’s mind craved order.

He’d read about this topic over the last few years. People were different even if they were the same, for no two people were ever an exact copy. Some people happened to be ‘different’ in a way that made them unsuitable to function in society. Similar to how there was no real room for head-in-the-clouds philosophers in a world of down-to-earth violence, this little one had never truly had a place where her particular differences were accepted. She must have felt so lonely, and isolated.

“My sweet, can I safely assume that all your life, you’ve had trouble making friends, talking with others, getting on with kids your own age, and have been putting things in order wherever things were chaotic?”

Her eyes went wide, jaw dropping as the old man read her like a book. The old man didn’t pull his punch on the next question. “Were you aware your parents were about to throw you away?”

The tiny girl’s mouth snapped shut. Eyes watering, her tiny fingers began to twitch. Artorian returned the precious vellum. Those little well-organized scribbles were her rock, a piece of order to hold tightly anywhere she went. Even if it was but a few measly numbered pieces of vellum. He took her downcast face as a ‘yes’.

“You’re too young to make this choice, my dear. However, I offer it to you anyway. I will tell our dear teacher over there to let your parents go. You can go right back to them. I won’t stop you. However, I offer you an alternative. A different path. One where what you have isn’t a curse to be spat on, but a gift.

“You will be treasured by those around you. Where your parents see you as a burden, I see within you a light few others have. I offer you a life at the academy on the mountain with a new family, one that will not mistreat you. One where you can order all you see to your heart’s content.”

The tiny girl was rooted to the spot, and her eyes—while full of tears—were locked on the old man making the promise. At least… she hoped they were promises. “P-promise?”

Artorian smiled, and starlight poured from his hands as he opened them towards the little one. Her pain faded, and the purple-ringed welts on her wrists followed suit shortly after. “Of course.”

Jiivra let go of the two adults. They hit the paved road with a meaty splat, falling to their hands and knees. The large male thundered at his charge, “Come, you little brat! We’re leaving!”

The tiny girl didn’t move a muscle. *Bwoop*!

When the raging man took a daring step forward out of sheer irritation, his head bopped against an invisible wall of solid light. The impact sent a wave through the structure, and a soft pop resounded, similar to a drop of water falling into the middle of a calm lake. “It’s your choice, my dear. I know you’re too young, and I know it’s unfair. However, it’s your choice regardless. What life is the one you want?”

The tiny girl looked at her father beating his fists into a barrier she couldn’t understand. She didn’t need to understand. The tiny cogs in her mind were free to turn, and both her arms shot up towards Artorian in a ‘pick me up’ motion. The academic nodded, accepting the choice and taking her into his arms. “What’s your name, my dear?”

The tiny girl swiveled her head and just about smacked him with her braid. “No have…”

Artorian nodded in understanding. “Would you like a name?”

As the child nodded, the adults screamed and bashed against the shield. Jiivra stood there, feeling no love for either of them. The combat instructor cleared her throat, “I think you saw the child make her choice. It’s time you both leave.”

The father turned and lunged at the ex-Paladin, blind to what more stable, sensical people would have considered a ‘dumb move’. “That whelp is ours!”

Jiivra tossed his non-cultivator keister out the front gate with the same casual disdain people had when dumping chamber pots into a sewer. He skipped a few times before popping over the edge of the wall, crashing into a bright blue pond. “For the first time ever, I’m sad there’s no more snakes in those.”

The mother ran back out the gate, needing no further prompting. Jiivra grunted out a sigh as she watched them go, “Artorian, could you not adopt every struggling child you see?”

He considered it, lifting the girl up. “That would be difficult, my dear. I see my children in many people, and treat them as such. Besides, you’re going to love her! She’s a natural organizer! Just think, what area in the academy could use a little more structure?”

The patented flat-lipped expression crossed Jiivra’s face, but then it struck her. She needed to see it. “Race you to the top?”

She hadn’t finished her sentence before the Headmaster cheated, launching himself upwards. A wave of wind beat her face, and Blanket sprung awake as the celestial cultivator dashed up the stairs after him, passing exhausted and drained students at full speed. She bounced off walkway walls, a blur of glowing motion that inspired new students just by exploding past them. They would do that too, one day!

Both of the racers dashed up the mountain like they were fleeing from a wild stampede. Reaching the Outer Courtyard door statue at about the same time, they used the angled stone landmark as a launching platform. The competing cultivators were aglow with active Essence effects, self-empowering their journey as they flew right over the Inner Courtyard like two comets streaking across the starry sky.

They blitzed through the tunnels, evading passerby by running along the walls and ceiling. New-found shortcuts were discovered and exploited, skipping across the wooden wind-chimes to bypass the Pagoda altogether.

*Duff*!

Jiivra landed in the gardens, leaving a several-inch-deep imprint of her shoes behind. She was already charging her body with new stacks of refined Essence to prepare for the next frog-leap launch. She didn’t hear the Headmaster land, and instead heard the unhappy croak of willow wood. Glancing in the direction of the sound, she grit her teeth. That wily old man hadn’t landed at all! He had instead grabbed the top of a tree and used it as a catapult beam, with himself as the ammunition. The gathered force of the pole vault tree springing back upright had launched him and the child up with a “Whee~e~e!”

She might win this! Jiivra had the advantage of coming in from below, while Artorian would have to skip through a room and skate down the stairs to the first-floor door. She was closer! Celestial Essence revitalized her being, and like a shiny ball she bounced between walls, bypassing whole crowds of classes as she bolted into the academy.

The students wondered what the fuss was about, but it only gave them ideas for their own races after seeing the highest ranked Master and Grandmaster display abilities that would dance in their imaginations for years.

She saw the gate! With only a few more steps to go, Jiivra slapped her palm on the black metal door. The Gnomish creation rang out with a *gong* as the glowing combat instructor reached it. Her panting smile grew threefold in size when she heard the reaction.

“Crackers and toast!” Artorian made it down the stairs a second later. His loud outcry was all the sweet, sweet vindication Jiivra lived for. She’d won! The old man was equally out of breath as he carried an ecstatic, tiny girl in his arm. Mud coated her face in streaks and her hair was whisked back from the sheer speed they’d gone on this wild rollercoaster.

She didn’t care in the slightest about the potential dangers—that had been awesome! “Alright, fine. Honor’s all yours.”

Artorian made a half-moon arm motion to Jiivra, signaling that he yielded her the victory. He cleaned the excited youngling’s face as Jiivra hurriedly got the door open. The celestial instructor kept a smiling gaze on the girl as they both walked in, getting to see the exact moment. “My young dear, I welcome you. To the Library.”

He set her down on her feet, though she just stood there with sparkling eyes. She wanted to organize it all. “That reminds me! Your name!”

The loud gong had pulled the attention of all the students in the Library. Having gathered only to discover that the commotion was caused by two people they really didn’t have the authority to scold, the library residents remained all smiles when they saw the mud-wiped little girl see the universe available at her fingertips.

“Everyone. I would like you to meet the newest addition to our family! One that will likely eventually know everything in this library…” He motioned to the tiny girl, who still held her few pages of vellum to her chest. Those few numbered pages were but leaves in the forest she now occupied. They had been the seeds that brought her to this point. “Alexandria.”

Chapter Forty-One

-Temple of the Hand-

Favor’s grip on the Vizier’s collar was desperate. “Please. Please. Take them back.”

Amon didn’t care to hide his absolute delight at the suffering of what had once been a proud scheming spirit. That it had been reduced to… this? He *tu-tut-tutted* in response, his voice dragging the ‘s’ of most words. “Now, now. You know the rules, you set them! No returns on favors!”

Favor’s hood fell, revealing his porcelain skull and the weakened color living within. It was a green far dimmer than it had once been; the creature was clearly suffering. Amon took the display as another sign of victory. Favor was trying to schmooze him, and to be frank… he loved seeing the thing grovel. “Old friend. Please. They are menaces.”

The Vizier slunk past the pleading, trembling skeleton. A dismissive motion pushed away the bone grip on his flawless golden clothing. He would not have bone-dust chalk up his exquisite finery. “Menaces? Do they not succeed in missions without flaw?

Favor followed closely behind the slinking Vizier, making no mention of the additional serpentine features the man now sported. “Without flaw, yes, but…”

Amon flourished his garment, keeping it out of reach. “Did they not fulfill the cost of the three deals we made many years ago?”

The creaking skeleton wavered, catching itself to prevent a fall. Its power was waning, and the effects were becoming significant as the bad news and negative reports on its status kept mounting. “They were indeed, but…”

A single, powerful finger pressed against the porcelain white skull, preventing the previously potent creature from advancing further with barely any exertion. “Our business is therefore concluded! I require no further favors.”

Favor despised being stopped by a mere finger. “You must take them! The trio of Emerald Eyes are destroying my plans and well-being!”

Amon picked up a glass of the finest coreberry wine, swished it around, and sipped while enjoying the creature’s suffering. Sadism was a fantastic trait to cultivate. His tone was as dismissive as it was self-important; the success he'd found in these last few years had been copious. “Must I? Why must I? Because those three brats—while they complete missions and tasks without flaw—somehow manage to harm your long-term plans even as the short-term goals succeed? No, my old friend, that is no longer my concern. We made our deals, and I have upheld them.”

The lime-green glow in Favor’s throat dimmed further. He wasn’t going to be able to hold on if he didn’t get something positive out of this, and soon. His life, or continued unlife, revolved around his reputation of perfect success. Since the ‘acquisition’ of what should have been a truly spectacular deal, he’d only been consistently shafted. Those brats were a curse. “Is there nothing you want? Nothing? Take but one of those infernal beings, and I shall owe you a debt.”

*Plink*!

The Vizier finally smiled as the wine cup was placed upon a small altar. His expression was a cruel, vicious simulacrum of what it had once been. He was still getting used to this new face, yet a smile graced it nonetheless. “A debt, moth? Major words from such a minor being.”

Favor burned from within, his bony fist balling up as he shook it at this opportunistic snake. The disgrace he was suffering! “Speak not to me as such! I was mighty when we met years ago, and I shall be again!”

Amon’s sadistic glee only increased. His form slunk with inhuman agility on the lesser throne gained through wit, and most importantly of all, newfound power. “Then it is I who shall grant you a favor, at the costs that my prior, outstanding favors to you are considered paid in full. I shall grant you a favor, and take one of the Emerald Eyes to throw into the upcoming conflict.”

“I could not fully convince our dearest goosy advisor not to take her waddling rump into battle with a few thousand men. Yet a gift may soothe her wrath towards me, since our positions in favor have shifted in the eyes of the Queen.”

Favor winced as much as a skeleton could. “It is imperative that the full force of supplicants and sacrifices be delayed until the agreed upon time. The project has a very sensitive timetable.”

Amon waved it off; that was but a minor concern to him. His Vizier forces were slated to be hundreds of thousands strong. His ploys against that puffy goose had been masterful, and her suffering was a savored delicacy. “Worry not, old friend. It is but a political sacrifice I’m willing to make. Send the Emerald Eyes to meet with the troops under the flag of the double-necked goose. The rest will take care of itself as they expend themselves against the object of our mistress's desire. She wished for the tallest mountain, and she shall have it. Just not until I am the one to claim it.”

Favor’s color dimmed, and he spoke only when the green light returned. “It is done. I have sent the orders. Now, as to my favor-”

*Crack*!

Amon planted a gilded dagger deep into the unsuspecting porcelain skull.

“Here is your favor, little moth. An end to your suffering. It is not politically sound to keep you in my circle any further. Your usefulness, much like your unlife, has been all. Used. Up.”

The light winked out of the skeleton’s throat. Its bones disconnected from one another, the robe collapsing inwards as the force keeping the animation active vanished. Another fantastic day for the Vizier.

Less debts owed, more unpleasant memories ready to be swept under the rug, and debtors dead at his feet. Without any loss of power! The pleasant thought of those accursed Emerald Eyes being ended was at the forefront of his mind.

All was proceeding according to plan. The ‘Royal Advisor’ wouldn’t be long for the world. Even now, she rushed to the same fate as this bag of bones. For the same reasons, no less! His serpentine tongue flicked, and a ghostly green coin materialized in his hand. He danced the object between his digits, the coin vanishing in a green wisp once it crossed his pinky.

Infernal Essence. A marvel. It granted such power. Inhaling deeply, the bone dust from his fallen friend crumbled into shadows as infernal Essence washed out of the consumed remains. Amon relished the gain and devoured the rest of what was rightfully his. The favors in the past had given him significant might, and the deals had resulted in the giver’s downfall. As well as his own empowerment.

That was never the way it worked in cautionary tales, and he loved defeating the expectations. As for the future… he’d need at least another decade to refine his bone-mold. His cultivation happened inside his marrow, and absorbing the remains of his foes brought him ever greater strength.

Amon found Favor’s punishment fitting; long in the making. He metaphorically licked his fingers clean. “Nobody tellsss a Vizier what to do! As of the last moon, that goose was beloved by the mistress no more. Oh how sweet the taste of success is.”

Lifting a vellum from the altar, he slithered about his personal temple. Amon the soon-to-be Grand Vizier studied the battle plans. In a few seasons, the expendable Goose would assault the mountain. That delusional longneck would make both excellent bait, scapegoat, and the final nail in the coffin. All in one ingenious stroke.

Being fueled by the dark made everything less demanding. As a happy result of killing Favor, Amon realized that he was gaining more power. His infernal might was borrowed from something, and the pile of bones had drained a percentage away for its own use. Amon was now getting a far bigger piece of the pie, and the lime-green glow in his throat strengthened as a physical manifestation.

He moved to strike a line from his vellum, but stopped midway. Puzzled, the Vizier observed his arm. He was willing the action, but was unable. An oath stopped him from completing the action. *Tsk*.

His direct favor-holder had not relinquished the demand to hold the majority of the force back. How inconvenient. Amon learned valuable information from this intervention; the skeletal puppet had not always been in control; meaning that another voice spoke through the servant during the making of his first two favors. Those favors had not been considered ‘fulfilled’.

Abyss. He’d have to be content with current progress. The vellum re-furled as he strolled from his temple in a slither. Braziers of azure flame licked the air at his passing, catching alight. The ‘persuaded’ forces were encamped at his front door. Before the hundred steps of his towering construction stood a force of easily a hundred thousand.

They would serve The Hand, or they would feed it. Sadism allowed a dark smile to spread on the Vizier’s lips, and his fingers adopted a serpentine steeple. He saw their numbers, and with a newfound connection to infernal power understood what they were truly for.

“Bodies for the cause.”

- Skyspear -

Alexandria was one smart cookie. She was also precious, and the visiting Inquisitors rightfully adored her.

Outside of her element, the tiny robed lady would likely not have flourished. Two years in the library, and she was unrecognizable from the girl who had entered. Alexandria was barely eight, but she ran the library. Not even in a joking manner, oh no. She had spreadsheets, ledgers, and a crisp filing method that made the previous system look like toddlers had thrown it together. Also… Woah the Wise help you if you didn’t return a book.

The Inquisitors loved it. They’d never been lambasted by an eight-year-old for leaving their documents in a messy heap on one of the library tables. Jiivra may have berated the old man for adopting the little hellion, but for all intents and purposes, she was ‘mom’ to the child. Alexandria was her little Keeper, and Blanket had never had a better snuggle buddy.

When she fell asleep between the book cases? Blanket had her covered, literally!

The Inquisitorial branch had some… concerns with a C-ranked Beast being out and about so freely. But, even the mention of separating the critter from the little girl… well, they learned quickly.

Her C-ranked ‘mother’ was even less willing to give the Inquisition slack. That woman had no chill. The D-rank nine Headmaster, in comparison, had nothing but chill. How he’d gotten all the recommendations and paperwork needed to bring the Inquisition here in the first place was a mystery they were dying to find out; but work came first.

Jiivra handed Kiwi Fellhammer the promised literary documents containing the information they had requested. After noisily leafing through them, the puffy-faced Dwarf in full regalia granted his half-Dwarven compatriot the clearance to continue.

A stocky, sturdy Inquisitor cleared her throat. O’Nalla Fellhammer placed stones on the edges of the map. The artful work neatly unfurled on the library table, ready to be discussed. Like any Fellhammer, her tone carried a quasi-Dwarven drawl and silenced those in the immediate surroundings. “Alright, now. Here’s what we know.”

Even the quiet students allowed to listen in recognized that there was an Essence signature at play. Some grinned: a new research project for later! Alexandria brought over two of the older teachers. The adults looked like bumbling children in comparison to the natural stern demeanor their head librarian embodied. She couldn’t carry a single one of the heavy chairs, much less two of them. The boys certainly could, however, so Alexandria put them to work.

Artorian and Jiivra both eased into the provided seating, and the little one climbed right onto the celestial cultivator’s lap. She wasn’t missing out on anything that happened in her own library; no matter how uncertain the Inquisitor’s gazes were. Alexandria glared them down, and Kiwi shrugged at his compatriots when they turned to look at him. “Let the wee lass stay. She’s earned it.”

O’Nalla nodded and placed a blue token on the map. “This… is Skyspear and Jian.”

The crowd pushed closer to see the details. Only the Inquisitors and top teachers of the Skyspear academy were present in the library, plus one feisty child. A small crowd’s worth. The forward leaning of so many would have made a claustrophobic person squirm.

“This is the Raider horde of The Hand as it approaches from the south-east.” A red token went down, and a smattering of different colors still remained in O’Nalla’s clasped hands. “It will take a week, mayhap two of them to be at the walls of Jian.”

Two green tokens were placed on the edges of the map, and one was placed on the already present red token. “Of the three individuals of note, one travels with The Hand. Two others are out of the reach of the Inquisition. While we could have better information, we lack the forces to breach The Hand’s main stronghold or temples.”

Alexandria’s hand shot up. “Why?”

Ah. Right. They’d forgotten to tell her this was not a classroom setting. This wasn’t the right time for queries; still, the answer was of interest to many, so nobody corrected her behavior. O’Nalla added a yellow token on the edge of the map. “The stronghold is home to ‘The Mistress’. An assumed B-ranked Flesh Mage with delusions of grandeur and more screws loose than a disciple of Xeno…”

She silenced herself, it was better not to say certain names. “The Temples are outposts for a frankly idiotic number of troops. The count was so high that our scouts could not get an adequate number. It’s entire fields worth of people. The Cultivator rule of thumb is a ten to one ratio, that rule goes out the window when you’re facing endless waves of bodies with limited supplies. Essence isn’t infinite.”

Alexandria crossed her arms and gave a sagely nod; pretending she had understood everything that had just been said. In actuality, she was just copying grandpa. ‘Grandpa’ was glued to the map; specifically, the green token moving towards them. Artorian’s question came out in an instant, “How many fighters does the token represent?”

Some papers rustled, and Kiwi looked up from the ledger after finding the answer. “Lookin’ at a few thousand souls. Makes camp between treks. Takes prisoners.”

Artorian harmlessly smiled, and Jiivra felt a cold shiver run down her spine. “Good enough.”

O’Nalla raised an eyebrow. That was the kind of thing some of her troublemaker offspring would say. However, whatever dumb thing the old man was plotting wasn’t her problem. This was an exchange of information, as odd as it may be. Why the Inquisition had been keeping whole files on the three targets was beyond her.

When the request had come in, Kiwi had laughed so hard he’d dropped his tankard. When they’d checked the records, his jaw had followed the tankard on the floor. Only targets of import had steady files. How did three random children from the ruttin’ Fringe have files? A Fellhammer had authorized the endeavor, and now they were going to haul home entire volumes on techniques and cultivation discoveries in trade for it.

Kiwi was going to send this ‘Hadurin’ brother a strongly-worded letter and a flagon of Dwarves’ Finest for this impossible foresight when he got back to the bowery. They’d overlooked a small mountain of protocol to facilitate this exchange, but dear heavens was this a lucrative trade.

There was even a Choir girl here that, as far as they were aware, had survived a Vicar ripping her entire cultivation out. Best not to broach that topic this visit, they needed to build positive relations first. Artorian turned to Jiivra, and gave the back of her shoulder a quick comforting pat.

She frowned at him for doing so, and he winked back as he got up. He’d heard exactly what he wanted to, and the rest was academy business. His priorities demanded his attention. “You’re in charge for a while. I’m… going out on a walk.”

Chapter Forty-Two

Gilna the Brute couldn’t believe what he was looking at. Confused, he nudged Ragna the Clever. Unfortunately for Gilna, Ragna shared his dumbstruck expression. The man with more cuts on his face than functioning brain cells shrugged. Gilna spoke with the intelligence of a bag of bricks, “I think it’s one of them jokes?”

Ragna scratched at his neck. “Issa bad ‘un.”

In front of the gates of a hastily erected palisade which looked like it traveled with the raider force, an old man was making a fuss. “Think he got lost?”

Gilna shrugged and made an ‘I don’t care’ grunt. They both shared the tight space of the single guard tower, which had been constructed so shoddily that a half-blind, crippled, paraplegic Goblin could have done a better job. It croaked in complaint if you looked at it funny. With both guards in there, it leaned violently to the side. Running bets had been placed on when the thing would snap.

The guards were at a loss for what to do about this bizarre cuckoo. Then the man clutched his chest, and collapsed, writhing on the ground in pain.

“Huh.” Ragna turned his head to Gilna. “Maybe you’s right? Maybe some’un sent entertainment? Not much fun watchin’ an old geezer die on mah porch tho. Where’s the fun s’posed tah be?”

Gilna raised his hands to make the ‘I don’t know’ pose, and that was the final straw for the tower. In a crashing heap of something that couldn’t even be called plywood, the entire construction fell to shambles, and twenty feet of the wall went down with it. They groaned in the heap, covered in splinters.

“Gilna?”

A pained groan was the only reply. *Nnh*?

“I think we’z the joke.”

A defeated groan followed. *nnnnH…*

This had not gone according to plan. Artorian clutched his chest, and he clutched it hard. Jaw grit, he twitched and groaned on the ground, feeling like he was having something akin to a heart attack. It was as if some kind of barrier inside of his cultivation center had just… fizzled out.

Heaving deep, spittle-coughed breaths, the old man wasn’t able to lift a finger as two raiders picked his convulsing form up. He was tossed over Gilna’s shoulder with the care of a rolled-up rug. The entire event of being carted through the camp only to be tossed into a hay bale next to some horses went entirely unnoticed. The pain wasn’t quite in his heart, but it may as well have been. Something was tearing through his psyche and soul.

Vertigo crashed against his mind. An experience akin to being in a building full of water assailing him. Floors and foundations gave way as a colossal volume seeped through the ‘house’. What had once been behemoth, quality barriers were now the equivalent of soggy cardboard, and the pressure ripped right through it all when the D-rank nine cultivator hit the exact amount of Essence density needed to overburden the container.

The sudden removal of barriers he’d not realized were even present wreaked havoc on the old man. A face full of hay was a minor inconvenience in comparison to the internal struggle. Occupants in the camp gave him a wide berth, waiting for his inevitable demise.

Strange old men making wailing noises, especially old men that the guards dumped in a pile of hay, were generally neither lucrative nor pleasant. Some passing raiders glanced over their shoulders, but the great majority of fresh refugees still undergoing training ignored the sight entirely. They had tasks to complete.

Two raiders paused in their stride, “What’s with twitchy wrinkles over there?”

The female counterpart shook her head and kept walking, “Don’t know, don’t care. Looked like even Gilna was happy not to be carrying that old weirdo anymore. He’ll either be dead soon, or someone will help him get there. That’s not exactly quality prisoner material.”

Both raiders passed, intending to return later. The spasming man got some looks as the sun set, but it wasn’t until he hadn’t moved or made noise for a good while that he was poked with a stick. “Is it dead? Dibs on the loot!”

“Geezer doesn’t even have a string purse on him. What do you expect to loot… abyss!” Jumping several inches out of sheer surprise, the looting raider tumbled away. The old man had snapped his eyes wide open and was gazing into her face. It had made her heart leap right from her chest.

“I… I failed?” Artorian was… confused. His voice was weak, his tone uncertain and distraught.

The Raiders looked at one another, sharing a knowing glance before bolting away. They weren’t dealing with this. No way. An easy corpse to loot was one thing, but they wouldn’t be caught dead with the aftermath of stabbing this geezer when a superior hadn’t told them to do it.

Artorian gasped quick short breaths. He tried to stop hyperventilating as he looked at his out of focus hay-covered hands. They became blurry, but that was only because his eyes watered. “I failed? But… I…”

It didn’t make sense. He closed his eyes with a frown and fell back into the hay bales, thinking back to when he collapsed. He must have missed something. Flickers of the mental construct returned. A house flooded with water, yet only on the inside. He’d done nothing but gather and store Essence for a long time, and he’d been stuffed to the brim with what he’d been able to handle.

Other flickers of thoughts interrupted his house. He’d left the mountain. A few days trekking south and east, and he’d encountered the raider camp as expected. They were setting up camp for the evening, and a palisade was being erected. He watched a while, but had become increasingly frustrated with how the guard tower had been built. He didn’t recall why he’d been frustrated, but it had been such an egregious slight that he’d stomped to the front gate and just started cursing at the guards to explain themselves.

Those twin buffoons must have had a great time pretending not to understand him. His moustache had starch-straightened to either side in a moment of frustration, and he recalled starting his cultivation technique to calm down. The first beam of light that struck his center had done something odd. It had added a drop of power to a container that simply couldn’t handle any more, and something had burst.

Oh, the pain. Artorian was whisked from the memory to hold his chest as phantom stabs still tingled about his upper chest. “Abyss these invisible barriers.”

The sensation was akin to holding a breath underwater, and gasping a new one once you broke air. The barrier that ‘contained’ him in the D-ranks had collapsed. A similar energy barrier had followed suit. Yet, rather than expend itself and dissipate, the energy that had formed the barrier instead relocated itself, condensing into something visible. The energy took on a pearly appearance whilst his Essence reserves violently plummeted. His Aura felt like a wet rag that had just been twisted taut to squeeze every drop from it.

The pressure had pushed on his heart, and he’d collapsed on the spot. Somewhere in that mess of an experience, he’d been tossed into some hay. The timeline in his head felt wonky, but it was not all that important given the circumstances. The pain was nearly unbearable, and Artorian hadn’t been able to speak a cohesive word as his body shook and spasmed; his system was entirely preoccupied by developing a new quasi-physical organ. Like a rich lathering of paint, the pearly substance coated his Chi-refining technique.

Unlike a normal technique, his had some complexity to it. More of the pearlescent paint than normal was necessary, and it drew from his refined Essence reserves with the speed of a seasoned Dwarf chugging through a barrel of craft beer. When his entire technique was coated, the sun core turned rigid and immutable as the pearlescence hardened. It wasn’t physical, yet Artorian most certainly felt like his sun core took physical space inside his body.

Luckily, the hexagonal beehive webway also went through similar treatment, so the core didn’t touch anything. Happily, it remained neatly contained behind his sternum, where otherwise a great emptiness took hold. Now, he was happy as a clam; complete with his very own pearl!

Entering the C-ranks signaled the end of the changes and updates he’d be making to his refining technique. After all these years of fiddling with it... honestly. It was fine. Artorian wasn’t going to be making it any better than it was without decades of study, and even then… he was out of space.

Heavens he was tired. Tired and… confused. C-rank zero, attained! So… why was nothing different? He snapped out of his stroll down memory lane and sat up in the hay. A horse clopped close to nibble some grass off his bald head, but Artorian didn’t budge. He was distraught.

He’d seen Jiivra go through this process, and far faster than him. All she’d done over the years was gather up Essence until she was packed to the brim. Then she’d put in hard effort for months to break through, and she’d succeeded only to need immediate medical attention. At least that part was the same. However, the speed by which she was able to control her Essence had easily jumped tenfold. By her own words, Essence had felt ‘immediate’ like it was ‘just there’. Artorian squeezed the bridge of his nose, moving some Essence between his hands.

No difference. Nothing. Jiivra had also said her capacity to store Essence went up so significantly that she felt like a person two, if not three times her current size. Her ‘house’ was a ‘castle’. Crossing his legs meditatively, he took a breath in an attempt to steady himself. It didn’t help, but it was the attempt that counted?

Starlight poured into his pearlescent sun core. The horses nearby snorted and made unsettled whinnies, only to relax a moment later as Artorian became part of the landscape. As far as their senses were concerned, he was a puddle. His Center took time to shift into motion. He noticed no difference from before, even now that it was somewhat physical. Wait… the influx was… faster? Yes! A notable improvement! The supposed increase in capacity however… nothing.

He didn’t feel like he had any sort of castle, and if anything, it just felt like he’d lost a house and was now standing on a lake. Abyss, storing Essence had just become more difficult. Artorian remained still for a while, and had to refine extra Essence just so it would pour back into his Aura. Jiivra had said nothing about this, it had been easier for her to store Essence. If he had a hat to throw to the ground, he would have vigorously done so! No. He must have done something wrong.

This just didn’t feel right. No additional space, no additional control, and Essence didn’t move any faster than it had? While he drew in his Essence at greater speed, now it needed a greater level of refinement before it could be stored. He moved some high-celestially tainted Essence into his Aura, and that seemed to work fine.

What the… why was just the intermediate variant a problem? He held the sides of his head, grinding his palms into his temples as he gave himself a headache from the doubts, second guessing, and… oh, he was starving. That likely had something to do with the headache. Opening his hidden spatial pouch, he pulled out a triple-decker sandwich the size of his leg and started munching.

He was ‘C-rank zero’, possibly, once his Essence had refilled. Currently, it was back to good old… he choked on his sandwich when he felt the result. *Hack, cough*!

F-rank two? What!

Striking himself on the chest to spit out a chunky piece of bread he’d choked on from trying to inhale too fast, he wiped the underside of his eyes dry with the back of his hand. Two? That was insane! Jiivra only dropped back down to D-rank three! F-two? His sun core was one hungry little monster, or had perhaps the webway been the culprit?

What had that pearlescent stuff even been? Where did it come from? He tapped his lips with the sandwich and tore off another chunk to think about it. He dinged back up to F-rank three as his cultivation slurped up starlight.

Now that he thought about it… the pearlescent pain had the same feeling as… *hmmm*.

He could think of two instances. The space between the inside and outside, where his webway had been placed. Then the space he’d uncovered when Jiivra’s celestial Essence channel was damaged. While present, it was in some ‘between’ space. This was a project for later. The last of the sandwich vanished down his mouth.

He was becoming quite the glutton; he still felt hungry. Hungry… and lost. Not for what he was here to do; that part was easy. Artorian was lost on his path of cultivation.

Being the man who normally had the answers, he suddenly found himself in an empty room lacking clues. He didn’t know where to turn, or what to do. C-rank just… didn’t do for him what it had done for another. It weighed heavy on his conscience as he entered denial. “I didn’t fail. I just missed something… yes. Just missed… something.”

Fretting was going to get him nowhere. He needed an immediate distraction from this fai… setback. Not failure. Setback. His attempt to jump to his feet ended with his butt back in the hay pile. He blinked at the sky. “Did I just lack the Essence to stand up?”

He groaned, finding out that was the correct answer. F-rank three was so little Essence for his system that it was insufficient for basic operations. He sighed and motionlessly laid there a while to cultivate.

Ding! F-rank four. Getting up? He did the appropriate wiggle. Still a no. The academic sighed again; this was being bedridden in the Fringe all over again. Once was enough! He gave up for the moment and flopped back, really letting his weight indent the hay. F-rank four… what could he do with F-rank four?

Basic movement, sort of. Standing, no. Cycling Essence? Mmmmm, no. Moving Essence at all? Yes! Finally, something to work with.

The amount was pitiful, but anything to keep his mind busy would do at this point. That or sleep, and he was too riled up to sleep. Actually… could he do something about that? He shifted the shape of his Aura to fit only against his body, preventing energy from escaping or affecting his surroundings. Time to make a new effect! Nothing like sleeping in the middle of an enemy camp… “Nope, ignore that for now, Artorian. Must sleep, passively cultivate, and wake up to destroy the raider camp.”

He wasn’t at all distracting himself from his less-than-stellar ascension into the C-ranks, totally not. Gah! It hadn’t even felt like a ‘breaking’! Just a heart attack! Artorian supposed he should feel heartbroken about it? He waved it away and turned his mind to creating a sleep effect, and the philosopher mumbled to himself as he got to theory crafting. The stars in the sky currently acted as his only real companions.

“Celestial for the soothing, obviously. Yet that alone won’t break through an Aura if someone has one going.” He collected five units, and found it was insufficient. It soothed, and his headache finally faded. It didn’t quite mend tired, though. He’d attempted adding identity twists on a mental level rather than a physical level only once or twice before. The results…? Meh.

“Maybe dropping the air content around a person ever so slightly, easing the body into a sleep-like state which the celestial could piggy-back off?” Puzzling it out, he rubbed his fingers down his hay-filled beard. His Aura concentrated with six units of celestial Essence, and two units of air Essence to alter oxygen density. He felt… woozy, but the effect was not sustained. Odd, maybe his footing was off?

He added one singular extra unit of celestial Essence.

*Snore*!

Chapter Forty-Three

“I don’t believe it.” Astrea the Nightmare stood with her arms crossed next to stables that doubled as holding pens for prisoners. Or it was supposed to be a pen for them, if she could identify which were prisoners. The horses stepped over six dozen sleeping figures while trying to maneuver to the hay bales. Most camp workers looked like they had gotten too close to said bales, and just fell over; conking out on the spot.

A few raiders even used the firewood logs they’d carried as head support, while others laid next to the objects of their delivery tasks as they loudly snored and snoozed the daylight away. The sun had been up for two hours. Why were these people still asleep?

“I expect a report.” The young adult giving the pointed orders pierced the crowd with her emerald green eyes. Her brown hair had been curled in an artful single braid that hung against her embroidered cavalier shoulder cape. Unlike the double-necked goose the rest of the camp sported, the image of a single flat hand embossed the broad surface.

The two Captains in her vicinity worriedly glanced at one another, clueless and without answers. They both swallowed as the younger, but considerably superior lady turned her burning gaze onto them. “We… erm… we don’t know, Your Grace. According to everyone we ask, all these people just… fell asleep.”

Astrea’s disbelieving, mocking words mimicked the tone in which they spoke to her. “Just… fell asleep?”

It didn’t take a learned man to sense how displeased she was by the explanation. Her attention wavered for a moment as one of the bodies in the stables sharply inhaled. It sounded like someone had awoken, yet no one stirred. Her eyes snapped back to the nervous duo. Something was off here; she could feel the tingling on the back of her neck. This was neither normal, nor an accident.

Gilna and Ragna hobbled their way to the stables. It looked like they’d either had a rough night, or had fallen from a high place. Given the stories around camp, the latter.

“R… reporting!” Ragna wheezed, out of breath. His salute was a mixture of pathetic and insufficient. Gilna’s wasn’t much different.

One of the Captains cleared their throat. “Ah, good! Explain what happened.”

Gilna raised an arm, and it went *pop*. The guard winced, groaning from the pain before speaking. “It all started with the loony one at the gate. Ever since we threw that one in here, people all over the camp been fallin’. It’s not just ‘ere where there’s a snooze goin on. ‘Ole canteen fell asleep in their soup bowls. Just came from ‘ere.”

Astrea shot the Captains a glare. This needed to be sorted before the ‘Royal Advisor’ started asking questions about why her palanquin wasn’t moving yet. She didn’t need that goose honking down her back. “Just… clean this up before someone sees it. Wake the sleeping, get the camp moving.”

The Captains nodded at the orders from ‘The Nightmare’, and promptly got to carrying them out. Artorian was awoken by some violent shaking, and some firewood was shoved into his hands. He blinked, coming to his senses. There was an oddly large amount of bodies huddled close to him. The… sleep effect? No, he’d pulled that one in close to him using his Aura. It shouldn’t have affected anyone but him. A moment of concern passed across his face. Perhaps… well, C-rank had… messed with other things already.

He took a moment to check. “Crackers and toast!”

Having something in his hands this time, he threw the wood so hard at the ground that it stabbed and embedded several inches straight into the grass. His Aura was all over the place! Some of it was only loosely connected to him, and all of it bobbed like a bad oil-stain floating on a watery platform. Artorian literally pulled himself together, and felt much better about life.

How had that happened? “Hey, get back to work if you’re awake!”

Artorian stopped what he was doing, glancing at the Captain, not comprehending that the statement had been intended for him. He looked around, but then pointed a finger at himself. “Me?”

“Yes, you! Get to Ww~w~w~w…” *Thunk*. The Captain collapsed, a sizable snore erupting from the grounded figure. Artorian widely smiled.

Success! That was easier to do when you had some spare Essence to throw around. A quick check showed that he had low D-ranks of Essence stored. Good enough, and an impressive display of Essence draw from his new pearly cultivation method! He brushed the hay from himself and did some easy stretches as a few men ran over to check on the fallen Captain.

“Ueh… Sir! We’ve got another one!”

An irritated voice called from the other side of the tables. “Who this time? If they don’t get themselves back into shape, I swear I will stab them myself!”

The worker swallowed, “It’s… the other Captain. Sir.”

A momentary silence followed a sturdy set of heavy stomps as the primary raider Captain came into view of a happily conked out secondary Captain. “But… he was…”

The Primary Captain held his head. Oh no. No. no, no. It was still happening?

“Excuse me, young man.” The Captain whirled around, coming face to face with a hunched over old man that seemed to be the only one in a pleasant mood. “I’m a little foggy, but if you need a witness to explain this to a superior; I was right here when it happened. I’d gladly tell them for you!”

The raider Captain nearly went for his axe, but paused and counted his blessings. Someone to take the fall for him? Perfect! “Oh, yes, of course. Come with me.”

He motioned for the secondary Captain to be dealt with, and hurried off to what looked to be the second or third fanciest tent in the entire camp. The old man was right behind him, a bundle of smiles. It was honestly pretty unsettling, but it wasn’t going to be the Captain’s problem for much longer. The guards let him by without so much as a blink, and he knocked on the wooden pole outside of a suede-lined tent.

“Captain Hightail, reporting on the situation in camp, Your Grace!”

“Enter,” a familiar feminine voice replied, and Artorian’s day was made. Forget the C-rank disaster. This was going to be good.

When the Captain took the step through the velvety folds of the tent, he collapsed and fell right onto his face. Affected by instant sleep. The fallen body was obscured inside of the tent. The guards outside were none the wiser, noise or not. Even had they heard, it mattered little. They were also collapsing straight into snooze-land.

Oh, Artorian liked this effect. Blanket-field application of a sleep effect via minor oxygen deprivation and a mental push to commence a sleep cycle? Why, yes. Yes, this would go marvelously when applied into the radius of a malleable Aura. Artorian figured this wouldn’t work against cultivators, but against mere mortals? Oh, so easy.

“Captain?” Astrea’s voice contained a note of alarm.

Artorian stepped through the velvet tent folds, stance tall with both his arms nestled along the small of his back. His long beard was free of hay, and his blue eyes fondly regarded his long-lost child. The ex-elder of the Fringe village of Salt stepped into full view.

“Not quite, I believe the correct term… is grandfather.” His expression blossomed to life when he saw the consternation on her face melt to one of recognition and emotional distress. “Hello, my dear.”

Astrea’s mouth hung open. Her throat bulged and bobbed, the words stuck inside. She was trying to speak, but her brain couldn’t decide which words needed to come out, or in what order. “E… elder?”

Internally, Artorian grumbled at the title. Yet, if there was anyone with permission to use it, most certainly his children could. Now, he wasn’t having this ‘Your Grace’ nonsense, and verbally established where she placed in his heart. “Daughter.”

His Aura shifted to the soothing starlight emanation, though he was careful to contain the effect only to the space he desired. Waking up the Captain was… not a dice roll he was willing to make. Instead, he spread his arms out. “Give your old man a hug. You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”

*Ooof*! Astrea barreled into the Elder full force. Heavens, she was strong! She was… Artorian frowned a little, even though he held her tightly in a hug. “An infernal cultivator?”

He felt the sturdy woman nod into his robes, like it was the most normal thing in the world. “I’m going to want the story of how that happened later. First…”

Artorian beamed a smile at her as she pulled back, sniffling while wiping her face clean. “How about we take you home; or at the minimum, out of here?”

Astrea’s frown deepened, and her grip on his Gi turned strenuous. “How are you alive? You look… you look the same…”

Her tears came back in full force. She had him in her hand, literally had the old man by the robes, and she couldn't believe it. She’d had delusions. Endless nightmares of what had happened to the village. Her nose remembered the smells, both fresh and sooty. Her skin remembered the touch of Fringe waters, both crystal and bloodied. She remembered the playful demeanor of an Elder that taught them the skills that had gotten her this far.

Nosy trickery and a detail-oriented mindset. “Well, you, my dear, look beautiful and fantastic. It was one of my greatest hopes that when I saw you again, you would be alive. Let an old father count his blessings that his precious daughter is both well, and such a wonder. I’m so proud of you for making it through all of this.”

The sniffly Astrea buried herself back into the robe as emotions rose up, and Artorian protectively held her head. He kissed the top of her hair like a doting father; just happy to see his family again! “I’m so, so proud of you.”

No amount of status or power prevented Astrea from feeling miserably weak. For once, she didn’t fight it. There was a deep sensation of comfort, and a pain inside of her felt suppressed while in her Elder’s presence. The recurring awful thoughts just… faded. She was free from the nightmare’s grip. This felt like… home. It smelled like home.

Her senses were far stronger than they’d been all those years ago. Had it been three full hands worth of time in years? That long? She wiped her face using her Elder’s robes, like she used to when she was small and afraid of everything. Now she was afraid of nothing. Everything was afraid of her. “I missed you, Elder.”

He grumbled a little, but rubbed the back of her head. “Artorian. The name is Artorian now. Picked it myself!”

Astrea laughed and softly punched him in the shoulder. “Did you, now! What does it mean?”

The old man glanced at the floor first. Captain still asleep? Captain still asleep. Good. Artorian paced through the tent, and had a look about. “Oh, plenty! We can talk about that on the trip. I have a hidden spatial bag, what do you need to pack in a hurry? I take it you’re leaving with me, yes?”

He paused a moment, needing to ask the question. This was Astrea, but… that didn’t mean it was still the Astrea he knew. “Pft. Are you kidding? I have a better exit strategy than some fool who tried to take down Duskgrove castle on his own! I knew that was you. I just knew it! That whole chest in the corner, right there. Everything I need or want is in that one.”

Artorian relaxed as she hurried over to throw it open, completely ignoring the important documents that needed to be taken care of concerning this raider camp. He just beamed; she was still his daughter from the Fringe. “Why couldn’t you just send a letter, like everyone else?”

Her Elder took it as an actual question, not noticing she was being facetious. “Well, only landowners can send mail, and I wasn’t one for a while. Speaking of, Lunella and Wuxius are safely back home in the Fringe. I got to them first, and they’re having a baby!”

Astrea was aghast at what she’d missed, but dented her fist on his shoulder regardless. “That’s not how the world works anymore! You can send mail anytime now, so long as you can afford the parcel. Also, that’s wonderful! So all five of us are still around!”

Artorian rubbed his shoulder. That had hurt? He’d better be careful. They got matters settled at a military pace once they both got in gear. Packing all of Astrea’s personal effects and a cluster of raider materials that could be darn useful against them in the future. Astrea ‘The Nightmare’ had no love, affection, or strong allegiance to this group. She even spat on the Captain on their way out of the tent, and that was after unsuccessfully convincing her Elder they couldn’t take the tent, no matter how cozy it was!

“...Will anyone notice if they’re all asleep?”

“It’s the middle of the day. Of course someone will notice!”

Artorian rephrased his line of thinking. “If we take the tent, would anyone stop us?”

Astrea threw her hands up. “Of course not! Nobody would interfere with my work, but as soon as the tent is gone, people will see these snoring bodies.”

The old man wondered how that detail had slipped by him. “Oh. Right. We’d best hurry up afterwards then.”

*Aargh! You’re incorrigible!” Artorian nodded. She was right.

“Incorrigible with a cozy tent in my pocket!” He ripped the rich cloth down straight from the scaffolding and stuffed it into his spatial pouch. They really needed to go, and he didn’t much care how messy it got. Astrea saw the sheer amount of sleeping bodies around her when the tent vanished into her Elder’s back pocket. How long had he had one of those? How old was he? How had he gotten into her camp and put her best guards to sleep?

…It could wait. It could all wait. A Fringe-style idea sprung to mind. “Should we cause discord in the camp before leaving?”

Artorian stopped what he was doing, and a sly fox grin plastered itself on his face. “My dear… I’m all ears.”

Chapter Forty-Four

Artorian and Astrea hustled. The kind of hurried pace that to the untrained eye could easily have been mistaken for a full-out run. Well, no, that wasn’t a mistake. They were booking it to the mountain. An itsy bitsy teeny weeny army of raiders a few thousand strong just happened to be hot on their tail. Then, there was the seemingly endless tide of geese.

The raider army paled in comparison to these horrible honkers. “I thought you said the Royal Advisor’s pets would turn on the raiders!” Artorian’s words were a mixture of cross and laughing.”

Astrea was miffed, pushing branches out of the way of the run as her Elder questioned her… admittedly unsuccessful plan. “I didn’t expect the feathered ferocities to be loyal! They attacked anyone that came close to their pens! I had more reports of geese bites and bird complaints than anything else!”

A goopy explosion flared in front of them, the foliage disintegrating as grey energy consumed the plant life. They leapt over the momentary self-spreading consumption effect, broke some branches by crashing through a set of ferns, and kept up the pace as they resumed the tactical retreat. Artorian shot Astrea a look.

“No, I didn’t know those abyssal quacks were Beasts until now! Stop yelling at me!” Another set of grey bolts crashed down nearby as the infernal geese giving chase above spat globs of ‘consumptive grey goo’. “I guess that explains how the population was kept under control so easily.”

The old man frowned; breath steady as they both skittered through sudden rocky terrain. “The raiders ate geese? That can’t be tasty!”

Astrea grabbed her old man by the sleeve and tugged him out of the way of a grey goo bombardment line as a goose delta formation launched a joint-assault fly-by. “Other way around, the geese are carnivores! Also, not tasty!”

Artorian returned the favor, pulling them the other way as the goose bomber squad pulled a U-turn and launched another globby mess down at them. The goo had a limited effect. Much like acid, it burned and dissolved material until the reactions ran dry, at which point it just stopped. “Are you telling me that goo stuff is Essence-infused partially-digested raider?”

The rushed escape tired Astrea, but the restorative glow cascading off her old man kept her invigorated. She’d have run out of energy by now if it hadn’t been for the help. Looking over her shoulder, Astrea saw the geese aggressively dive at people not them. When the feathery furies ascended back to the sky, they each had a freshly-ripped limb in their sharp beaks. “Very likely!”

In their hurry, they passed black eyes stalking them from the shrubbery. Something heavy kept pace with them, or a large number of smaller things did. The hilly forest they were bounding through had inhabitants. As the geese dove upon them once more, the natural denizens that had claimed this area snatched them from the sky. Astrea’s eyes went wide, and her face paled as she picked up the pace further.

“C’towls! You went through C’towl territory to beeline for the encampment? You’re more insane than I remember!”

Artorian altered to a series of elongated hops since his daughter’s sudden burst of speed required him to hold onto his beard, just to prevent it from flapping into his face. “I didn’t notice these when I came though, what are they! They took out a flock of death-geese like swatting a fly!”

She yelled out a hasty response, feeling the eyes on her. “C’towls!”

A good-natured grumble came back at her. “Which are what!”

Astrea noticed the leapfrogging her Elder was doing, and decided that altitude was a good thing to have. There were now two Beast species that hunted from air, and either way she sliced it, she was stuck with both until they reached the mountain. “Cat owls! If you’ve never seen the species… hawk-lynx?”

Her Elder held onto his butt, lifting himself up and over a grey goo ball that exploded beneath him. The disintegration devoured an entire fern in a matter of seconds. He bounced butt-first on a hard-light platform and launched himself right back up from the top branch of a tree. “I know what cats and owls are! Never heard of the combination!”

His daughter was scowling at him, and moved her head to dodge a poison-coated arrow that stuck a hog on the way down. She didn’t have time to grab the bacon, even if it was her favorite meat. There were several more pressing concerns. “How are you doing that?”

Laughter erupted beside her. “I’ll teach you after the debacle is over! I’m of the strong opinion any Essence can create any effect. The details and side effects are just different. I can’t wait to break out my philosophy tomes and woops!”

A C’towl lashed out with a claw as it jumped past him, the catlike creature gliding on massive owl-wings that stuck out from the sides of its thick fluff-coated body. Their eyes were small and black, and he noted a geometric pattern on the forehead. Several even. The creature was dual tone. Its belly fur was of a lighter color than the rest of it, and the front of its throat was an extra-thick fatty mess of fluff.

This was the frightening creature that lived in the hills? It was barely the size of a housecat, and even then, they were all fat! He cycled some Essence, and… oh. Not fat at all. That was a very thick coat of fluff, and the lithe body underneath was all claws and muscle. Yet… look at its adorable widdle eyes! “They’re so cute!”

Astrea rolled her eyes. “Apex. Predators!”

She groaned when she saw her Elder’s massive, gleaming smile. He got even louder as another one shot past him, pouncing from the camouflaged position of tree foliage. “Apex predator with toe beans! They’re cu~u~ute! I want one. Auwch!”

A C’towl had pounced from the other direction, and he’d not been paying enough attention. This one sunk its claws and mouth into his leg, but it was confused when its natural weapons didn’t pierce as deeply as it wanted.

*Mao*! The dark brown and soft mocha C’towl pulled its claws free and abandoned this target. Sure, it had been fun to pounce at the fluttery-robe creature while it was in the sky, but it didn’t taste like a meal. It decided to leave the front-runners of the food pack well enough alone. Instead, it let out a high-pitched mewl and turned its attention to the flying snacks.

It decided then and there: Geese were what’s tasty.

Artorian was still laughing. Even with his Aura’s help, Astrea was panting. Her humanoid pursuers had given up after that last area, given the geese bombing runs were… indiscriminate. Also, when they ran out of grey goo, they were hungry. That the duo were included on the menu was an excellent reason not to stop running. Running into a C’towl nest was the last straw for the raiders.

“That should buy us a day!” Astrea wiped the sweat off her forehead as she made her declaration. Her muscles burned, and the infernal Essence boosts were starting to take their toll. Her Elder’s soothing effects were only making those side effects worse. Whatever she had, it didn’t mesh on a deep and fundamental level with grandfather’s glow. Her stagger didn’t go unnoticed.

“Alley-oop!” By the time she looked to ask what that meant, her arm had been tugged over his shoulder. Astrea was getting a piggyback ride? She flushed bright red. “I am not five anymore! I’m almost… err.”

She counted on one hand, but got stuck a few times. She was somewhere between seventeen to twenty-three. Math was hard. No, either way it didn’t matter!

“My dear, you’re never too old to get a little help. Now hold on, we’ve been going at your leisurely D-rank four pace. Since you’re saddled, let’s travel my way!”

Astrea blinked. How was there any different kind of travel? He wasn’t going to pull a full-sized mount out of that little pouch, was he? No… surely… she didn’t finish the thought. With her old man, even nonsense like that was plausible. She thought he’d been dead for years, and had just been doing her best since then. Her attempt at words cut short as a high pitch *Eeee* left her panicking throat.

Artorian had jumped. Not one of those little cutesy leapfrog jumps for bouncing between trees. A real jump. The kind that got you halfway up a mountain and left a crater so large that it would take seven men a week of dedicated digging to create a similar landscap -dent.

She felt a horribly unpleasant tingly sensation as the Essence around him gut-punched her infernal core. Yet, by the time she took a breath, a second jump from… the air? Took them even higher. Then another jump took them higher still.

“Almost there!” Astrea gasped with wonder. She saw the clouds get closer and closer, and yet when she thought she was about to touch them… she got wet. These things weren’t solid at all! They were just disappointing floating sacks of… wetness!

“Goal!” Bursting through the top layer of a fog bank that both obscured all vision and soaked the clothes, the sun bore down upon them as Artorian combined cloud-running with his hard-light platforms. It was in some way cheaper to do, even if it used more varied Essence types overall. It was far easier and more efficient to condense the air and water in the cloud and use that as a jumping-off point than to generate a light block from pure Essence. A chunk of ice might fall from the sky a moment after, but he wasn’t bothered about that.

Artorian was, however, bothered about his dwindling Essence. He’d not had a luxurious amount of time to recover, though calculating rough drain to distance they’d get to Jian. At the least. He’d need copious rest and food after, but since the place counted as safe… why not? They also had the spare time, even if he knew that cultivating constantly wasn’t going to be enough to get him in fighting shape.

Abyss-blasted C-rank failure! It took all his Essence like a hungry little Beast, and then sat on its laurels having done just about nothing! He’d planned to use Ember’s armor in the upcoming brawl, but that only mattered if he had the strength to move with it on. The occupants of Jian clutched their pearls and iron when an old man carrying a well-dressed girl fell from the sky. The impact shook the water in their cups, and made everything that wasn’t bolted down bounce a few centimeters.

Artorian had to let his daughter down, because he was exhausted. It was her turn to wrap his arms around her neck. His turn to be carried as he weakly pointed in the direction of the gates. He tried fussing at her, but she shut him down. “Tut tut tut. You’re never too old to get a little help!”

The gal! Where had she learned to be such a sass? Oh. Right. Ha! Artorian made a face, and it was Astrea’s turn for a hearty laugh as she got them both to the gates. A small entourage was already waiting for them, since their return had not been subtle. Par for the course with Artorian.

“Headmaster! You surviving back there?” Jiivra gave a toothy grin as she blocked the gate passage, with crossed arms. A hand rose from the slumped figure on Astrea’s back, showing a thumbs-up.

“Spry as a spring daisy!” Dressed in a lily-white robe, the celestial Essence instructor picked up their Headmaster like he weighed roughly the same as a block of cheese.

“Gained some weight, old man? Did you at least find what you abandoned us all for?” She raised a stern eyebrow, but Artorian made a proud hand motion at Astrea, who was looking at him with her mouth agape. Headmaster? Had this powerhouse cultivator just called him Headmaster? Her fragile, nosy elder?

“I did! I would like to introduce to you my daughter from the Fringe. Astrea!” The women locked eyes, and slowly shared a cautious wrist shake. A humming field buzzed between their hands right before the shake, they both knew their Essences were opposed.

“Now, if we ever have any infernal students, we’ll have an instructor! After she catches up on all the core curriculum of course. There’s so much to learn!” The old man gleefully clapped his hands together, wiggling on Jiivra’s shoulder. He stopped when he didn’t get back the commentary he expected.

“What? You both look constipated. Is it because the raider army is coming soon? We’ll be fine… as long as we can deal with the geese.”

Jiivra blinked and snapped from her discomfort, letting go of the infernal cultivator’s hand. She was conflicted, but something about that last statement didn’t sit right. “Did… you say… geese?”

Chapter Forty-Five

Tittering laughter burst through the Royal Advisor’s quarters. “So, let me get this in order… first you lose your Executor, then you lose your warbeasts, and lastly there’s a two-day delay on the entire operation because your encampment is in utter shambles?”

The skeletal figure bent over with laughter. Green viscera spilled from its lower jaw only to discorporate before ever staining the floor. Macabre applause sounded as it clapped bony hands together. “How Princess Meredith has fallen.”

The still-laughing figure didn’t even try to dodge as a golden ring crushed its skull. The hyena cackling faded into nothing as the bones collapsed into a heap, taking their time to frazzle into particles. “Do not use our real names, you scheming mongrel.”

Talons dug into the feathers of the Royal Advisor’s forehead. Itching at her skin, she again plucked out some wilting plumage, wincing from the injury; as those didn’t grow back. The stress had left her with quite the bald spot. Any mention of it got you fed to her pets. Currently, a sizable green marquise-cut gem embroidered on a face veil hid the stress-picked wound.

She was tired of both these abyssal setbacks, and the Vizier’s ceaseless taunts. The difference just a few years made. She was the one who had supported the notion that a larger army was better than a small well-trained one. So, what, under the heavenly sky, was she doing with the smaller, more experienced troops while the Vizier gathered thousands upon thousands under his banner. Sure, they all served the same mistress, but favor was fickle. Having tasted a life where she had it in spades, she despised the life she led without it.

Abyss those infernalists and their favors! She should have taken the honking things when she’d had the chance. Now those bleached bones shambled behind her every move like scavengers poaching a field. Each time she killed a lime-green glowing skeleton, or had one killed, another would come. Different in personality, but with the same implanted words to relay.

She had to conquer this menhir mountain. She’d do it without the influence of those green-mouthed blatherers, or the acid whispering of the Vizier. Of course more troops would be better, but no she would not wait. Certainly not another decade. Her standing was awful enough as it was. It was strike and succeed, or don’t bother returning to the mistress.

A gathering of several thousand raiders, and several hundred of her surviving infernal-bred pets could surely take a fallen town that lived in the muck. Overshadowed by a mountain inhabited by children. From what she’d heard, there was only a single warrior resting at the base with any kind of real power. A user of one of the ‘Imperious’ techniques. Her numbers would wash over him like a flood across the beach. Even a cultivator could only handle so many men.

Donning her goosefeather attire and crown, she rang a gong inside her private quarters. Settling herself upon a palanquin, the Royal Advisor didn’t react as a smattering of servants rushed in to carry her out. Her tent space was vast, even if there was a large amount of empty space around her resting location. Her reasoning was that one could not sneak unseen over ground without any nooks or crannies to hide behind.

The palanquin came to a halt before two captains and a handful of personal guard that now lacked an Executor to keep track of and ‘protect’ them.

“Well?” Her voice was a whiplash. Both captains winced as though they had taken a physical blow.

The secondary captain chimed in first. “No sign of the Executor, though we’ve confirmed her betrayal. We have many accounts of her and a prisoner being the main culprits to… erm…”

He was hesitant, but all eyes were on him. “Punting geese from their enclosures. Some exploded into feathery roasts on impact. When the fence had been thoroughly trashed, the Executor and prisoner booked it out of camp through the front gate, which collapsed a day before due to shoddy construction. The geese, now angry at everything and everyone, went on a feeding frenzy. Some of the more intelligent flock chased the perpetrators in the direction of our goal. We found nothing as to why the Executor betrayed us, only that she did.”

The Advisor scratched her arms out of irritation, losing some feathers in the process. “Survivors?”

The main captain unfurled some vellum. “We’ve retained about seventy per…”

He stopped himself when he recalled the superior couldn’t understand Dwarven numeric systems. “That is, small losses to our raider troops, big losses to our Beast forces. The stragglers we recovered from the fern-hills reported packs of C’towls. We’ve weeded them from our retreat path, but we can expect them to be lurking up ahead. The camp is packed, and we can proceed with the assault. We should be at the outer edge of the Oldwalls after three moons, at worst.”

The advisor bit her thumb. “Attack as soon as we’re able. I want Xi’an overrun and the mountain path secured.”

The secondary commander interrupted her. “Jian, ma’am.”

The goose feather she’d plucked from her brow shot towards the captain like a kunai, embedding itself in his shoulder plate as if the bronze shell was made from paper. He could feel the bony protrusion bite into his skin and muscle, and fell to a knee as he tried to pull the sharp object free.

“Never speak over your superiors, servant. Your princess can read, and the reports say Xi’an. Do not cross me again, or another will take your place.”

One of the veiled personal guards did her best to bite back a smile. How the supposedly intelligent Royal Advisor had not noticed the Vizier had planted many spies amongst her closest, she could not guess. The information war was proceeding according to plan. ‘Meredith’ did not have the latest information to work with. All the better to set up her failure. “See to it that the task is done.”

The advisor’s personal little gong rang again, and the servants carted the palanquin back to her temporary safe haven. Striding forth, the veiled and amused personal guard helped the secondary commander back onto his feet. Sliding a vellum from her satchel, she deftly handed it over. “The orders and battle plans, sir.”

Grumbling unpleasantly, the secondary commander snatched the document and waved her off. To his delight, she listened and left quickly. The primary commander slapped a hand to his opposing pauldron, avoiding the wounded one. “Holding up, Bellor?”

Bellor grumbled and shook his head. “Infernal feathers cut deep, Ughert. Take the forsaken vellum, I’m going to the potion seller. I am in need of his strongest potions.”

Ughert took the orders vellum and unfurled it as Bellor left. He quirked a brow at some of the specifics. “Equip each attacking raider with a necklace-ankh of The Hand? See provision chest twelve-B for necklaces. That’s an… odd request.”

He rolled it back up and looked the other way. “Well… it’s in the vellum, so it must be correct. Bellor already got stabbed today, no need for it to be both of us. On to conquests.”

The trip was taxing to the raiders. C’towls ambushed them, geese rebelled, the Advisor marched them too hard through terrain that was too rough, and worst of all… when they arrived, it was raining. They stood in loose formation, facing the outer wall of Jian. Bellor supposed their setup could be called something akin to a line if the person drawing said line was very drunk.

The rain dropped heavy and loud. It pitter-pattered in thick layers against his armor, and he couldn’t see the end of his troop line through the deluge. Why was there so much awful rain? Wasn’t rainfall uncommon here, or at least light? He didn’t hear the crushing splatter of something heavy falling from the sky as it impacted the mud. This land had been tilled, and raiders sunk into the ground to the knee if they stood still too long.

It was the horses that were first to break rank. They couldn’t move properly in this weather. Cavalry was useless in this terrain, not that a flanking unit was going to be of great tactical assistance in a short siege. The ladders were ready. Again, he attempted to peer through the curtains of water.

*Crunch*!

Ughert jumped from his position as Bellor was transformed into pudding. His friend had been standing right next to him. Now there was a crushed stain under a large rock that had fallen from the sky. Literally fallen. Both the remains and the large rock sunk into the bubbling mud, drowned by the endless rains.

His vision snapped up, and through the crackling illumination of lightning saw more rocks descend. Granite chunks ranging from fist-sized to the width of the Advisor’s ego tumbled from above. The earthen weights plunged into his lines, and finally the cries of panic were louder than the constant droning rush of the deluge.

The initial tosses had missed, but the students on the mountain had plenty of time and ammunition to adjust their aim. They just needed to toss the rocks far enough. Gravity did the rest. Even being ‘eh’ accurate was good enough. It removed pieces from the board, and made the assailing force ever more miserable.

Artorian sat on a tiny stool, pensively stroking down his long beard as his Essence infused eyes kept track of adjustments. He called them out while air and water Essence students worked together to keep up the storm.

“A tired army is a defeated army! Ooh! Strength was good on that last volley, lads! Keep your output to about there, and let ‘em have it! No need to be conservative, just chuck it all down!”

Astrea was particular about her ammunition selections. Opting for only the finest, spikiest of carvings. She hurled them with a mad scream, venting rage and frustration at the faction that had caused her years of grief. Her roof-sized ‘pebbles’ squashed multiple people upon impact. It was interesting how those of the infernal persuasion leaned towards physical improvement, while those of the celestial seemed to favor Aura.

Far below them, Ughert blew on his horn, the signal for his assailing force to attack the walls. The raiders ran forwards… well, they tried to run, but it was hard to run in knee-deep mud with a constant downpour weighing you down. Oh, and falling rocks. Casualties numbered in the hundreds before the first raider made it to the wall.

A straight sword affixed to a ten-foot pole stabbed through a well-hidden hole. That slit in the walls was originally meant to fire arrows through, but it would suffice as a spear trap in a pinch. With the extensive reach of the polearm, it stabbed down the entire way. Braining or otherwise piercing deeply into the assaulting raider before retreating. A different spear from a nearby embrasure one level lower did the same.

Three such levels existed in the outer walls, and just getting to the wall was a challenge. The spears had an easy time dropping raiders, aiming and striking at slowed, labored targets.

Some ladders started to make it up. Rather than push the ladder from the walls, they served as self-made chokepoints for the militia manning the battlements. They walked on the walls, ready to shove the pointy end of a stick into an enemy. Stick quality didn’t matter so much when you had more weapons in the town than you had people to carry them. One did just as well as another, and the raider bodies piled so high against the outer walls that spear-embrasures became ineffective.

The dead were just piled too high. Ughert needed to sound the retreat, and he reached for his horn.

“Jiivra.” The celestial cultivator in question caught a metal disc she was distractedly tossing around.

“Headmaster?”

Artorian was cold in his speech. “The one with the horn… do you see him? Big pauldrons, Hand mark on the cape. Thirty paces south of Astrea’s last pebble.”

Jiivra made a sound that replied in the positive.

“I believe it may be time for Ivaldi’s performance of the four seasons.”

The ex-paladin cleared her throat, prepared to sing. “Which season?”

The Headmaster narrowed his gaze as he saw the captain reach for the horn. His tone slipped all the way down to icy. “Winter.”

Ughert had to shield his eyes as a break in the cloud layer blinded him. Light poured through a pathway of clarity carved through the torrential curtain. He managed to get the horn to his lips before a *fwiiii* sliced through his position.

Orange plasma rippled in the air behind something small and round that violently spun. Its long arc coming to an end as it bisected not only him, but a curved line of troops at his rear. The disc bounced over the landscape like it was skipping over a lake, the cold instrument not stopping until it had carved through several horses, countless men, and a single Advisor’s attendant.

For a moment as he fell, Ughert could hear beautiful music. The angelic voice of the heavens rang out in song, heralding the end. Along with his life, the parting in the cloud layer came to a close. The last vestiges of his sight were drawn to the ankh-necklace that had slipped from the front of his mail shirt.

With his death, the symbol of The Hand came to life with a dull lime-green glow.

Chapter Forty-Six

Jiivra’s song of winter ended as a lullaby. Even though the effect of her disc had long faded, she finished the full verse regardless. A small round of applause erupted around her, as many of the students had never seen her sing in earnest before. There was a difference between a celestial song meant to request Essence from above, and one that invoked a more… direct effect.

Artorian had stars glimmering in his eyes; this time, he’d seen it. He’d captured a moment as he kept his celestial-fueled sight on the entire event. The moment of note had happened at the crescendo. When she began, her voice filled with the celestial Essence which created the technique. But, unlike a technique, there was no direct effect. Instead, the intent was to make a request.

The difference was so specific that it would be impossible to notice if he hadn’t known what to look for while also being aware of the peculiarities of choir chants. The only difference between this effect, and performing the technique directly, was the particular intent and impartation of will.

When Jiivra gathered her celestial Essence, she directed it… upward? Except, ‘up’ was an incorrect description. The physical Essence might be moving skyward, but that wasn’t the intended target. An epiphany struck him; it was being offered to the heavens directly. Just like there were mysterious ‘between’ spaces, it would make sense if ‘directionals’ were present as well. If the abyss had anything to do with ‘below’ and the heavens ‘above,’ then…

He watched as the Essence vanished—but that was the thing. It didn’t vanish. It just went elsewhere.

As her song built and rose, the talented songstress reached her crescendo. Then, Artorian saw the ripple. Celestial Essence didn’t pour, or gush, or flood from the unfathomable, ungraspable passageway. No—such terms neither did justice nor service to the sheer amount of celestial energy rocketing into this layer of the world. The celestial cultivator’s request had been paid by Essence, attention, and devotion.

Something in the ‘above’ had received her freely given earthly-cultivated Essence, and the very turn of its attention towards the ‘here and now’ bloomed the region with Essence like a storm of pollen at the beginning of spring.

If Artorian had to describe this moment in the sublime, his awe termed it as the only words that whispered from his mouth. “Heavenly cultivator.”

As the moment of the crescendo passed, the celestial energy in the area snapped into the disc Jiivra held up. She seemed unaware of the utter magnitudes of energy that had just been moved to make her request possible. Something not her had sequenced events in appreciation of her mixture of song and request.

The round disc suddenly crackled with persimmon light, and Jiivra was moved by a will not her own. A puppet-like gesture—too perfect for her body to perform alone—sent the deadly energy-compressed object through the cloud layer in an equally flawless arc. She only used two fingers for the throw.

Her song continued as the disc spun, splitting the raincloud Essence-effect of the youngsters entirely. The energy was far too condensed and potent for them to even conceive of standing against it as the disk surgically sliced open their sky.

The ripple didn’t last longer than a moment, but the experience was profound while it was being observed. That very observation was an unwelcome occurrence as the ‘here and now’ rebuked the ‘error’ in existence. As if someone ran a hot rock over wavy cloth, the ripple smoothed over as if it had never existed.

As far as Artorian was concerned, he had just witnessed something potent soothe and flatten the fabric of reality. The philosopher dropped what he’d been holding. He couldn’t even remember what it was; instead, the memory of the celestial branded itself into his mind. Never did he want to forget such exposure to the sublime, no matter how small it had made him feel in the face of such… he didn’t even know what to call it.

He was powerless, irrelevant, unconsidered. A spec of existence in a world too vast for such a small mind to comprehend. Unfathomable magnitudes of difference separated him from the capacity to truly grasp the information his mind was now trying to hold. The experience was too much for him to process.

He didn’t even see the majesty of Jiivra’s kill. He only felt after effect as she lifted him with bouncing cheer; physically shaking him from what could have been a costly spiral into existential oblivion. “I got him! Did you see? Clean in two!”

Artorian blinked, cycling the celestial out of his vision so he could see the utterly gleeful woman lifting him like a ragdoll. He hadn’t seen, but smiled brightly at her regardless. “Marvelous my dear! Though please put me down, I’m tender!”

He collapsed right back onto the stool when Jiivra put him down, snapping a grip onto his shoulder since he was very much falling over. “You alright there, old man?”

The shaken philosopher trembled, trying to play it off. “Oh I’m… I’m here. As much as I can be.”

Those that surrounded them had a good laugh. They’d stopped throwing rocks. Essence-tapped, the storm was in progress of subsiding as well. Many hugged, more clapped hands together above their heads. Artorian blinked as he heard the growing sound of cheering. Had he zoned out a moment? It was entirely possible. “Did… I miss something?”

Astrea nudged him in the shoulder, flourishing her half cape before tearing the repulsive thing fully from her shoulder. She stepped on the image of The Hand, and while her breath was deep, her relief was plain to see. “We won!”

The old man smiled for a moment, but it turned to a frown near instantly as his still-reeling thoughts reached out to grasp her statement. It was wrong. Something about it was wrong. Won? So fast? No. No, this was too fast.

He’d seen the several thousand troops. Even encumbered, with tactics and landscape against them, it hadn’t been enough time. At least one, maybe two of Jian’s walls should have been overrun.

Artorian staggered from his seat. His daughter wrapped his arm around her neck and walked him to the edge, figuring her tired grandfather wanted to see the result of their win. “See? They’re all not moving. I know they’re just dots. But I can tell that they’re down.”

The old man didn’t stop frowning. “Something is wrong.”

Jiivra and Astrea exchanged a glance, their old man was talking to himself. They could both tell this battle was won. It was over. Artorian slapped himself on the forehead twice and peered with scrutiny over the edge again. “What’s wrong? What are you missing? Think. Think!”

His daughter rolled her eyes. Same old elder. Jiivra, however, was back to serious-mode instantly. She knew that the old man had a knack for oddities like this; when a detail didn’t fit, he knew and was bothered. “Headmaster? What do you need?”

Artorian talked with his hands, but no sounds other than small mumbles left his lips. His movements were stopped by both of the powerful women. Opposing Essences or not, he needed to reel it in, and it was becoming clear to both of them that he needed help. “Numbers. Numbers, my dears. What’s wrong with the numbers?”

The celestial warrior cleared her throat, and tried to help stabilize the conversation. Hopefully, also help Artorian with what he was working through. His stagger was unnatural, and he’d fall if both the strong women weren’t holding him up. “Several thousand raiders, the great majority visible look dead on the field. A chunk of them have made a sizable pile in front of the outer wall of Jian. Then there’s the preparation for infernal… geese? We didn’t see any of these.”

Astrea stood up straight with a sudden jerk, squeezing her eyes to focus her vision. “How do you see so clearly? They’re dots!”

A student next to them turned and filled her in. “Essence cycling to the eyes. This is basic curriculum once you’re at the cultivation level. Oh, also, welcome to Skyspear Academy.”

Astrea copied her grandfather’s appreciative nod, but didn’t have the time to address the curriculum right now. Business came first. Something felt odd now that details were being pointed out. “Didn’t we pass a whole bunch of C’towls? I didn’t see a single one of those either, reanimated or otherwise. Nor geese. Also, why would the majority of raiders just lay on the field? I know the plan was to mire them, but that shouldn’t have locked them all in place.”

Artorian had to sit back down; his head was killing him. He was hungry and short on Essence, so he began to stress-eat from his pouch to try and mitigate his dizziness. Pride got the better of him; and he didn’t speak up that this drain originated from the mental vertigo of ‘the ripple’. He didn’t want to look even weaker than he already did in front of some of his favorite people.

The ex-paladin cycled Essence sights, and slowly placed her hand over her mouth. “Oh my heavens… they… I think they had the life ripped out of them. They’re husks.”

Both Astrea and a good number of nearby students didn’t in the slightest understand what she’d just said. Artorian didn’t respond to Jiivra’s gasp; he was off in his own world. His head tumbled through problems and revelations, dissociating from reality. There were times where he could push the academic into the background in favor of what needed to happen in the here and now. This time, he’d failed.

“As in, they’re empty? Devoid of life?” Astrea was quick on the uptake in Artorian’s stead. She squinted at the celestial instructor, suspicion mounting. “Are we sure they’re down for good, then?”

Jiivra snarled at what she saw down below. “No, no they’re abyss-blasted not. They’re getting up. Or their skeletons are. They’ve all got that can’t-see-through blackness in them that feels foul. Apologies. Astrea, but they’re filled with the same stuff you are, and I doubt those raiders were cultivators.”

Astrea pieced together the problem, and she didn’t like the answer she reached. “Uuugh. Undead. Why did it have to be undead?”

Shooting a look to the woman in lily-white robes, she queried her directly: “Can you see a long-necked woman on a Palanquin down there? Feathers sticking out her everything, wearing more gold than fits in a treasure chest?”

Jiivra’s eyes scanned the ant’s nest of shambling dead below as the skeletons worked to free themselves from their meaty ‘shells’. She found the target in a hurry, but the result was no different. “Found her. I guess what you said about the geese’s diet was true. I’m not liking what I’m seeing.

“Also, I found the geese, and… what looks like an honest-to-abyss necromancer. I again apologize, Astrea. In comparison to the feeling I’m getting from… that, you’re a comfort blanket. I feel like I’m about to hurl just looking at that… thing.”

Astrea grumbled and crossed her arms. “Yes, well, solving problems first. Uncomfortable profiling later.”

She glanced over her shoulder at her grandfather; he was non-responsive. It reminded her of the end-of-life old man that rested most of the day in his tiny A-frame house back in the Fringe. She could not afford to be sentimental right now; pragmatism ruled the day.

“Grandpa is out of commission, but he was out of Essence anyway. Those Geese are likely vanguarding, but Jian has bows. Then there’s the several thousand undead. We… we didn’t account or plan for undead, and our high and dry mountain top isn’t going to be safe for long against an opponent that doesn’t get tired… I’m okay in a fight, but I’m no good leading anything. Tried that, mantle didn’t fit. If this needed a precision cut, I’m your girl.”

Astrea tried not to panic, but she was fretting as she gave herself the rundown. “This… I’m not ready for this.”

Jiivra took hold of her shoulder. “Hey. Look at me. We’re going to get through this. A city of spears and a mountain of cultivators will hold against some haphazard shambling bones. I’ll admit… I wish a stronger woman than I was in charge, but I’ve taken the mantle before, and it does fit. In the words of a wise old stranger with his head in the clouds; needs must.”

Ceding command silently, Astrea locked determined gazes with her and cut to the chase. “What do we do?”

Chapter Forty-Seven

“You know we have more rocks, right?” Swaths of students opposed the ‘run and hide’ idea. It was just some skeletons; how could that be more difficult than fully-muscled raiders? “Doesn’t make a lot of difference when we’re throwing them down.”

Fingertips pressed to her lips, Jiivra kept her hands flat and pressed together. She dropped her hands towards the uncooperative, think-they’re-invulnerable, delusional teens. She couldn’t blame them for being cocky.

That initial bout had gone by like a breeze, and they were only poorer on some Essence for it. The students believed that some cultivating would top them right up, but their instructors knew they were missing crucial details about their bony opponents.

The first *honk* was enough to drive the point home.

Entire classrooms of people dove out of the way of grey-goo death-goose bombing squads. Those abyssal feathery honkers were either smart, or being directed. Likely the latter. Worse still, the flying menaces had been empowered.

The goop exploded far more violently on impact than previously reported, and the disintegration effect spread aggressively wide. Far more energy was packed into the infernal effect, and the entire roof of the Pagoda was gone in seconds. The top floor didn’t last much longer; the mountaintop afflicted by a booming barrage of muddled grey that ate patches of their home away.

Students found that they were okay with reconsidering past opinions, and were now running with the rest to get down the mountain. Their impromptu race challenges after Alexandria’s arrival had formed several interesting paths for them to leap, bound, swing, and jump from. Even better, these erratic patterns distracted the geese.

Zipping lines of people hustling down the steps stopped being the prime target as a fuddled goose squad aimed at the circus crew instead. Even when the stairs were attacked, agile students used to impromptu obstacles usually managed to dodge out of the way.

Goo was deterred from ever reaching them as students threw rocks into the bombing path, cleverly expending the effect before it reached them. As a counterattack, Essence laden strikes hurled back at the hostile flappening. A lightshow in the air flashed back and forth as grey goo was canceled out while whole flocks of geese were sent to the butcher. Bolts of fire, pressure lines of air, and blades of water all lowered the numbers in the sky.

A particularly accurate shot by Michealus—a water Essence cultivator—skewered multiple birds at once, giving him the chance for both a breather and a hasty question. “Why are we running away? Wouldn’t it be easier to just hole up in the academy buildings?”

Fei-long, one of the earliest student-turned-instructors knew better. He’d read the historical records on the War of Art by a renowned general, and rattled off the answer without breaking stride. “We do not want to be sitting ducks! Recall the third lesson of strategy, the natural lay of the land is the soldier’s best ally!”

Michealus got the gist of it, and hastily made a perception check. Their current foes had an absolute terrain advantage. There wasn’t a building or tunnel they could hide in up here where the significantly more agile feathered furies couldn't reach them. Creating obstacles would do nothing to slow them; that grey goo was entirely indiscriminate and simply ate right through anything it touched. Forget doors; it was best to stay on the move near fresh terrain.

“Wait, if the skeletons are below and the death-geese are up here. Where are we going…?” He didn’t have the time to ask the rest of the concern as a ball of infernal goop grazed his Gi, and the tulip and garnea robe coiled in onto itself; devoured as the remnant blew away in the winds caused by air Essence blades that arced above their heads.

Most geese self-immolated upon death with an explosive grey *pop*. Unfortunately, those that were merely incapacitated turned into living bombs that fell from the sky. Decapitated honkers that hit the deck were the worst; not only was the impact abhorrently loud as the air was slurped into a single point, but the smallest explosive radius they could measure at a glance was somewhere around five to seven feet.

The infernal animals were tearing holes in their mountain! The city of Jian wasn’t faring much better. As it turned out, the devastation on impact correlated to the distance a goose fell. A longer fall, a bigger boom. The entire east gate of Jian went up in colorless flame, leaving neither trace nor evidence of the destruction behind.

The celebrations from the people in Jian had died when the first undead clambered across their walls. Stabbing weaponry was ineffective, and using a bulky swordspear to smash down on fast-moving skeletons didn’t work too well given cramped spacing. Yet, it wasn’t the crushed tactics and ineffective weapons that was defeating them.

It was the fear.

When it was a few skeletons, it was fine. Farmers and crafters experienced jump scares, but they could do something with their tools to defend themselves. But after ten, there were a hundred. After a hundred, there were a thousand. The undead didn’t tire, and they didn’t care about minor obstacles like spikes, poisons, being stabbed, or terrain difficulties. They just kept going, walls or no walls.

Not knowing where to flee, the populace panicked. Holing up in their homes just added their number to that of the enemy. Fleeing over open terrain to the farmlands was met with claw and fang as zombie C’towls growled with twice the hunting ferocity.

All of that had been before the advent of garish grey explosions. *Crash*! A bright figure gleaming with shining white light rose from a three-point impact where the academy gate had once stood. Her sonorous voice boomed with amplified strength. “Flee to the mountain!”

A single jump launched her from the ground as Jiivra spinning-roundhouse kicked a falling time-bomb goose into a flock of its brethren. The entire delta went up in a torrential set of spectacular gooseplosions.

She had Jian’s attention now, so she repeated herself, “Flee to the mountain!”

While the mountain itself wasn’t particularly safe, the discovery of the tunnels and pathways beneath it had created a different story entirely. When Cataphron had left them two years prior, a complex network of interconnecting caves had come to light. They’d never found exactly where the previous Headmaster had vanished, nor had they ever fully mapped the underways.

The area those tunnels spanned was incomprehensibly vast, and Jiivra had decided on it as the point of escape. Not only could the entire populace of Jian fit down there, it excelled as an option to corral and herd enemies into tight corridors without leaving them exposed from above. It would be a protracted battle, but the chances of them fighting off an undead horde were significantly better if the terrain was in their favor.

Even if that terrain put them between a rock and a hard place.

Descending a mountain was easy, but corralling a vast populace into a dark tunnel network as they fled visible shambling hordes of the undead… not so much.

“Helliot! Take the burden from Astrea and get the Headmaster into the tunnels. I don’t know what hit the old man, but he took it hard. He’s no good to us like this, and we need to tuck him away as far and as deep as possible so he can recover while we hold the dead off. Atremides, go with him.”

Both men agreed to the task as they lifted a slumped, mumbling old man from the infernal cultivator’s grasp. While the daughter of the Fringe ached to go with them, she knew the end result would be better if she followed Jiivra’s lead. She bolstered herself, and saw the others vanish into the cave network with her old man.

“What was the math again? It takes ten men to match a D-rank? I wonder… how many skeletons does it take to account for a single man?” The glow faded from the choir raid-leader. She’d gotten the attention of the populace and given them a direction to run. The rest was just wasteful.

Unlike the glow, her smile grew. “Less than it would take to account for a single woman.”

“Aw, yeah!” Astrea bumped Jii’s fist, and picked up a fallen sword spear with the tip of her foot, flashily twirling the weapon before catching it. While their Essences were opposed, both the powerhouse women were quickly warming up to one another. “A shame for them, that they have to account for two.”

The other students around them groaned. They were on a battlefield; couldn’t this wait? Jiivra copied Astrea, except her twirling lift of the swordspear launched a charging skeleton skywards, sending it careening into a dive-bombing goose formation that exploded from the impact.

No. Apparently the showboating could not wait. The students lived for the distraction from the fight, beaming and giddy as they were given something other than the threat of imminent death to hold onto. Weapons were distributed, and it was time for all that coordination practice to pay off.

They knew where to stand, what order to make the movements in, when to thrust as a unit and jump back as the second line copied their prior action. It had just been with practice staves before, but their resolve hardened when a student discovered that a good stab to the head still did the trick in taking down the skellies.

A choreography of sequential attacks crashed upon the undead horde in fluid waves as the unliving bones mindlessly charged forwards. The space between students allowed fleeing residents to pass through their formation, leaving the practiced steps of dozens of young cultivators undisturbed.

Years of reading and practice, studies on the way of movement and breath, and the ideals of fighting and living in the moment suddenly evolved from theory… to application. If Jiivra had the time or Artorian been present, they would have caught the subtle moments when their students changed. It was the shine in their eyes, the determination of their breath, the sudden steady rhythm of previously panicked heartbeats.

Gazes steeled, and minds found their role as a defender. The purpose in their practice. The benefits of cultivation let them shine, as the people they used to be… ran past them for safety. It clicked. They were no longer of the common crop. They had power. Real, substantial power that let them stand against that which the masses could not. They were the swords and shields. Where each student became a warrior, so too did the flow of their Essence as it adopted their new identity.

When their backs were against the gaping mouth of the cave, only a few final stragglers rushed past them. Perhaps a handful of the students remained shaky, but the majority stepped solidly as stone. They took breaths with the steady flow of a forge’s bellows, moved as water, and comforted against the darkness with the spirit of a hearth fire. At their front, a white robe fluttered, pristine and unscathed. The sight kept their hearts and minds strong, and the song that reached them pulsed waves of power through their arms.

Jiivra was a Paladin, no matter what the church had decided for her. She would stand as the tip of the spear before the endless onslaught. Inspired, Jiivra started singing without realizing it. Skeleton after skeleton burst into bone dust as they made contact with the living defenders. Skulls shattered and shards flew, the blade of her swordspear blurring as the weapon danced in her experienced hands.

Astrea called for the back line to retreat into the cave. Some of the students needed a moment to snap from their battle trance; escape hadn’t been on their minds while caught in the unity of both the song they hummed along with, and the flow of battle. When they came back to themselves, retreat they did. Had they not been descending into caves; they’d have called this an uphill battle with the egregious stalemate they found themselves mired in.

The difference a single C-ranker made was astounding, while the earlier quip had been mostly a joke. It turned out that the ten-to-one ratio remained consistent for both living and dead. While easier to put down, the undead had an entire set of traits designed to turn the tables. This engagement wasn’t the same as fighting intelligent, living beings. The entire dynamic of battle was different.

Where a living opponent would use tactics and guile, the dead only wanted to get to you quickly, and gut you even quicker. Suicidal and otherwise impossible movements were standard for them, and the few skeletons that wielded weapons had zero qualms stabbing through their own comrades in order to reach their prey.

When it was down to an exhausted Jiivra and Astra remaining before the cave mouth, they set in motion the penultimate segment of the plan. Readopting her glow, the tired celestial instructor gave the signal as she broke off her song. “Now!”

Earth-cultivation students planted along the inside of the cave-opening slammed their hands to the walls. With joint effort, they coursed Essence through the dense rock and shook the roof of the cave opening. The faulting rock grit together, and with a calamitous rumble, part of the mountain collapsed inwards.

The consequent landslide rolled massive boulders through the sea of skeletal dead, crushing them to bone meal. Astrea punched the air in victory as she and Jiivra booked it inside. “That should buy us time!”

Inside the cavern, the stampede of people continued when part of the mountainside came down. They had to get deeper, much deeper in order to reach a defensible position. That temporary blockage wasn’t going to buy them as much time as they wanted.

It was awfully dark within the stale depths of the damp passageways. Even with the torches the expedition squads had left stacked and ready for future usage, they called out openings and offshoots they saw and came upon them. They needed the right path, and the maps only went as far as the first big cavity.

They just had to pray that… *Slumpf*. Students skid to a halt on the slippery ground. Some fell outright and skid a few feet further; what they saw didn’t meet expectations. Those still running behind them bowled over their peers. Friends became annoying roadblocks as they tumbled, unable to properly stop on the ground.

It smelled awfully metallic in the wide-open cavity. Jiivra pushed past the students, surveying the opening with confusion. “Where… where is everyone?”

The entire populace of Jian was nowhere to be seen. Nobody had an answer for her. However, with the added illumination their instructor provided, one of the students did have a follow up question.

“…What did we slip on? Is that… blood…?”

Epilogue

Ember gazed about the vast reaches of an endless desert. In any direction visible to Mage sight, nothing but sand existed. Raging dust devils collided with one another as winds sheared at such speeds that the air itself screamed.

Where the ancient Elf stood, there was no such gale. Arms crossed; she narrowed her eyes at a hole in the ground. An area that had been burning for centuries.

The passive power emanating from the crater was enough to rebuke the winds entirely, causing silence like the eye of a hurricane. The howling winds outside the bubble didn’t breach the zone as flame burst from the epicenter, and she waited for the passive ‘push’ to drop away.

That was her cue. With the lull in concentration that had kept her frozen at the edge of the barrier, Ember trudged through the silica and quartz dunes. She sat herself down on the edge of the vast crater and watched two men argue over the results of an advanced game of cè luè Ur; the most recent of thousands.

Deep in the pit sat Pagacco and Duke, using seats and game pieces carved from the meteor that had gut-punched this part of the Pangea ages ago. The current S and Double-S ranked Souls of Fire. Both cultivators from eons past plodded around Karakum, a scorpion-based dungeon Core with a fire attribute. It was currently molded into the shape of a large crimson sphere with a flattened top… because how else were they going to play Ur?

She grit her jaw as she watched the delusional duo keeping her from where she needed to be. The Law was calling to her, and it was calling loudly.

Even as an A-rank nine Mage, she was having difficulties existing in their vicinity. Space around them warped and warbled, occasionally flooding miles of desert with greyscale as some of the S-ranked power spilled over from their personal pools. The smaller of the two was usually to blame for this.

Pagacco was an owlkin. No more than five feet tall, he was prone to lighting absolutely everything aflame for the most mundane of reasons. If there was a reason. Admittedly, the pitched, childlike voice somehow remained cute as it spoke in a language lost to this world. Though the meaning was universal. “Abyss, abyss, abyss!”

Duke clapped his hands together; another win that Karakum tallied up for them. Pleased with the result of this year’s match, the Ancient Elf whooped in victory while doing a ditzy little dance. Had the cultivator not been so afflicted by anxiety, he might have hit the next rank by now. That was, if either of them knew how. Currently, motivation on the topic of advancement was sparse, and hidden knowledge was required to pave the way forwards.

Unlike Ember, they had stopped searching a long time ago. Both remained stuck at the rank they held. Duke didn’t remember how he’d gotten to Double-S. Pag had been with him when the Law had originally been vacated, and at the time the best guess had gone to ‘proximity’. She’d never been happy how they both seemed to just play hopscotch with the powers of the universe. Ember remembered them both when they’d been serious; before they had taken childlike forms in their S-ranks… before they had strayed from the path.

She could do nothing about it. An accidental sneeze from Pag would bowl her back across the desert she’d walked to get here, crashing through tall dunes like toppled pins. Yet here she was. “What’s the score?”

Ember’s voice carried, and both the soul-ranked cultivators jumped out of shock. They were so oblivious to their surroundings that even with their insane might, she’d essentially snuck up on them without so much as trying.

“Es-illian-Yaran!” Duke was all smiles, and his excited hands shot high into the air. He was elated to see another Ancient Elf like himself, even if his personal features were entirely manufactured. Being soul-ranked allowed a cultivator to reconstruct their body to appear how they saw themselves. That Duke appeared as a younger lad just showed who his mind believed he really was. It wasn’t something you got a redo on. “Now we can play a game for three!”

Pagacco didn’t quite share the joy, possibly because he’d just gotten his feathery butt kicked. He bristled and snorted, not as pleased with the company. Pag remembered the time Ember had outranked him. She’d thrown his little trainee self all over the arena, but to be fair… that’s what he got for being a cocky brat.

“What’s a Blade of War doing all the way out here? Nothing but drab sand to go around, and nothing to fight. Unless you were wanting an argument with ol’ Scorponok over here.”

The crimson ball hummed in extreme displeasure, and Pag rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. It’s ‘Karakum’. We know. Honestly, a few hundred years and you’d think a dungeon Core would get past basic sapience. At least now it can count up to a thousand one-hundred and…”

He counted on his feathers a moment, but the dungeon core made burning numbers appear overhead. One thousand one hundred and thirty-three. The exact number of Ur matches Pag had won. Oh, how it hated these two. “That! Really, why are you here?”

Ember stood and brushed her legs free of the wayward sand that had kicked up from their surprised movements. It couldn’t be heard inside of the bubble, but the speed of their movements had caused tornadoes to form for miles outside of their crater. “I can safely deduce you haven’t been paying attention to your Law, then? There’s barely been an uptick in the requirement I need to meet for unification.”

Pag fussed and kicked at some sand. The particles accelerated to Mach speeds and broke the atmosphere with concordant booms. “So?”

Ember set her jaw. “So, as the Incarnation… tell me why it’s screaming at me.”

Pag looked at Duke, but the Elf had no answers for him. His hands raised up in the ‘I don’t know’ pose. “I’m not noticing anything, if anything the Law feels distant.”

The Owlkin hooted in agreeance, adding a sagely nod. Childish shoulder-brushing didn’t dent Yaran’s displeasure, and she didn’t need words to convey that. “Is it by chance because you’ve been languishing while I’ve been learning? Because you’ve been sitting here in this crater piddling your time away. Did you forget, Duke D’alam’ukam, that the Laws are a cycling process?”

The boyish Elven’s face molted from playful whim to despondent snarl. “Don’t use that name. I am Duke the Dalamadur. Or just Duke. I either get my Soul-title or I don’t. Not the between. Not without my assent.”

The corner of Ember’s lips turned upwards. Progress. “Well, Duke the Dalamadur. Have you made progress? Have you uncovered more secrets of the flame, more wisdom of the fire, more insight within the pyre?” Ember’s thick tone was scathing. It did the trick.

Duke looked away with a scowl, because… no. No, he hadn’t. He and Pag had resided in the meteor crater for centuries. They didn’t want to be in the new world, not after their old one had left. It was better. Easier. Less painful to remain in the dusty ash and ruin of the fallen. Here, where the center of the ancient glass-reach capital used to be. “...No.”

Pag crossed his arms, scoffing at the Blade of War. “Well It’s not like you’ve done any better. Lady of the eternal A-rank nine.”

It was Ember’s turn to have her nose scrunch up. “Whose fault is that exactly, eats-without-spoon? Are you even aware that you’re wrong? I’ve held flame you’ve never even considered!”

Her tone shifted from irritated to huffy. Those newfound skills in getting under people’s skin were coming in handy. All she needed was a mouthy friend who never stopped poking the world, just to see where it poked him back. Who’d have guessed one old human would have bounced her back onto the path of progress.

The soul-rankers both belted out chords of laughter. “You? You found a fire that we have never seen? Who exactly are the Fire Souls here, Yaran? Did you come all the way to the desert just to complain about how far behind you are out of frustration?”

Ember had them hooked, and brightly smiled. “Starfire.”

The Fire Souls patted themselves on the chest, their giggles dying down to pensive frowns. “That… what? That’s not something that exists.”

Neither of them liked that Ember was nodding at them as if they were children making a simple mistake, and she was a mother chastising them with corrections. “The source of starlight, actually. Lovely stuff, gives a real shine to the surroundings.”

Neither Duke nor Pag were laughing anymore, and they shared an antagonizing look. “Prove it.”

Ember winked at them, just to unsettle their already destabilized footing. As a Mage, she was bound to the first tier Fire Law. Mana was meant to fill in the gaps of the Essences a Mage didn’t have to fulfill the desired effect. So, while she lacked the several requisite Essence channels of her favorite Human to get the mixture exactly right, her Mana didn’t care.

The A-ranked Mage radiated instant resplendence, forcing the S-rankers to shield their eyes. Light as bright as the sun stabbed them right in the eyes. Unlike a C-ranker whose body and Aura remained separate, a Mage had no such separation. The difference was that of choice. Ember was made of Mana, her body serving as the container for her fully developed presence. If she wanted to manifest Aura, it was just an effect spurred by will, intent, and power.

To her, Aura was just another ability in the Mage repertoire. The resplendent light shifted. While Imperceptible to most, both the Fire Souls experienced the shift in supreme detail. The luminance from the stars was—much like Mana—a byproduct of the real thing. The metaphysical step Ember took from facsimile to source forced both of the S-rankers to take a physical step back as the Law they were all bound to personally took notice.

Ember easily held the same knowledge base as ‘Pag the Pyroclasm’, with the exception that the A-rank had discovered and developed this magnum opus. Her fire Essence channel underwent a painful apotheosis, the culmination of all her efforts, as she let the effect flow.

The channel ripped at the edges, only to mend as it instantly made a deep, universal connection to a source of higher purity and concentration. Her expansive Aura-space flooded with literal solar plasma. While the Fire Souls were unharmed, they both felt the intense heat as they bathed in the momentary breath of a miniature nova.

It was… beautiful. Borealis light flooded the sky as Ember’s personal solar flare penetrated the planet’s magnetic shield, colliding with atoms and molecules in the atmosphere. These collisions resulted in countless little bursts of light which built the growing aurora.

The Law ate this knowledge as it learned about photons. Es-illian-Ember collapsed to the ground as the effect concluded. Mana-wise, she’d dropped all the way down to B-rank two, though her real rank remained unchanged. The solar wave had just taken that much Mana from her to complete. She visibly sizzled as heat radiation poured off her body, causing the surroundings to mirage.

She coughed and caught her breath, shifting to sit on her rear as she punched a victorious thumbs-up to the sky. Her smile was toothy and feral, her irises ablaze with internal fire as her Ascended form adapted to the improved affinity channel connection. She now had a perfect channel, where previously it was ‘merely’ strong.

A landscape of glass replaced the realm of sand around them. Ember’s Aura had acted as a gargantuan kiln to the surrounding desert. Tornadoes had frozen mid-spin, the quartz and silica within them flash-melting into instantaneous sparkling models. The landscape of motion was now one of glittering stillnesses. Rainbow light shattered and refracted through myriads of glassified, time-stopped sculptures.

The loose, wayward Mana in the air was gorged on by Karakum. The dungeon Core swallowed the meal like a last-in-line starved orphan. The S-rankers made it difficult for it to get any Essence or Mana, so this free-flow buffet was a blessing. Karakum decided it liked the sun-lady. Though, when the scorpion Core shifted facets to look at her, she didn’t seem to be doing too well.

Ember’s mirth died as she held her stomach and chest. The vast drop in Essence and Mana? Expected. She’d only tried this effect on a smaller scale a few times, and even with Artorian’s Core design as a starting point, there was far too much to the sun for Mana to replicate. The Mana that comprised her body tightened.

Now that her Essence channel had… widened, and altered to a source of higher purity, the additional effects were crashing against her like waves on an artic beach. Duke, Pag, and Karakum—all being tied to the first tier Law of fire—were frozen in place. They felt an imaged breath exhale from something they could have sworn was right behind them, but nothing was there. The actual presence was merely a dull pressure on the mind. It regarded them, measured them, judged them, and found them wanting.

While it had no form, the four souls in the middle of the desert knew exactly what the presence was. They’d spoken to it once before, yet only on its home turf. The personal, direct consciousness of the Law of Fire… was here.

Ember shakily got to her feet, only to fall again. The intense mental pressure didn’t burden her shoulders. Mana converted from this new, stellar fire Essence shuddered her form. Ember was doing her best to literally keep herself together, and she focused on the mental image of her presence. Who she was. Her core traits. What she looked like. It was hard… it was so, so hard… Her image slipped, and her form fractured. Cracked lines of light appeared all over her Mana form as rainbow luminance bled out from within her.

B-rank one.

The mind was everything, and while Ember had made leaps and strides in her well-being, she simply lacked the mental fortitude to construct a stable enough self-image for what she was going through. Had she the Mana, she would be incarnating. Right. Now.

The ill-fated combination of her Mana-shortage and shaky self-image were preventing the change, but from what she remembered of this process… it was death or graduation.

She needed help. She needed to get away from whatever was forcing the change. Ember’s mind threw answers at the wall to questions she hadn’t asked. Was there anyone, anyone she could talk to that would reinforce her without lies on who she was, or what her traits were? Her thoughts scattered as the pressure shifted its attention towards her. The sudden added gravity that caused, crushed Ember into the ground. She was just barely able to keep herself up.

The consciousness of the Law measured. What a waste it would be if the discoverer of the opus failed passage across the threshold, due to these circumstances. It regarded the current S ranks. How… lacking they were. With but a consideration, the deadly cracks on Ember ceased spreading. The Mage gasped deep, heaving breaths as she fully collapsed against the smooth, reflective surface.

The cycle could not continue like this. Therefore, it would not. Judgement would be fair and impartial. The current Incarnations would be allotted their chance, and thus the scion hers. There could only be a single incarnate per S-rank for any given Law, and it would not brook those who shirked their promised tasks.

The S-rankers all fell to the ground the moment the consciousness melded through the between, returning to the Tower of Ascension. They sucked in a vulnerable, mortal breath. Four souls in the middle of the desert—silently seated in a palace of glass—held their tongues. Ember was the first to rise and wordlessly stumble her way away from the ancient epicenter of the capitol. She’d come. She’d seen. She’d come to terms.

There was nothing left for her here. This chapter of her life was done, and she could feel the page being turned to a close. She had been allotted a gift of time. With none left to waste, she gently toe-tapped off the glass surface and felt more of her mind fall free of shackles.

For the first time in over a century, Ember took to the air and flew.

She entered B-rank two, but for her that was nothing new.

Breaking through the cloud layer, she spread her arms to the sky and the rays of the sun welcomed her with an enveloping hug. She closed her eyes, and sank inwards as she floated. Ember descended deep into her soul space, past all the protections. She’d been going about this all wrong.

In her current soul space, a copy of her cultivation technique raged. A pillar of ebon-orange flame spiraled ceaselessly in place. The colors within flickered erratically as the new fire Essence gathered, refined, and purified for direct and immediate trade to her Law. She already had all the knowledge it could offer her at this stage, so instead she received all Mana.

Corruption? Ha!

Anything not fire Essence burned to a crisp within her ancient elemental cultivation technique. Air, water, earth, infernal… it all vaporized under the strain of oppressive heat that shared a deep identity with unrelenting war. She opened her eyes, and her sclera blackened as her irises swirled; matching the inherent color scheme of her cultivation technique. A patient old voice from a funny little man spoke to her, in the way she imagined it.

“You missed something!”

Missed something? Her form wavered. A reminder that she was on borrowed time. Ember’s mind retreated from her soul space, returning to the original location where her Mana-formed cultivation technique existed.

B-rank three.

Wait. Three? That was too fast. The words rang in her head again. Slower, calmer, accented with a foxy little smile as if he was poking fun at something. There was an ache in the space where Essence channels connected, like it had been prodded. “I have… an open celestial channel?”

Oh, that was bad. She was all about fire. Ember knew nothing about celestial cultivation, or what went into it. The Law wasn’t going to reject her because she had a second Essence channel, was it? No, she was still bound… she was fine. She was fine.

B-rank four.

Her timer was ticking. The connection clicked in Ember’s mind. She had until A-rank nine to form a stable self-image. Where she was getting all this Mana from, she still didn’t know… correction. Yes. Yes, she did, she just didn’t like what it meant. Her eyes glanced over her shoulder, down to where the S-rankers were diminishing in presence. Their greyscale effects had stopped entirely, and while she could see they’d gotten back to another game of Ur to try and get their mind off things… their power was already siphoning away.

They too were on a timer. A timer to prove to the Law that they were the correct choices to be the Incarnations of Fire. If they succeeded, she would fail by default. She couldn’t think about that right now.

B-rank five.

The air broke around her body with multiple concussive *booms*. Mach seven. Mach eight. Mach nine.

Ember felt the smile of her old friend, and she mentally saw him do a dance when he found out about her new Essence channel. A friend. Yes, a friend was exactly what she needed. A friend that wouldn’t judge her for her difficulties, regardless of her rank or her species. A friend that would even delight in helping her figure it out, hold her hand, and tell her right to her face everything he thought of her.

The self-image reinforcement. It was there, in the mind of her friend. She broke B-rank six, and immediately also broke Mach ten. The air around her was on fire. She was hot, hot, hot! The Mage-ranked being didn’t care, streaking through the sky like the abyssal meteor that had crashed into her civilization and left them all to wander a world that wasn’t theirs.

Ember tapped into tracking abilities she’d let lie dormant far too long, and adapted them. Adding fire and celestial Essences as the filter, she ignored everything that wasn’t… hmmm. C-rank. She nodded decisively. There was no way that wily philosopher hadn’t made it by now. She channeled a Mana pulse through her cultivation technique, and pinged it as a wave out into the world.

Who’d think those cutesy echolocation calls they’d learned from the bats would have been used like this? Like would discover like. She’d find him… it was just a matter of time.

“Where are you, Artorian?”

Annex

Artorian’s Archives Book 3

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Epilogue

Prologue

Grandfather,

It was practically silent in the Fringe cloister without you around, until Ra became old enough to get around on her own. Now I am chasing the rambunctious little nugget around with my rolling pin daily. Somehow she figured out how to get at the cookies, but luckily she has not yet figured out how I find her no matter where she hides. Those lessons with you are paying off even years later, ha!

Keeper Jin indulges her, even going so far as to sweep her up and run when I am attempting to enact discipline! He always runs toward your massively oversized pillow, so oftentimes I am able to cut them off before they arrive.

As much as I want to continue my pretend complaints, things are well in the Fringe. Wuxius has gained some more... fatherly features, making me think that it is not only Ra who is making off with my cookies! On a stranger note, things have started washing up in the salt tides, not dangerous things, but odd things all the same. Ra has been gaining little dolls nearly every tide, and is making quite the collection. Frankly I find them somewhat creepy, but she adores them and I do not have the heart to take them away.

Ra asks after you frequently, which I suppose is our fault for telling her stories about you since she was born. I can only hope that Yvessa is correct when she says that you will be back. We are still getting letters from you, and we do treasure them.

I am sure that you will appear when we are least expecting it, likely with the rest of the family in tow. Or, who knows, perhaps you'll fall from the sky like a certain lovely song that has become popular in recent times.

Whichever it ends up being, I'm sure no one will be disappointed.

Your Granddaughter in love,

Elder Lunella.

Chapter One

“I’m… disappointed,” the smoggy voice full of hungry shadows mused to itself, failing to savor the culmination of what should have been a tantalizing and delicious plot. Instead, its palate was fouled.

Years of scheming, dark plots, utmost guile, well-executed strategies, quips and snappy retorts prepared and practiced en masse… all of this shouldn’t have resulted in anything other than a decadent downpour of exaltation and battling wits.

“Such time I spent snacking on scrumptious Sequoia. I savored every nibble torn from that mind, even as its final spices were denied. How he withered while I progressed, and your ilk scoured and ruined the landscape for my connoisseur canines and swallowing throats,” the voice drawled, monologuing to itself even as its target remained unapproachable.

“The fact that you and your deep-rooted entourage blasted, busted, and broke the landscape itself, merely to close my tunnels, was a treat. How I longed for challenge and cadaverous cacophony to expend my efforts against. Such inspiration you gave me! Now, at the closing of the curtains… here you lie at my feet. Yet I feel no satisfaction; in fact, I despise you for it!”

It was difficult to see in a cavern without natural lighting. When Artorian ever so barely opened his eyes, it wasn’t any different from the existing fugue states he was shifting between. Reality wasn’t yet on the schedule, and the academic remained caught up in his thoughts. Currently, he was thinking of a kitten. Soft, fluffy, will accept exactly three-point-one-four pets before mauling the living daylights out of your entire hand.

The cat sat sphinx-style on a square sheet of warm light while luminance streamed through an imaginary window. Within those exact confines, the kitten sat as if trapped within a box of its own making. The box could be inferred, but was it truly there? Could there be both a box around the kitten, yet not at the same time? It was a paradox box.

Such considerations had swamped his senses as they ebbed and flowed like great ocean waves. Both impossible conundrums and flippant conjecture screeched at him from opposite sides of a room that didn’t exist, with voices that weren’t there. All of this from one single event: his glimpse of the beyond.

The sight of the heavenly had been so jarring that even his mind was grasping at straws to find a way to reframe it into a way that made sense. It may have been one thing had he merely seen it with his normal eyes. Perhaps his mind would have simply turned away or ignored the being. But no, his foolish mind had experienced the event directly, thanks to his empowered eyes, which made the after-effects slap him harder than a Dwarven granny with an explosion-empowered slipper.

The voice awaiting him in the dark was malicious and full of smiling hunger. When the shapeless mass noticed its stirring companionship, its elation instantly grew. “Artorian…! You wordy, delicious thing. How are you?”

“S! Equals one-one-seven.”

The darkness blinked in bewilderment. All subtle movement in the area had ceased entirely as the mass of thought attempted to process the utterly ridiculous answer it had just been provided. Oozing charisma, it voiced its thought just in case. “Come again?”

“It’s the calculation for luck. I figured it out!”

One blink was an accomplishment. The flutter of eyelid flapping that followed, required this dark aspect to take on physical form purely so it could press hands together and reassess its priorities in existence. Something had clearly gone awry here. “Certainly, you meant ‘why can I not see’, followed by screaming, gasps of disbelief, a drama with a crestfallen collapse at the inevitability of defeat, culminating in begging to have your suffering swiftly ended.”

Artorian was used to being blind. He remembered it well enough that this temporary setback didn’t faze him one bit. Had the unhappily familiar voice not monologued its evil plan like a third-rate villain seeking desperate attention, he would have likely mentioned the fact. But no need to give an enemy more information than they had! He found that cycling Essence wasn’t improving his ability to see, and echolocation only outlined a vacant cave network.

The answers came easily enough. In comparison to the mysterious nature of the universe, this puzzle was only as difficult as figuring out who ate his evening pie in the Fringe longhouse; as if honey wasn’t sticky and children were clean eaters.

Creepy self-entitled voice. Check.

Dark underground conditions. Check.

Villainous idiot that was going to get beaten into the ground?

Check.

The old man touched his beard, only to find that he may have been the one who had eaten the pie. His otherwise groomed fluff was sticky and wet. It also smelled unpleasantly of… iron. Ah. Not pie. Doesn’t take more than one battlefield to gain an innate knowledge of when you’re covered in blood, and he’d seen more than his share of battlefields.

This did not bode well for the people that had gone down here to hide. Down? …yes. Cavern aesthetic, musky wet air, cold, dark. Down. Why were people hiding? He was having a rough time recalling… it was all such a jarring blur. “How did I even get down here? I was on the mountain top.”

An attempt to brighten the area filled him with incredible dread. While the hum of the energy building in his Aura could be heard reverberating through the cavern, no light graced or filled his Aura. “*Tsk*. Oh, come now… you couldn’t have known about that. Surely a little clarity on your situation would be illuminating.”

The unpleasantly familiar voice bounced off the thick sheet of his presence, preventing a mental assault by sheer virtue of an Aura being present. The attack felt like nails screeching along a chalkboard, except that his Aura was the board.

Something about the tone gave Artorian pause. That sentence had not been in response to his question; rather, a response to what he’d almost done, and didn’t do thanks to his sudden discomfort. Unsettling as the situation was, it provided questions. Questions that pulled resources from his panicked mind still enraptured and terrified by the glimpses of the divine. His thoughts were diverted to the here and now, and the old man could feel himself relax as those extraneous considerations dimmed enough to be shelved for later.

His sigh of relief greatly displeased his unseen host, but not half as much as the following commentary did. “Even a blind man can see the truth when it is so obvious. What more illumination do I need when you’ve told me everything?”

The darkness hitched and fractured with crackling energy. Artorian would describe it as the sound of lightning, if it happened in reverse. The voice came again: “You know nothing.”

Artorian nodded at such a sagely statement. “Truer words were rarely spoken.”

Irritation clashed all around him. Not in flashes of light, visible clues, auditory snippets, or sensory stimulation on his skin. He didn’t have to hear the psychic wailing to know it was there. Silence was not the strong suit of the personality he was undoubtedly surrounded by. In fact, silence was a sign that all was well! If he could hear the voices… his defenses were breached.

Since he could not, Artorian safely inhaled the stale cavern air as his thoughts leaned to the conditions required to bring him from the top of the mountain. That’s where he had last been, as far as he was concerned. The shift to somewhere much further down was jarring.

The emergency escape plan, the one that would bring him here without him doing so himself was only for the direst of circumstances. If he’d woken up down here, it should have been with a significant portion of Jian, or at least the students. The stench of blood was an indication that Jian had certainly accompanied him… so why had he been excluded from the event that put them in this state?

“I will rend your flesh, tear your bones, break your muscle, and chew you until you’re goop. All that’s going to be left of your mind is chunks of wispy screams that neither remember fresh air, nor the tenderness of a kind hand.”

The voice was too physical. It carried a similarity to a different familiar voice. One devoid of charisma, steeped entirely in jealousy and self-entrapment. Artorian couldn’t see, and so couldn’t be certain, but the idea had manifested and would likely hold true. Artorian’s reply came as a whisper. “…Cataphron?”

After a moment of silence, a heavy footstep fell onto the bloodied floor. A second footfall joined it, the weight behind it nearly nonexistent. Enough to be, but not enough to mimic true corporeality. The charismatic tones responded in a mixture of voices, each morphing halfway into the next. “I despise you so. The name you call both is, yet is not… present. Alive, but dead. Assimilated.”

The arrangement of voices made Artorian clutch his robe. Not merely Cataphron mixed in the whirlpool of voices, but the three prior masters of the academy each lent their own voice to the amalgamation of sound. It seemed that Cataphron had found his old masters after all. Or what there was left to find, at least.

Still, the amalgam did not pursue him. How strange… had the positions been reversed, he would not have allowed his opponent to wake from slumber merely to trade words or deliver a fancy speech. An idea struck Artorian: what if it was not a matter of choice? Were there any circumstances that would make this action so unfavorable that it gave merit to avoiding it outright?

The fresh puzzle set his mind alight. New information could be pulled from recent happenings and important events. Think, old boy, think. What had the amalgam said? What does an old man not know about, and why is illumination encouraged? This was the Caligene of blight, phantoms, and shadows. Light would be its bane, and the creature’s words seemed to instigate him to activate abilities that would cause it harm. Artorian straightened as a piece clicked. He was upright, his fists balled up even though he could not discern his surroundings, still the anger flowed. “Cataphron!”

The surreptitious smile schmoozed out a very un-Cataphron-esque response. The kind of delighted smirky tone that signaled a plan was about to see fruition. How the Blight craved the satisfaction of seeing its plan come to a rewarding conclusion. “Ye~e~ess?”

Artorian stomped the ground with his foot, splashing a wet wave of ‘red water’ all around. “You blithering fool! You absolute squirrel! How could you let the Blight take you? Why didn’t you fight!”

What had been a slimy smile dropped to flat unamusement. The old man just wasn’t playing along. Come on… light up the place. It knew the old man wanted to do so. It’s what he was good at; he made that awful lance which caused shudders of unpleasantry and destroyed his reaching thoughts! Had this clown been any better at the skill, there might not have been enough information returning to formulate the plot. Some persuasion was required, and the amalgam slipped right back into the drawl of a charismatic salesman. “Oh, he tried, old student. He tried.”

The voice swirled around Artorian, not bound by bodily positioning or physical factors. Clouds of blight shifted and moved within the cavern they fully occupied. They just had to make sure that they didn’t cross the rules, and they’d be fine. “See, I ate him easily. There was no external Aura to prevent me from gulping him right up. You already know nothing else defends from mental assaults! That’s why you’ve layered it on so thick. You didn’t wake to any of my normal words, but when I began using the mimicry of a voice box, here you are…!”

Artorian had not expected to learn anything from this conversation. Especially not that a thick enough external Aura blocked out mental prodding and assaults. He’d file that away for a time where that knowledge could come in handy. “I… I see. Did you also eat whoever got me down here? Let’s not pretend it’s not blood I’m standing in. Hmm. Hopefully nobody I know. I’ve grown tired of mourning again and again. It’s more of a dull ache at this point.”

He cut himself off as he started to ramble. It was a terrible time for reflecting.

Chapter Two

The cave laughed; at least what was in the cavern did. There was no distinction. The general area rocked and reverberated the age-old pathways. “They were all snacks to savor, and savor I did. Though I admit I had quite the gluttonous streak while waiting for the main course to wake. There is nothing that compares to a truly unburdened mind.”

Artorian folded his hands behind his back. “Unburdened indeed. Can’t help but notice I can breathe decently. How odd that an entity controlling and occupying the entirety of the space I inhabit is allowing me such a relaxing awakening. Uninterrupted, even. Why, for all that talk of eating me, it doesn’t feel like I have as much as a scratch on me. Curious…”

The Blight bit its lip, monologuing in attempt to throw the academic off balance while regaining its own. “The greatest curiosity has yet to come across your notice! If only you could see the complexity of what I’d prepared for you. Were you not on the menu, you might have even found it beautiful. Art only an advanced mind is able to appreciate…”

It was too late; Artorian had the amalgam by the hanging satchel. “I suppose that hinges on a single question.”

Phantoms wailed in disgust, but none of it reached the intended target. No screams of mental anguish could breach an Aura that was changing to increase in effectiveness against their specific influence. What a terrible matchup this old man was. In disdain it spat out a retort, using a body to utter the guttural vocalization. “That being?”

While the Skyspear headmaster wasn’t at all pleased about the current situation, it did bring a smile to his face to test the conditions under which this war was operating. “Who are you?”

The cavern trembled and shook. The Blight hated, despised, and loathed this terrible, annoying, unyielding living creature. Could it not just die already? The Blight knew all too well that the answer to this question meant two things. One, this despicable wrinkled cockatoo knew. Two, the reply would determine vulnerability. Being an amalgamation of every mind it had consumed, who it was remained a matter of… sensitive nature. A fact so crucial to its own preservation that it knew better than to reveal the unembellished truth.

Deflection was in order. “Who am I, indeed! Who but the stuff of nightmares? The walker of the pale? The whispers one hears in the dark? The reason one does not remember why they entered a room? I am the missing sock in the wash, the full stomach after someone becomes lost in the woods. I am that which one bumps into when there should have only been empty space, and I am what watches you from the creeping corners of the dark. I am the reason one cannot fall asleep at night, for danger is nearby and it is unsafe to rest.”

Pausing a moment to relish, it regarded the aged old bat. “I am hunger. I. Am. Death.”

Artorian cackled; that was good enough for him! “Not Cataphron. Confirmed…!”

Relish turned to ruin as the sound of a heartbeat coupled with an outward pulse of plasmic light rippled in spherical form from the starlight cultivator. Refined Essence was compressed into the effect as Artorian combined several ideas. Costly, but if he was only going to get this single effect off… it might as well be one for the ages!

Echolocation, luminescence, moss, and stickiness exploded from his presence. The Blight shrieked as thick, crawling, growing patches of light developed over the smoky layers just like lichen and moss did. Simply much, much faster.

The effect clung to the walls, spreading, glowing, shining. Providing a natural illumination to the cavern as his pulse extended in reach, until eventually it struck the ceiling. What a colossal hole in the ground this was. Artorian almost wished he’d remained ignorant upon being greeted by the sight that awaited: thousands of bodies littered the ground that must have once been a pit. While he indeed stood upon a layer of blood, he somehow hadn’t guessed that the soft ground he was traversing… was bodies. Bones littered the cavern halls as far as he could see, and he knew in his heart… that if there was one thing he should not do… it was to look up.

For all the love contained in the heavens and the earth… do not look up.

The effect of his Essence hadn’t ended when it left him. There were instructions contained in the pulse that still tore through underground pathways, sticking its effect to the walls where it could self-replicate in limited form. Costly, sure. However, if his guess was correct and he shouldn’t attack his foe in the near future, the near-natural lighting hopefully would not count as such. Artorian wasn’t going to get away with this twice, and he needed all the information he could get his hands on. That meant…

Artorian’s chin tilted before his eyes did.

He should not have looked up.

What does an amalgamation of several tens of thousands of minds, corrupted, blackened, and blighted look like? Turns out, like they still had hands and faces contorted in screams as they tried to escape a slimy, moist, glossy leather bag that stretched but never broke. It wasn’t even a physical, solid body. Yet the shadows were so dense, and the infernal energy harvested from the torment and continual anguish so packed, that it may as well have been.

“Ew.”

The ‘burning’ effect of his pulse of Essence was superficial, and had been extinguished by the Blight. A body in the endless, sickening floor-pile of meat… no… Cataphron rose. His eyes were the same ghastly hollow that had been so prevalent in Artorian’s nightmares that very first night in Birch’s company. With the candles… how sweet the candles made by the Wood Elves had been. But much like oils, they did nothing to alleviate the true problem.

Cataphron’s steady, familiar voice spoke up in the charismatic cadence of the Blight. “How. In the name of the Abyss. Did you figure it out?”

The academic snapped to the question. The words had been so… human. So steady. So believably from a real body that, had he not known better, he’d have thought the body walking towards him without a shred of effort was actually alive. “Oh, Blighty… you told me, by not telling me. Unsurprisingly, waking up at all was the first big giveaway. Being able to breathe the second. Threats without action the third.”

“The only true course of action would have been for me to be part of this meat-floor you’ve decorated your hole with. It sickens me, and I wish I knew how to tear you from existence with great vengeance for what you’ve done to all these poor people… all the Elves you’ve hunted and harmed… all the lives you’ve consumed and cut short!”

Cataphron gleefully smiled a sickly grin, snickering. “But you ca~a~an’t…”

Artorian didn’t move from his spot as a Blight-infested and puppeted Cataphron came face to face with him. He held back a wince; what a few years of rot and decay can do to a person. Hiding his rage, Artorian mimicked the mocking tone right back at the ‘creature’.

“Neither can you~u~u…”

The Blight laughed through fleshy vocal chords. “Oh, the land law you have with this man may prevent me from ravishing your mind like a snack bar at the royal palace, but unlike before… you’re in my house now. You can’t leave unless I want you to leave.” The Blight sucked in a breath, and it felt like all the air in the room moved into it. “Perhaps I can’t harm you directly… but I don’t have to feed you, or let you sleep peacefully, give you time to think or explore the caverns. I can rearrange them, loop them, maze them. I can befuddle you while I deny you the light from your star, and walk a few paces behind as every day I slowly watch. You. Die.

“Maybe you’ll even make mistakes and drop your Aura too low, and then… I’m in.” Cataphron practically giggled, “What fun we will have.”

Artorian *tsk’d*. The land law was exactly what was preventing the Blight from tearing him open, and what was preventing him from full bore erasing the heart of this thing with the butt of his starlight pencil. “Someone else will come and get rid of you.”

Cataphron smiled from ear to ear and laughed like a mad hyena, cackling in delight at the absurdity of the claim. He bent over, slapped his knee, and enjoyed the visceral feeling a body provided through infernally-altered senses. This body was perfect as a physical host; no external Aura to prevent any takeover or interference!

Cataphron had been the cleanest snatch up ever. No damage to the host, perfect for replacement and inhabiting. The Blight adored having a body this suitable to play with, and play with it he would. “Oh, you can’t begin to understand how wrong you are there… You might have had a chance, but the memories from your ‘old friend’ told me everything. A flawless counter against my most specific problem? How could I resist? Sure, you achieved the position of Headmaster, but what threat is that when I have you so conveniently in my box?”

Artorian raised an eyebrow. Achieving Headmaster was a threat? Now that didn’t fit any narrative so far; why would that be of note? Earning the position itself is likely due to being quite powerful, but type mattered more than amount for this problem. Catty here had also mentioned quite snootily that ‘he’ might have had a chance.

The power of erasing starlight was good, but while it accounted for some of the facts, it didn’t account for all of the facts. Time to dig! “Ha! I could have defeated you as an academy student! I don’t need some fancy title. Had Cat and I gone another round before he went under, I’d have won!”

The laughter burst out once more; bubbly and thick as the raucous hilarity struck the multiple minds contained in the Blight, all using Cataphron as a mouthpiece. “First of all, Shinebug… no, you couldn't have. Secondly, this body would have wiped the ground with you so hard, you’d have been the courtyard’s new paint scheme.”

Artorian grit his teeth. “Where there’s one, it’s usually not done.”

The Blight ignored the strange phrase. “I can’t wait to see if you cave in to your baser needs. There is food for you here in plenty… I’ve left the bodies for you. They were never for me. I eat minds. No, my ‘old friend’ these…”

The infernal body moved its arms about, gesturing at the thousands of bodies. “...are for you! Will you go hungry, or will you force yourself to suffer, and survive? I don’t have to feed you, but can you stop yourself? I’ve learned that you’re as big of a glutton as I am! Think of that; we have something in common after all…

The academic felt poorly for all these people, but he couldn’t help them now. Not even to clean up their bodies. His most common Aura effects would incur the land law violation. Any use of cleansing effects or something similar were going to harm the Blight, and since the Blight was currently Cataphron… that was the first snag. The second snag was that there wasn’t just one land law at play.

He surmised there must be a second one that specifically had to do with the Headmaster position, or rather, the landowner. If he was the landowner of the Skyspear above, this Blight must be the owner of the below. That created quite the tension, and while the details were unknown… needing to be a landowner to face a landowner had a reasonable sense to it.

Artorian recalled an old passage from the Skyspear creation myth. He’d thought it was silly for someone to carve a menhir from the moon and launch it planetside to… entrap? An enemy. Not defeat it? How… annoyingly fitting. Sounds like someone else may have lacked a means to kill ol’ Blighty before. He recited the memory in a whisper while the phantom Blight cackled at him. “Only the highest spear may pierce the deepest depths.”

That was good and all, but he was stuck in the kitten’s box. Blighty still had him trapped, and his light-moss didn’t have a long duration. Still, it had given him the information he needed. That was generally worth the cost. Next came the hard part:

Waiting.

Chapter Three

Several hours in a deep dank cave did much to dim the spirit. There was a fringe benefit to this, as the initial panic had faded from the Skyspear student body. Those that survived, anyway. From a rough headcount, a third of the students had survived. The whereabouts of the remaining two thirds remained unknown until some rudimentary exploration, then telltale blood streaks leading down sporadic and numerous paths took away the hope that they would find the students alive.

From the drag patterns, their bodies looked like they had been dragged away at high speed. Based on the impact splatters, what had killed them hadn’t been the attack so much as the journey into the dark depths themselves. Sharp turns through rough caverns left many walls stained sanguine, and the sharp tips of stalagmites and stalactites were considered responsible for anyone that may have aggressively bounced their way down the tunnel network.

What exactly had done the dragging was unknown. No footprints marred the flawless streak patterns and impact stains. People hadn’t done this. A thing had grabbed everyone down here, likely one at a time, then dragged them with force and velocity to their graves like a kraken pulling a ship into the depths of the ocean.

Jiivra sat defeated on a stair step, the great majority of a frightened student body huddled nearby. Her Aura emitted a faint light, having just taken over from a few of the fire students too exhausted to keep their illumination active. They’d run out of torches an hour ago, and their planned supplies were soaked beyond the point of usability.

The way out was barred by a landslide, not that they could have used it. Even now they could hear pick and bone nick and peck at the makeshift blockage. It was only a matter of time before the tireless undead made their way through. They didn’t know exactly how long they had, they just knew they were tired, didn’t have the planned supplies, and had failed everyone they’d pushed down here.

Only a few of the students managed to speak. Even then, it was in short supply since the drab mood cut short their willingness to speak. They were responsible for leading an entire town down here. They’d been so sure it was safe; so certain. Nothing bad had ever happened during explorations! This was an abandoned cave system.

They’d never guessed that there was a lurker with an appetite sizable enough to consume the entire populace. Why hadn’t they known? They should have known! The realizations were eating away at them, and their instructors didn’t have any way to make them feel better. They were all equally responsible as far as they saw it, and they too blamed themselves.

Astrea frowned and lifted her head. There was a tingle in her ear. Speaking wasn’t a popular option, but the buzzing only got louder. Closer. “Does anyone hear that?”

A groan erupted en masse from the huddled air Essence students, and the head boy spoke in a monotone. “We hear the undead slowly clawing their way in, yes. Hard not to hear with how quiet it is in here.”

Astrea dismissed the snarky retort. “Not the ticking, the buzzing. The crinkling of paper that is just getting louder and louder?”

Alexandria perked up at the mention of paper. That was her playhouse, and she pressed her hands around her ears to make them bigger. She squinted, thinking that would make her hearing better. It didn’t, but it lifted the corners of many a mouth that spotted her antics, making them forget for just a moment how awfully cold it was down here.

The tiny librarian shook her head, she couldn’t hear anything. It made the students grit their teeth until Jiivra shot up sporting a similar frown. She reached out to Astrea, trying to match information. “Crinkling paper that pops and then gets wet?”

Alexandria pouted at being left out. Glaring between the two older girls, she again tried to squint-listen. Agitation struck her as again she heard nothing. She was being played with by the tall-sisters! Not fair! A few of the Skyspear students stood, copying the librarian’s ear-cupping attempt. Still, they also heard nothing and instead sent a questioning look at the highest-ranked master and… the plus one. How was the newbie doing something they couldn't? This was either a pitiful attempt at a distraction, or a joke in poor taste.

The cave lit up in a flash as crackling plasma light hurled its way through the open space like a bulldozing rhino with its tail on fire. It left a bioluminescent moss carpet that rapidly grew in its wake. It sucked up the moisture clinging to the cavern walls to sustain itself after the sudden accelerated growth, and the albino foliage crinkled as miniscule roots dug ever-so-barely into the rock to hold itself in place.

Students gawked in bewilderment, whispering mumbles between them that shared the same uncertain tones of confusion. That confusion intermingled with a spark of hope as Jiivra punched the air hard enough for her fist to create a *thud* by compressing the air. “Yes! Chalk one up for Skyspear, not all is lost!”

Jiivra’s smile was wide, and the only one returning it was an equally excited Astrea. They both deduced that there were limited sources which could pull off that oddball effect. The remaining student body got to their feet with a hastened heartbeat as they picked up the details from the conversing pair.

Astrea proudly pressed her fists into her hips. “Grandfather lives! That’s good news for everyone. I’d say that pulse was a good indication he’s snapped out of whatever mental quagmire he was stuck in on the way. Though I’ll admit I have no idea what the effect was supposed to accomplish. A means of telling us there’s a fighting chance? I’ll take that as a ‘crack on’!”

Jiivra dropped her illumination effect. The cavern was visible enough with the new low-light. Unfortunately, it also let everyone see more paths where bodies had been dragged. The difference was that more popular paths were no longer obscured, and it was easy to tell by the sheer amount of viscera and ‘paint’ which cavern tunnel became the most likely candidate to find the culprit.

The celestial combat instructor wasn’t convinced. “Did our old man do this? Probably. Do I know what it means? No. This never came up in the discussions, and I don’t even know what the intent is.”

Her Essence-cycled eyes scanned the surroundings, but she didn’t grasp any hidden meanings. “A pulse of heavy celestial to be sure. It revitalized plant life that previously thrived here, which I can safely guess is the moss. The conditions are good for it. There seems to be a change in what it’s supposed to do though. Because… well… it’s glowing.”

Astrea had a sudden memory of something her Elder had said well over a decade ago. She parroted his words and took a deft few steps closer to the wall for her own inspection. “Don’t eat the glowing moss.”

She received some looks that wordlessly said ‘duh’, including one from Alexandria. Even she’d read that it was a dumb idea to eat things that seemed unnatural or weren’t properly prepared. That’s how you got the screams. It’s what people did shortly after they ate something they shouldn’t have and rushed to the latrine. Don’t eat weird things. Don’t get the screams. Easy.

“I know I heard it, the wave passed, and I felt incredibly uncomfortable as it bounced off me and shot back.” Astrea shrugged at the nonverbal reply from her surroundings. “*Erghh*. It took a chunk out of my cultivation too. Oh, that just feels awful.”

She wrapped her arms around her stomach at the realization. Groaning internally as she kept her complaints to herself, though the momentary discomfort was a good uptick in the general mood of the students. Their head instructor hadn’t been too fond of the newbie when they’d first brought her up, and the gossip that she was an infernal cultivator reflected poorly on the daughter of the Fringe.

Astrea didn’t care about any of that. She had just pulled herself together when Jiivra softly held her shoulder. “How are you feeling, and can you tell me more about what you mean with ‘bounced back’? I didn’t feel that at all.”

The infernal cultivator nodded, having an idea or two. “You said the majority of that pulse was celestial? Well, I don’t need to know two sticks can make a fire to figure out that was not great for me.”

Soft pats followed on Astrea’s back, and the students were a little confused. Didn’t they dislike each other? Those who remembered their flirtatious fighting outside of the cave said nothing, distracted by their need for answers and direction. Abyss if they knew what to do or what that pulse meant. “You’re alright…”

The infernal cultivator nodded. She was, and Jiivra’s support went a long way. “Bounced back. I mean directly. That pulse thing hit me, shaved off a chunk of my cultivation, and repelled off and away from me like it was one of those rubber tree-sap orbs the kids started dropping down the Skyspear steps. You didn’t feel that?”

Jiivra shook her head ‘no’. “Nothing of the sort, if anything it went right through me.”

A few of the boys snickered but went ignored. The celestial instructor decided it was time to crowdsource for information. She turned and spoke with her usual militant poise. The school snapped to attention and without being prompted arranged themselves into a square formation. Fun and games were over when certain voice tones came out to play. No amount of feeling diminished was going to allow them to get one over on their combat instructor; she was still a C-ranker.

In fact, her rank was popular gossip material. According to the most reliable sources they had, it was supposed to take significantly longer to hit the C-ranks. On the mountaintop, their instructor simply had all the conditions working in her favor. Not only was she the prime source for connecting celestial Essence during her chants, but she was the prime benefactor. As a Master, she could cultivate unrestricted. Just about all of the Essence type the area gathered was hers to claim.

With a wide and consistent support network of students, her daily needs were seen to with advanced frequency. Most of all, it was a popular topic that she didn’t have their dual-ring cultivation technique. The students all had a ‘containment ring’ and a ‘cultivation ring’. One trapped their corruption until they could find a suitable means to get rid of it, while the other allowed them proper cultivation progress.

Their celestial instructor didn’t just have rings, but a cultivation technique personally constructed by the Headmaster. A lower grade copy of his own, significantly advanced method. While it had taken their Headmaster five years to recover from Echoing… Jiivra had spent those years gathering her power.

Not spending it on improvements, or Essence techniques, or infusion, or Aura building. Nothing except gather, and gather, and gather as the sun-Core refined her celestial Essence as fast as she could take it in. That technique was designed to take a multitude of Essences and refine them all at the same time.

Having it focused on a single affinity spiked the efficiency. Jiivra innately grasped the difference between her prior fractal and this new, three-dimensional method. On a surface level it looked deceptively simple. Yet, the method moved in ways that you just didn’t expect, and the complexity and nuances involved an entire category of difficulty higher than what she was used to.

A twenty-split fractal was easier than this, and she’d gotten to thirty-plus before the Vicars had stripped her of power. Jiivra was pulling in celestial Essence as hard and fast as she’d been able, and the cultivation technique might as well have been relaxing on a beach with a coconut drink in hand. The only reason she managed to handle the technique was due to its nature. Unlike her prior fractal technique, the gyroscope balanced itself.

Starting and stopping was the hard part, since it would pull in passive gain when you didn’t want it to unless you really put effort into clamping it shut. Though, even with all of that, nobody knew the real secret of how she was breaking through the ranks so fast.

Jiivra clapped her hands now that she had everyone’s attention. “This is what we’re going to do.”

Chapter Four

Artorian saw a ring of light return to his position through the illuminating moss, bouncing back from one of the tunnels right above him that he couldn’t conveniently get to. The bioluminescent moss didn’t faze the Blight. It was too weak and too minor, and based on the absolute lack of response from the unpleasant shapeless mass… it hadn’t noticed the extra bit. Artorian spoke with bemused wit. “We’re going to play a game!”

“The game is how long it takes you to figure out what mistakes you made. Without me telling you, at least until it’s too late. I will, however, give you a clue when you ask for it.”

Cataphron started beating a dead horse. Specifically, using one of the bodies of a Jian resident. Mostly out of sheer frustration, as at every turn this delusional, irritating fogey worked around his decade-long plan. The old man was supposed to run, to attempt to flee and hide. He was supposed to discover that no path he could take led to his freedom. No path led to salvation. All paths would lead the codger right back to him.

Upholding this first-person viewpoint was difficult. He slipped into sentences with ‘we’ instead of ‘I’, and the twinkle in the old man’s eye was dangerous. That idiot-pulse had been harmless, but it had confirmed something both of them had been uncertain of: the land-law only worked while the Blight was Cataphron. When enough mind, similarity, and identity was invoked to trick the vow into believing the soul of Cataphron still belonged to the original body, rather than a mimicry.

*Crunch*

The Blight snapped its considerable omnidirectional vision to the old man. Once again, confection crumbs flaked from the sides of his cheeks, marring the edge of his lips as another ‘cookie’ had come from nowhere to be consumed. The man was supposed to eat the flesh of the fallen! To fall into despair! The Blight was seething for satisfaction.

How did this field mouse have so much food on him? Artorian crunched the delicious cookie, swallowing with a wide smile before thumbing the corners of his mouth to lick them clean. A very thin and veiled starlight Aura surrounded him, excessively cleaning without harm to the Blight. The identity slider had been completely moved to ‘cleaning’ with a little leeway for ‘light’. Not enough to harm his adversary, but certainly enough to annoy the deathly abyss out of it.

Artorian had spent years honing his ability to get under Cataphron’s skin in letter format, and easy decades of consistent sass practice. The cherry on top? He was living and doing this purely out of spite; purely to aggrieve and annoy an entity that likely wasn’t even from this world. Just to stick it to ‘em. Artorian knew that his survival was… unlikely.

The *ping* he got back let him know some of his students had survived, unfortunately he didn’t know who, or how many. Just that they had. Since the ping had returned, the effect must have reached them. Though that wasn’t the intent of his little… charade.

The truth was in the moss. Artorian didn’t know it, but his Fringe-daughter had been absolutely right on the gold coin: Blighty here was a glutton. It liked to eat! Eventually, it was going to eat some of the moss in counter-spite. Artorian knew it would. It would think of it eventually as a way to get back at a creature it couldn’t touch, since it wanted so badly to see him suffer. Specifically, suffer slowly.

If the Blight dropped the entire sadism routine, and went after him in earnest… then it could not do so while maintaining the method by which it was somehow holding the land-law vow together. Much like the armor that was currently still of no use to him. Artorian just didn’t have a good grasp on how the blazing heavens that worked. Why did land-laws even work at all? How does a patch of ground have the ability to punish someone for breaking a promise or oath?

That just didn’t make any sense, because that’s not how it worked in the Fringe. He knew well how rites of land ownership functioned, but not abyss-blasted why.

Cataphron spat back at him. “Burn you and your games.”

Artorian raised a brow. “You’re hurt by fire… I’m surprised to hear you make such a comment.”

The Blight infesting Cataphron’s body reeled unnaturally. Cracking the spine to bend the body in twisted ways before aligning it to face Artorian with sickening pops. “No, I’m not. I’m immune to that annoyance called fire. It’s just a distraction. A dumb. Paltry. Minute. Irritating distraction. I care not for any temperature. I don’t feel it. I care not for the damage their extremes supposedly accomplish. They don’t function against me. Of all the compound Essences, there are but two that have ever given me any thoughts of doubt. Once you are dead, none will remain in this world.”

Sagely nodding was the old man’s reply, a mystery cookie pressed between his fingers. He spoke with flat snark, but played it off like he meant his words. “Oh. Well, then. My sincere apologies. I never realized I was in the presence of such greatness.”

Cataphron threw his arms into the air as the untenable mass above him shifted with bubbling agreement. “Finally, some sense!”

An idea struck the philosopher, and he stowed the cookie for now. He had planned to take a loud, interruptive bite at whatever the response was going to be… but something better came to mind. “Ah, well. Yes, I suppose I should have noticed earlier. I didn’t really make the connection before now. I did see a high ranked Mage throw power at you, and it did… well, it did nothing. Given such invulnerability, I shouldn’t be surprised by an entity that’s two hundred years old.”

The Blight recoiled as if it had been grievously insulted. The entire room shifted as smooth shadows became jagged and edged. Some even creased and dug dimpled lines into the moss-coated wall. So, shadows could become solid? Good to know!

The room, rather than Cataphron, replied. “Two hundred? You wound me with your poor estimations. I am no wet-eared whelp. I am two thousand years into my glorious eternity. I am from the peak, the pinnacle, the apex of the Golden Age.”

Cataphron’s body stilled, and Artorian was hard pressed not to test an attack. It was too likely that was a ruse, a purposeful moment of weakness to eke out an aggressive response that would spur his own demise. Cataphron’s neck cracked and his face did a full-moon turn to regard him, sad to see there was no flicker in the old man’s Aura.

Artorian let out a calming exhale. Close call. He’d nearly done it. Best to pry a little more. “Two thousand! My word, were you ever human? Or always… actually I’m not sure what you are. We’ve just been calling you whatever comes to mind at the time.”

“Whatever comes…!” Cataphron pressed his undead hand to his chest, appalled once more. “What do you mean you do not know of me? I exist in every history book, every folk tale, and every dreadful story mortals use to still their children at night. I, the eternal transcended of the dark. Wondrous, vast, and all-reaching. There is nowhere my tendrils do not spread, no underdark my bleakness does not tread.”

Artorian pressed thumbs into his temples, then rubbed them in slow circles. “I’m… no… no, that doesn’t sound familiar. I thought it had to do with a story about the mountain being tossed from the moon, but of course that was preposterous.”

“It. Is. Not!” The cavern shuddered and violently shook as the intensity of the phantom’s words cracked stalactites, and the old man went diving for cover. Sharp sky rocks would certainly do some harm, and even though he was staving off infection and disease from all the dead via his Aura, it was too big a risk to take a hit.

The Blight fumed, roiling like an angry swarm; buzzing with the silenced screams of trapped minds trying to push free from its entrapping blubber. “My last fray with the first Aran was a battle of legend. We scoured the planet and fought on the three moons, back when there were three. How the balance twisted when the third was sent to the great unknown, merely to force me into underground entrapment and slumber. The brightest of the Golden Age destroyed their prosperity merely to buffet me like a wailing child.”

Cataphron scoffed, contained enough to talk locally again. “Human? Nay, I was never of such insignificant filth. I was Elven before my Apotheosis, as all the greats were. A true Elven, before the fracture. Before the fall. Before our race was shattered.”

The old man sat down on a large rock, watching Cataphron move wildly and talk more with his hands than even he did during an enthusiastic lecture. The Blight really loved talking about itself. Maybe he could do something with that… another nudge? Another nudge. “Here I thought you were from the great beyond all along, since nobody can figure out what you are.”

Cataphron faltered, a near weeping expression on his drooped face. “Oh, how the histories have muddled. The deepest knowledge is lost.”

The droop quickly flicked to a maddened ear-to-ear smile. “How I look forward to correcting such maladies. For I feel it. Claws hack at the outside of the mountain; they seek passage within. I need but one. But one… then my connection shall be powerful enough to resurge once more.”

Artorian once again had a cookie in his hand, though he looked at it disinterestedly. “So, just an Elf then. Odd body for an Elf. Very wispy, like a smoked pipe.”

The Blight snarled, swirling again as its irritation returned. “Do your ears serve only as repositories for wax? Was! I said I was an Elf! I have become more than Elven prowess. Even back then I was special. I survived the Ripping where others did not.”

The old man nibbled at the edge of the confection, repeating the words of note to make it sound like he was invested in the conversation. “The ripping, you say… but of course.”

Cataphron scoffed, as if such a young mortal could possibly understand the significance. He smiled, knowing that he could lord his knowledge over the old fool all he wanted. Like always, he would outlast any mortal. This tale calmed him and reminded him of that fact. He would win in the end. Victory would be all the sweeter when he watched this moth wink out against its dark flame.

“Oh yes… knowledge of Essence channels was so commonplace during the Golden Age that even peasants had their centers cleared of corruption. Yet I… I was special. My infernal channel, during an event of Ibis Ta—a gathering of power—went wild. The overabundant influx of the infernal ripped my channel open, forcibly closing all the others. They thought me dead, but I lived. I lived, and underwent apotheosis over the course of a scant few years. Why, it went by so swiftly that I barely remember the agony.”

Artorian no longer half-nibbled at his cookie. His eyes sternly locked on the hollow dark flames alight in Cataphron’s sockets. “You jest. You merely say this to deny me truth. If you had truly survived an affinity channel rip, which all sources say is fatal… you jest. There is no apotheosis, that means to become a divine.”

The dark, charismatic voice cut him off, “Or to become something else, beyond that which you were. Three years I suffered as the infernal took me. Replaced me. Yet as I changed, I learned things unimaginable. I tapped into power my peers could not reach and my tutors could neither grasp nor comprehend. I moved infernal in ways so natural that monks sought me out for guidance. My connection was so strong, Ascended sought me for answers. Do you truly not grasp what becomes of those who survive ripped Essence channels? We become something else.

“We become elementals.”

Chapter Five

“Tychus, did you have to kill another one of our retainers?” Grimaldus flipped a page in his book as he walked closely behind his brother. They had been evicted out of the ziggurat until they’d ‘regained enough honor’ to be seen by the Vizier once more.

In any other situation, this would have been a gift from the heavens themselves. They were out unsupervised, surrounded by thousands of refugees, and were far more powerful than the standard person they would encounter.

Grim looked down at the bone bracelet he was wearing, grimacing as he recalled the Vizier’s words: ‘While you wear these, you have my protection, and I will always be able to find you. There is nothing that will unintentionally break them, which means the moment it happens you will have proven that I can no longer trust you. Then, I will have no use for you. The Mistress, on the other hand, can always use more bodies.’

His brother *tsk’d* at the reminder. "I already told you, it is not my fault that their bodies are so frail!”

Tychus currently stood at six and a half feet tall, muscled so heavily that he nearly looked obese. "I gave him a supportive pat on his back when he was yelling at you, it is not my fault he died from a suggestive nudge!"

Grimaldus flatly accused his brother. "We both know that you have trouble controlling your body cultivation. We both also know that your control is not that bad. Just because someone is yelling at me does not mean they need to die. I know it is frustrating, and hard to understand, but it is better to serve the evil you know than an unknown."

Tychus rolled his massive shoulders and shoved yet another refugee-turned-raider out of his path. "Well, at least we get to enjoy some fresh air. I am certain that you are as sick of the pits as I am. Any thoughts on what we can do to get back in the good graces of the sublime Vizier?"

Grimaldus narrowed his eyes. Sometimes his brother truly did not know how to hold his tongue. "You must realize that your voice booms, and we are surrounded by literally thousands of people who would do anything to get in his favor?"

“I would love for someone to report me for calling him 'sublime'.” Tychus chuckled at the very thought. “What is going on over there? That seems promising."

Grimaldus followed his brother’s gesture, his eyes locking upon a massive sprawling arena that was currently under construction. On one of the completed arena rings, two people traded blows. “That must be the Vizier’s recent bid for the Mistress’s favor. He had recently mentioned a foolproof, unbeatable ranking system that he had designed."

"Unbeatable? Arena?” Tychus allowed a wide smile to break out across his rectangular-shaped face. "Perfect! We will become the champions of the arena, and by then not only will we have proven ourselves, brought honor, and given everyone plenty of time to cool off... but also gained a hefty sack of silver if I am reading that prize board correctly."

Grimaldus shook his head. "That may work for you, but all my cultivation allows me to do is kill. There is not very much I can do to someone beyond simply dissolving a chunk of their body, and I feel like that would not be taken very well."

Just then, the fight in the arena concluded in a spectacular fashion. The spear of the winner entered the front of the loser’s neck, exiting the back. The loser dropped to the ground, and the onlookers erupted into cheers. Tychus smirked over his shoulder at his smaller brother, “It appears that the matches can be to the death."

With a dark gleam in his eye, Grimaldus nodded along, now on board with the idea. “It appears I have found a way to progress my cultivation even while exiled from the pits, brother. Shall we register?"

Tychus just giggled.

Over the next few weeks, the brothers took on all challengers. The only time they refused to fight was when the arena matchmakers attempted to force them to fight each other. After the first two matchmakers were killed in lieu of one of the brothers, the others finally seemed to catch on.

After a month, the two were officially on the top one hundred list where they finally began to encounter dangerous foes. For the first time since they had begun, the duo were up against more than just simple F- or very low D-rank combatants. Still, they prevailed.

The reputation the two of them created for themselves was one of no mercy, no quarter, and that anything and everything would be used to win. After opening a position on the list for themselves by drenching the ground in blood, their next opponents and the ones after that simply bowed and forfeited.

During a match where Grimaldus’ opponent didn’t flake out, Tychus roared in appreciation as his brother’s opponent screamed when swarmed by skeletons. All opponents were given the opportunity to surrender, but after the initial refusal not a single one had ever been granted mercy. Grim was all smiles when a day later, he left the dais with another victory. "All of that reading is finally paying off! I saw no Essence loss today! Even better is that I do not need to burn yet another set of robes."

Grimaldus laughed along with Tychus as they stepped to the side and prepared for the next and final matches of the day. "Perhaps we will finally be taken seriously when we tell them we will only give them one chance to walk away without joining my growing horde."

A matchmaker walked up to the two of them, a cheeky smile brimming on his face. "It seems that the top fifty is as far as you go for now! I have just received orders from the Vizier: you are to present yourselves to him immediately."

The two brothers stood and turned as one, but the matchmaker had not finished, "Of course, since you are leaving right now, you will have to forfeit this match and the earnings from today's winning streak. Oh, abyss!"

The man dove to the ground as a boulder-sized fist lazily swept through the air where his head had been but a moment ago. "All I am doing is explaining! I get nothing out of this!"

The emerald-eyed brothers were already walking away, not sparing the man a second glance. When the Vizier gave you an order, you followed it on the spot if you wanted to remain alive. Grim chuckled at the memory of the pudgy matchmaker flinging himself away. “It appears we have gathered enough honor to regain our positions.”

"Sooner than expected, in my humble opinion," Tychus rumbled.

"You just wanted to continue spending your silver on the lovely camp followers," Grim teased his bulky companion. "And here I thought you would..."

He trailed off as he saw the expression on the quasi-giant's face.

Tychus had narrowed his emerald eyes at the sea of humanity around them. His voice lowered and quivered as it only ever did when they knew they had privacy. "What are we doing here, Grimaldus? Have we become irredeemable beasts? Look at me! Day by day I continue to grow, within a few years I will be a monster… what would Elder have-"

"Enough, Tychus!" Grimaldus demanded, his equally pained emerald eyes dangerously flashing. "You know we will do whatever we need to do in order to survive. It has been years since we came here, and it may be years before we can escape. We can only hope that when we do, we can forgive ourselves for doing what must be done."

"The fact of the matter, Tychus, is that we are the only ones that will need to find forgiveness. Well, perhaps Astrea is still out there, but the simple fact of that matter is that the Elder, just like everyone else we knew in the Fringe…"

"…died years ago."

Chapter Six

“Elementals.” Feeling very alive, Artorian cautiously repeated the word like he was tasting it in his mouth. He found it… encouraging. It served only to whet his appetite, though he held firm so as to not fall into another ruse. “The very basis of the Essence, given form, mind retained?”

Cataphron shouted in elation, pleased with the development. “Yes! See, even you can think if your betters spoon feed you the components like the little mortal baby you are…”

He paused as he saw the old man hold his chin, deep in thought. “Lost already? That’s not unex-”

“I’m counting.”

Cataphron gleefully allowed a partial smile as the left side of his lips curled upward. “Don’t hurt yourself too much for my sake. Actually…”

The Blight didn’t get a response from the hushed counting that was furiously happening on the old man’s fingers. He could make out a muddled mention of ‘two thousand’, see a head scratch, and then another attempt to start from the top. “Now you’re being worthlessly annoying again.”

Artorian looked up from his mathematics. “It just doesn’t add up. There’s no history dating back more than… maybe a few hundred years? Everything before that is just gone, or didn’t happen. This ‘golden age’ of yours. It never happened.”

The Blight’s mood soured, and it was visible on the possessed face of the undead infernal cultivator’s corpse. Artorian thought that was awfully expressive for a dead man. “Merely because you don’t know, doesn’t mean history didn’t happen, fool! Perhaps a lesson will make you see some stars.”

A malicious grin followed, and without waiting for a retort the Blight launched into a full ‘I know better than you’ tirade. Perhaps he could bore the codger to death with history. “Don’t worry: unlike mortals, I have done well to keep up with what you have so wastefully cast aside. If we say that the point we are at now is zero BC, Before Cataphron, then the years work as follows:

“Two thousand BC, the height of the golden age. The apex, the midpoint, the glorious spread of the Ever Empire. Knowledge of the Tower was at its zenith, and the Heavenly ascended near once a year, leaving this mortal coil for a greater purpose. My favorite of which was an old friend. He became the Heavenly of Order, keeper of vows and promises.

“It is through his magnanimous will that concepts such as land-laws, ownership contracts, and Mana-promises hold power. By your own might you make the vow, and by his oath, keeps you to yours. It is in this time that I transcend, and face unfair and unjust punishment for what I’ve become. It is here the third moon is sacrificed, and it is here we ring the bell of decline. For the age of plenty has ended.”

“Twelve hundred BC, the golden age comes to a screeching end. Gnomes go into seclusion due to persecution from the rise of the major Elven super nation. My nation. Currently they’re just called ‘Ancient Elves’, but we used to be so, so much more. Grand political struggles tore apart the accords of unison, and with their destruction… Essence knowledge is no longer shared; it is now hoarded, rather than kept as a cohesive whole. Species fracture amongst themselves, entire lineages and houses are lost in pursuit of safeguarding what little they can save.

“This was the last age where a Node was added to the Tower, and knowledge of the Heavenly made the rounds. No more have ascended to the heavens since this day, as no more iridescent borealis have graced the entirety of the sky.

“One thousand BC. One of my favorites… the Endless War. Due to horrendous strife, what becomes known as ‘the Endless War’ breaks out as attempts to secure the world’s best resource deposits come to a head. Gone are the days of politically agreeing to share basic needs. The strong survive, and the majority of higher end cultivators begin lineage feuds that will last for centuries.

“To the survivor… it’s nasty. It’s awful. Border slaughter runs rampant as the supernation starts to collapse. The call goes out, the last try for unity and peace. All remaining high-powered leadership gathers in the Socorro capital.

“Nine-fifty BC. The Meteor. After some serious infighting, a common cause is discovered when a space rock comes to say hello. It turns out that when you kick a moon out of orbit, it just comes back for revenge. It impacts the capital smack-center. The majority of the effects are mitigated at the cost of the lives of thousands of Mages and a grand majority of S-rankers and up.

“They saved the world as a whole, and I have my first taste of sweet vengeance. They lost their world, no matter that the world itself survived. The Elves shattered into splinter species. Ancient Elves become ‘Wild Elves’ since their entire civilization is gone. Only rubble and ruin remain, their ways of life split along with their self-aggrandized species.

“Knowledge of cultivation retreats into the recesses of the world, and those who have it become the new nobility as the Endless War comes to an end. There are none left to fight, and those who do remain are broken. It is time to consolidate, and plan anew!

“The old world is dead… long live the new world. A mere century afterwards, the new generation of mortals that have come and gone have no clue what came before. History is different. The old ways are taught no longer. It is taboo to do so, for those teachings brought only ruin. The powerful are reclusive, despising intervention into their personal affairs. Interlopers are silenced. Scholars are culled. Knowledge is scoured and stolen between ancient houses for scraps of a monument that no longer stands.

“New ways of life spring up, and the old world ignores them. New wars break out, and the old world lets them happen. Undead march the lands, and the old world lets it happen. Conflicts are waged between forces not their own, and those who survive remain of the opinion that the new world is not their concern. Hundreds and hundreds of years, and the old world remains passive; culled by their own hubris. Locked in their own torment. All who live from that age are mad, lost, broken… or me.” The Blight savored that last syllable with a succulent slurp.

How it had eaten, and eaten, and eaten the minds of eons of people. How each mind added to its intellect, even as it added to its propensity for distraction. The Blight remained distanced from madness, for there was always another passion in which to indulge. A passion of hunger, for existence was to feast, and all the world had been laid before it on a table.

“So yes… elementals. We are endless and unbound. Our minds kiss the fabric of the universe, unshackled by flesh. I do not bend the infernal to my will. I am the infernal.”

Artorian tapped his chin. Pleasant history lesson, but nothing about what was preventing this supposedly ‘mighty elemental’ from leaving in the first place. If he was truly all-reaching, remaining stuck under the rock you’d been cast down with seemed a nearly ironic choice. So the only conclusion was that the Blight had omitted important information: specifically on why it was stuck here.

No, it had let slip a few things. A few… crucial details. “That’s quite a children’s tale. So your attempts to lure me into violating the land-law came about due to your friendship with a person that became the reason such laws are enforced in the first place? Devious.”

If the Blight didn’t know his plan had been seen through before with certainty, it did now. Its entire speech had saddled it on a high horse, and it felt great. Superior. Atop the world and preparing to crush a mortal speck between its elemental foot. Then that got mentioned, and it was right back to feeling lemon-sour as the scrumptious crunch of a cookie being loudly chewed echoed in the darkness.

Cataphron’s voice was flat. “I hate you.”

The reply was a joyful *mmm* of a thoroughly enjoyed confection. The Blight considered just flattening him. Just ending it. The long game was going to be satisfying… but he could just quickly end it.

It squinted as it noticed an anomaly. A suspicious flicker hung on the academic’s Aura. That brat was baiting him! His Aura held a counter attack, fueled and ready to burst. That weasel! “When I reach the tender groves of your precious friends again, I’m going to consume so many of their trees that the Wood Elf S-ranked elders will have to wake up just to contain the damage.”

Artorian waited a moment before sassily regarding his next cookie. “More jesting. Wood Elves don’t have S-rankers.”

Cataphron slid unpleasantly close to the edge of Artorian’s external Aura. “Of course the Old World has S-rankers, and not even their Soul-ranked dimensional shifts are effective against me. They are merely a deterrence at best. They’re all bound to the Nature Law, all three of them. That’s the limit with any given Node. One S, one double-S, and one triple-S. Their terrible naming convention that describes how many steps one has taken towards the heavenly ascension.”

Remaining steady in the face of what was intended to be disheartening discomfort, the old man leered into the ghostly sockets of a man that used to be a peer. “Very well then. I take it you’re on the last step? Given you’ve had such vast lengths of time to develop your power, and all. The souls you must have eaten along the way likely mean you’re going to be meeting your friend soon, no?”

The flickering phantom eyes looked away. Oh? Curious… the infernal cultivator's form followed soon after, and the body walked with the waltzing rhythm of a self-important noble. “I… oh, what's the harm? You won’t live to tell a soul. Speaking of, I consume and entrap minds. Not souls. That requires being tied to the gluttony node in the Tower of Ascension. Also called the devouring node, or the hunger node. No. I was Ascended, but such connections are lost when one transcends into an elemental.

“Had I successfully made the first step into the S-ranks… maybe. Unlikely, but maybe. Had I turned during the portion of the S-rank where initial actualization occurs, then certainly! Unfortunately, becoming the full incarnation of an Essence doesn’t sit too well with stable concepts. I am able to do anything the infernal Law can. It doesn’t like not being needed and all its effects being freely available. So, it threw me out of my Ascension, and the ripped channel consumed me.”

The Blight reflected on the moment like it had been yesterday, though time had long since ceased to hold meaning. The expression plastering his captive’s face enticed a smile. The Blight tasted the seasoning it had just poured over an impending meal.

The old man was shook! Artorian pressed his hand to his heart. His body angled back and away, and his face was carefully contorted in an expression that conveyed shock, awe, disbelief, and appalled rejection. “A person can cease being a Mage? Surely that’s a one-way road with all the effort one goes through to get there!”

Chapter Seven

The Blight merrily laughed. This was causing destabilizations. It liked that. “Ha! Just what do you think nodes are? How they come to exist, refine, and function? In the day when the Tower was still building, this knowledge was so common that even children knew. Of course you can be rejected! Do you think the Law of Ice would let you retain your connection if you lost your water Essence channel? It does not! It strips you of your Ascension body and kicks you back out to the low mortal realm. Do you believe an Actualized, your S-rankers, to be any different? No!”

The phantoms sneered in delight. The wounded whimpers from the old man were candy to its senses. More. It needed more. “It takes much longer for an Actualized to be punted to the curb, but it certainly happens. Waste away too long without benefit to the Law, and it may judge you unworthy. It will find more suitable candidates to replace the waste of space, and if you fail the challenge it sets forth… The Law siphons your power, breaks it into itty-bitty little pieces, and channels it to the worthy that did pass. It will fuel and fatten them up with Ascension energy until they reach the breaching point.

“When they do, and the Actualized is nearly bottomed out, the judging concludes. Death or graduation. The Actualized return to being Ascended, and if they attempt to use power as they did before… they will destroy themselves from the exertion. So used are the powerful to their measure of ability, that they ofttimes forget how to function if they lose it.”

Artorian held his face with both hands, mentally recording this information with rapt attention even if it was false. He had to know. He needed to know. The perfect opportunity for a sassy quip came and silently went, spent instead on the acquisition of knowledge while upholding the clever ruse of being in agony from the proffered lessons. Pretending made Cataphron keep talking. So pretend he did, with dramatic flair.

“Affinity channels are everything. They determine everything from growth rate to potential. They are used by the Tower as first measure to check who you can even speak with. Not that the Nodes retain much personality once they become such, and I’ve found the prospect dull and wasteful. Just think… triple S-ranks. Centuries of work and toil, only to remove yourself entirely from all that progress and become a fresh node in the Tower as the first step of becoming ‘Heavenly’. An absolute waste.

“For any concept that already has an existing node, or Essence combination you’d wish to occupy, an Actualized has to replace the entity in said node. Which can’t even be done forcefully! The node has to desire transference to the heavens, completing its journey into a full and proper Heavenly cultivator. Then poof! They’re gone! Never to be heard from again as they become incapable of interacting further with this realm. They become so intertwined with the functions of the universe that they no longer have eyes for the realm they came from. Never has a Heavenly been contacted that didn’t address the one who did so with disdainful dereliction and disinterest.”

Artorian didn’t interrupt what had become a full-on rage-vent. The Blight didn’t appear to have noticed it was serenading the fumes of its agitations now that it had someone to listen. Like a toddler that spoke at length merely because someone was present in the room to hear it craft a calamitous cacophony. “The Heavenly have lost all care. All the wants of this realm are foreign to them. As an entity without body, and freed will, I… understand how they view such things now.

“Time erodes connections and lack of communication burns all bridges, much as I care only to absorb ever more scrumptious minds. Those conceited things only care to uphold their function. Even their slight nudge towards this realm is appalling, releasing celestial Essence onto the land like a dumped sack of glitterdust!”

Cataphron quirked a curious brow at his captive. The academic was sweating. Beautiful. Suffer you little twerp! “Something wrong?”

Rubbing his chin, the lecture attendant *Hmmmm’d* to himself. “So, if there was an ‘error’ in the universe. A rip, a problem, an inconsistency. They would… fix it?”

Undead groans sounded awfully guttural, and Cataphron lurched away excessively. “If those interest-devoid grown-up-nodes don’t, what’s above them will. If there was ever something truly egregious—such as a time loop or tear—they attend to it quickly. Resolving the issue as soon as the Essence reaction runs dry and stops being able to sustain itself.

“It happened painfully often anytime celestial and infernal were used together in great quantities. Chaos is a Law that several Heavenlies angrily hold by the scruff of the neck. Chaos, Entropy, and Discord… there have been eons of discussion about why any time there’s a significant problem, it always comes down to those three.”

Artorian wished he could write this down, but he’d have to settle for burning the knowledge into his memory. His sweaty outwards appearance wasn't a ruse; the bodily reaction happened in response to a great weight falling from his shoulders. “So… when in the scriptures it mentions the progression path, and ‘Godly’ is mentioned after ‘Heavenly’ there is really a…?”

“A divine-tier cultivator?” The Blight was right back to superiority boasting. It was thoroughly enjoying grinding the scholar’s face into the ground. That type did poorly when their beliefs came into fundamental question.

“Back when the Heavenlies could still be enticed to turn back enough to spare us a few graced words… that’s when the Golden Age truth delvers were told of the rank above theirs. Grasping the meaning was just utterly impossible. We already can’t grasp the full power of a Heavenly. There was something higher? Something more? Entire schools went mad trying to puzzle it out, and even made a Node for Madness simply to be able to cope. The fools.

“They made the base layer of necessary potential thought intricately complex and equally impossible to understand. With so much group-mind unity and Essence behind it, that the Madness Law burst through the Tower and made a home for itself all the way up on the Seven hundred and twentieth floor! The top! What were they thinking?”

Cataphron composed himself as he reached the answer to their own question. “Well… Madness. I suppose they weren’t thinking at all, if they were even able to at that point. At least it barred anyone who didn’t have all the Essence channels from tapping into that awful mistake of a node. Locations are precious! Don’t make nodes in the Tower unless it follows the pattern! Six per floor. It was six per floor!”

The old man sassed, “Odd, I was told seven was the correct number to aim for.”

Phantoms screeched at Artorian for that inane comment, not knowing he’d said it on the fly, lying through his teeth. How dare he assume he knew better with outdated and incorrect knowledge? The old man’s off-the-cuff statement made the ceiling-body roil.

“How would you know? You weren’t there. You didn’t take the lessons, or attended the equation lectures, or scribe the reasoning for why having more than six nodes on any given floor would destabilize the inter-constra-pattern of the Tower-matrix itself! Oh, sure, you can put seven nodes on a floor, but at what cost? You can’t add a floor after that! When one of the nodes in the Tower loses their concept because it’s outdated entirely, it can lose its place if the Heavenly in it goes on to finish his cycle! Without anyone to replace it! That kills the Node and connections, and opens up a slot where it used to be, but it’s not like the Essence combination will be different!

“This is the entire mess that led to nodes carrying multiple concepts for a single Essence mixture. Suddenly everything earth and air is in the same place! Lightning? Earth and air node. Easy. Simple. No problem. Mud, slime, clay, quicksand. All of that suddenly the same blasted node! If they were going to just let that slide, they could have at least made the growth additive and sequential. No! They threw Nodes at the Tower like monkeys throw feces!

“As soon as the Prime Six were down, they went on a Heaven-cursed race to fill the slots! No thought was given early on to adding Nodes in a reasonable method so that climbing resulted in a pattern that could be expected. First floor: water. Second floor: water and air, for mist. Then do all the combinations of two’s, and once you’re done with them all, proceed adding the combination of threes in higher levels.

“Reasonable, yes? Did they do that?” Cataphron punched a corpse so hard that the channeled might of the blow created a twenty-foot deep hole in a perfect cylinder. His voice was breaking, and the personality of Cataphron faltered as a mélange and mixture of several other voices all spoke and aired their grievances at the same time. It was like with the Wood Elves, but without the soothing quality, and a reverb that was more… doom-y. “No!

“Second floor! What do those idiots slot? Infernal and earth, water and earth; air and water; water and celestial; fire and celestial; then water, earth and celestial. What? That’s a tri-combination! Then I turn the page for the next tier, and the first thing I read is an infernal, fire, and earth. What is another triple combination doing on the second and third tiers? Who thought that was a good idea?”

A second cylindrical crater joined the first. Everything in the area disintegrated within the affected region. Artorian was watching this time. It was the goose effect! Goo wasn’t what was eating away at anything in the zone this time, so it must have been… infernal touching it directly? Not through a medium, but directly? This must be the prime benefit an elemental had over its cultivator counterparts. A cultivator gathered and then expended. A Mage channeled, based on Ember’s lectures. It seemed that an elemental generated. They were a source of their relevant energy.

Wouldn’t that mean elementals were cultivation sources for a whole host of people? That was a very good reason to keep knowledge of them tightly shut in a box; an advantage people would not want to share. Did Artorian know anyone that could benefit from this?

Why, yes. Yes, he did know of one.

That knowledge was mentally shelved for later. He paused his musings and calmly unpacked his hookah, preparing it while the seething Blight worked to reclaim the hold over itself. Artorian could attack now, but it appeared there was… surprise company. He looked up to blow out the first smoke ring, and noticed a patch of cavern moss was brighter than its resident counterparts. His Essence sight was what picked it up, and the written message was a deviously intelligent ploy. Someone needed inside knowledge of the infernal to get that past a being made entirely from it.

Astrea, you clever girl. Yet It wasn’t the right moment. Keeping a note of the message, he turned his attention back to the screaming phantoms now present in the large, empty cavern. Not counting the dead. Multiple see through wispy forms were arguing with one another. The multitudes of minds were having a row since they couldn’t reach a consensus. So, it did work similarly to Wood Elven unity? Interesting. He wondered if… “So what happened to your cultivation technique? Did you lose it when you transcended into a superior being? An Elemental?”

The soothing brush of ego from a hated foe snapped away the shades. They all huffed into a nonexistent breeze as the collapsed and crumbled dead body of Cataphron refilled and wrested itself from the body pile. “That is not your concern… or did you mean to gauge the quality of techniques we had in the Golden Age? I bet you wish to ask if we used ‘Royal’ techniques.”

*Phah*!

The infernal body spat dissolving goo at the ground. “What a sullen naming convention. Everything of this era is just so… crude. Limited. The entire point of separating the core-cultivation techniques into their own tiers was so we could track how quickly that variable would affect someone’s time until Ascension. ‘Royal’ is at best a third tier understanding of the glorious compass counterparts we had at our fingertips.

“A better core technique was something you received because you could handle it, when you could handle it. At least until that awful pearlescent curse. That was a terrible thing during the decline of the golden age, it locked people into their technique and broke it entirely if they attempted to swap it. It ruined an entire cultural lineage.”

A heavy cloud in the shape of a circle puffed out from Artorian’s carefully parted mouth. He wanted to know more about the pearlescent material. It had done… something to him. Asking directly was going to be suspicious. He needed a way around to broach that subject.

Chapter Eight

Artorian clapped his hands together. “I’m going to need you to slow down, you’re going to cause me to bleed from my ears if you keep telling me things that fast. So, if I’m following on that last topic, then the amount of Essence channels contributes to how quickly one becomes Ascended, and the core technique is just a part of that math.”

Slow down? Had the Blight heard that correctly? How it loved the idea of watching his captive bleed just from being overburdened by mere words. Oh, there would be no stopping now. “Mortal bodies come with roughly the same limitations when it comes to cultivation. You’re trying to make yourself into ‘something else’. A person with one Essence channel will usually take around two hundred years before they can enter the Tower from sheer Essence requirement alone.”

“The requirements drop by roughly three to five decades for every additional channel. Some variation is accounted for based on channel quality, but none in my Era had anything other than perfect channels, which cut the time down by an additional ten years per channel. Opening new channels you didn’t start with was… tightly regulated.”

“On average, a three Essence-channel individual can knock on the Tower’s doors in a century if they do things ‘decently well’. Assuming that you have nothing special boosting you during that time frame. Average everything. So ‘a mostly-okay fractal spiral cultivation technique’ at the minimum, with a spiral quantity of ninety-four. Or your basic third-axis internal helix.”

The Blight tasted sweet succulence as Artorian groaned loudly, and rubbed his pained forehead from all the word choices and difficult concepts wracking his mind. It didn’t pause to let the aged academic catch a mental reprieve. “This coupled with a ‘mostly okay Essence source’ classed as non-curator. I suppose you’d call that a non-dungeon. With a ‘mostly alright cultivation time allotment’ but nothing special. As in a day job between cultivating time, while you’re trying to have a social life.”

Artorian groaned again, long and with stuttered pauses. Cataphron betrayed an enjoyable shiver. It didn’t notice that each expelled groan matched gently glowing patches of moss directly above them each time it altered its illumination pattern.

“If all you have is the basic Essence string or single spiral chi technique. Well… you can reach Ascension from there, but the time requirement is going to double, if not triple at the minimum. A ‘Noble’ or ‘Royal’ technique is a misconception. It’s not special because it’s ‘Noble’. It’s higher grade because it capitalizes on cultivation functions the average technique doesn’t. Single strands? Bottom tier. Shaped strands? Mid-bottom tier. A spiral? Paltry, but you’re at the top of bottom-tier along with center webways.”

Its sorrowful tone increased in distaste. “I’m aware the fractal is popular this era. It’s a bottom to middle parlor trick. Mid-tier only if you reach ninety-four spirals. That’s literally in the book as the average. Perhaps Zibonacci spiraling all of them would make it reach the top of the middle tier?”

Another muffled yelp from its captive was soothing, so it slid in extra detail like the prick of a needle as it explained that complicated Z-word. “It means ‘perfect spirals’. Keep up, human!

“How about core-techniques worth our time, yes? Bottom of the high-tier is where variation and creativity starts to really show itself. The basic requirement of all these core-techniques capitalize on using all three dimensions, rather than limit itself to two axis’ worth of direction. They use available center-space far more efficiently, and that directly translates to Essence influx and refining speed. This is the level of complexity your ‘Noble’ techniques have managed to replicate. The bottom of a high-tier, or slightly above average. Nothing impressive.

“Adding proper interconnectivity and layering in the design bring them up to the middle of high-tier, and having that combination in a Zibonacci sequence brings it to the top of high-tier. Cramming more of a core-technique into a small space isn’t necessarily better. That’s still limited to the core-types that can undergo Z-sequencing. Abyss help you if you attempt the absurdity that is joint-cultivation with a Beast-Core. Helix patterns and function-specific core-tricks don’t need the Z.”

Artorian drank some water from a flask. “Bernoulli?”

“Bernoulli indeed! He…” All sound ceased, and Cataphron leered at the… was the Skyspear headmaster snacking on fruit and puffing from a hookah? How had it not noticed this? That was absurd! It caught some of the smoke and… dissolved where it touched. What. The Blight blinked and inspected the smoke. It felt awful, but was overall harmless. It… ah. Celestial Essence with an ingrained dispersal identity. Clever. It couldn’t eat that. This required retribution.

The Headmaster continued to communicate in smoke signals, counting small victories against the oblivious Blight as his camouflaged and Essence-hidden students lurked in the passage above. They were planning out their next moves using methods that eluded this beast. They were also listening in, and Cataphron was nothing if not chatty.

Now they were waiting for a signal, and what would happen next was still being planned. Artorian needed to buy time, needed to keep the attention on him. Under no circumstances could he allow the Blight to look up or intercept their messages. So, some Essence was purposefully wasted. If this failed, it didn’t matter if he lost it all.

“I’m not going to ask how you know that word. Yes, Bernoulli’s containment principle is a direct example of a core-technique that is crafted to perform a function rather than concentrate on Essence refining. Since you clearly have no issues with the High-Tier… this is what the ‘Worthy tier’ looks like. Only those who are worthy and mentally capable can reach these. This one is called the ‘Penrose triangle’ and it is classified as an impossible object. With Essence, in a place that both exists and does not, it is possible; but the mind must be twisted for a concept this reality-shattering to be maintained at all times.”

The Blight crafted what it meant using infernal shaping. The twisted triangle glowed a corrosive, corruptive violet. It wasn't an intense glow, but touching the object would cause deepest horror. A torus twisted into agonizing existence next to it, the shape an affront against nature. A Möbius strip bubbled violet as it bent into being as a third exemplified shape.

Artorian held his head. What in the Heavens was he looking at? That worked, but how? How does that make a core cultivation technique? Does it spin? Are there multiple shapes? Do they interlock?

“Auw. My head…” He closed his eyes out of actual pain, and a drop of blood ran down his nose, staining his salt-colored moustache. That pleased the Blight to no end. Words had made his enemy bleed.

“Oh, my dear academic…” oozed the charismatic, nearly sultry voice. “This is but the Worthy-tier. For the upper-echelons of the Ascended… imagine this next one. Inverted-”

Artorian blinked and came back to himself a long moment after the Blight stopped speaking. It was laughing at the blood that now freely flowed from his nose. “Ah yes… S-ranked core-techniques… they will break a mind.”

Granted, the Blight couldn’t use these either. Messing with dimensional layers was S-ranked territory. It had only gotten to the height of the B-ranks before crashing down into elemental-land. But the mention alone had caused his guest severe pain; that made it all worth it as the impossible shapes were dismissed. The Blight had to stop there and backtrack. It had but a scant few minds that could uphold an impossible object, and it was expending them quickly; which forced those minds into a state of rest.

The Caligene could afford this cost. The wellbeing of his companion was far more limited. This exposure to abundant information was beating Artorian to death without causing direct harm, successfully subverting the land-law! The old man was hurting himself with the inherent difficulties of grasping these topics. Cataphron was blameless!

Artorian wiped his nose with a part of his sleeve, and a light twinkled in his eye. The Blight was incredibly prideful about its superior knowledge base, and he verbally stabbed it right in the metaphorical kidney. “I think you missed a step; you mentioned the pearly stuff?”

A hiss cut back at him, “Pearlescence is theft! That curse is nothing but a demerit! It provides a mimicry of the layer between cultivator and ascended, but steals part of your progress without your knowledge. Worse, your entire journey can now break to brittle ruin. Most of the energy isn’t even returned, it is taken. It didn’t used to be taken. What is now a necessary step and lauded as the mighty ‘C-rank’ is nothing more than trickery by a particularly insidious dungeon Core. The effect will never go away now that it is in place, even if the originator is slain. At best, the siphoning effect could be redirected. That snively little cheat. Can you guess, just guess, what the affinity connections on that cryptic miscreant are?”

*Crunch*.

The grandfather chewed on a grilled sandwich while thinking it over, downing a chunk with some water. With a full mouth, Artorian tried to reply, not expecting to have been put on the spot with an actual question. The Blight had seemed content to just monologue eternity away. “Celestial and Infernal?”

“Plus water!” Cataphron corrected him, but the initial assumption had been on the nose. That mixture was nothing but problems, on top of that: it just shouldn’t exist. Except it did, and it could.

Artorian ran a hand down his spotless beard. His Aura cleaning up any lingering crumbs or bloodstains. “So it just siphons some progress, and improves the power of the core? That still sounds like an improvement. It’s not much of a curse unless one specifically considers the no-return issue. Not much of one if you never knew the freedom of swapping cultivation techniques in and out beforehand. It does nothing to your progress otherwise? Doesn’t it make the C-rank… special?”

Blight spat at him. “All cultivation progress is preparation for Ascension. Nothing matters until then. The Tower is the personification of ‘purpose’. It is sought above all else, until you realize purpose is self-chosen and not found within a poorly built Tower of another’s making.”

The mass turned ashen in coloration, but Artorian had heard what he needed to and more. So that hadn’t been what made it feel like his C-rank had stifled and essentially done nothing. It was still something else. Abyss! He’d gotten the listed improvements while he lay in the raider camp. His Core ‘improvement’. Faster Draw. Better refining. All marked and crossed off on the checklist. So why hadn’t his improvement felt like an improvement? He was loathe to ask directly, that was giving information to the enemy.

He’d dallied long enough. Packing his treats, hookah, and other sundries that had been pulled free to annoy the abyss out of this self-absorbed creature. Artorian got to his feet on the rock, and began rudimentary stretches. “By the way… do you sleep?”

Cataphron crossed his arms and squinted vacant eye-sockets at the man. “None of your concern.”

Artorian smiled from ear to ear. It was time to drop the ruse. “Oh? Good. I had a question. Have I told you about my children? I’m awfully proud of them.”

Cataphron already didn’t like where this was going. What was this ridiculous segue? “...No. You haven’t, and shouldn’t.”

The grandfather was beaming. “As example, one of my youngest! She has this nickname. I didn’t know what to make of it at first, but I love her, so I wasn’t going to raise a fuss. However, it has struck me that names have power. Shall I tell you what it was?”

He spoke the words with flair and pointed a single digit to the sky, spinning in place on one leg like a top. The old man’s stunt caused Cataphron to take a cautious step back. Falling silent, the Phantom Blight searched around the cave system. It tasted touchable air, and prodded the general local region. Just in case something was… odd.

Cataphron’s sockets burst with violet infernal flame, his chin tilting up to regard a piece of space it could not access. There was an oval dome of some sort. Abyss! It consumed the infernal Essence he was creating! His infernal presence was absorbed so slowly and gently that it hadn't noticed the drain while distracted.

With all the boisterous fever of a performer, Artorian channeled Essence into his voice and legs. His explosive, boosted words rang loud through the cavern. Reverberating off the walls as he announced the next performer; the star of the show.

“Introducing: Astrea, The Nightm~a~a~are!”

Chapter Nine

“Three. Two. One. Bounce.”

The Blight’s viewpoint centered upon its aggressor as the thrumming waves of Astrea’s Essence-laden voice reached the elemental. Expecting some vocal shenaniganry, infernal defenses slammed into place in preparation of something meant to induce a cave-in. It’s what it would have done: an indirect attack that didn’t violate a spoken oath. A list of such events had been meticulously prepared, and strut-supports to prevent exactly such an event came into being.

The truth of the attack was far more nefarious. Had the creature perchance had more than the span of a moment to grasp what his enemy had said, it might have grasped its crucial mistake. The words hadn’t been an attack at all: they were a distraction.

Astrea’s technique slammed into place. With a plethora of targets that had practically no defenses against unexpected mental assaults, she felt invited to attack. Her nightmare technique had never possessed such power, and had never been this effective. Where there was usually one mind, or perhaps a few napping in a dormitory or barracks that she could spread this effect, here minds were packed like sardines.

Her practiced nightmare ability spread like a wildfire in drought conditions. The technique drank volumes of infernal Essence to fuel itself, but for once it didn’t even need to take it from her. Free energy bloated within the Blight, so the supplied nightmare rampaged unabated.

To the Blight, the initial assault was akin to having its face grabbed without warning, only to have it sharply snapped upward. Even though it saw with sight beyond sight, the landscape orientation and associated gravity turned a full ninety degrees. It saw the old man flying sideways as it heard the sound. An awful, dirty wavelength. “You can fly?”

A gnashing claw made of lacerating mouths lashed at his captive, but the complete alteration in its frame of reference made the strike miss by a large margin. The old man caught the hand of a woman in white, who hoisted him the rest of the way. That insufferable academic spared him a smirk. “Nope, I just jump good!”

The new ‘down’ trembled as the fleeing group of academics booked it down the cavern hallway. The Caligene’s outcry turned into a tarry, howling roar. Its ability to respond with reason had been temporarily stripped as internal problems wrought havoc on the otherwise carefully controlled mental prison.

Looking inwards, the Blight found a riot. One did not need walls or doors to trap minds that had no will to escape. It was but a few who sought sanctuary that were kept at bay, denied their futile attempts to escape. Those shapes against its near physical outer layer? That was his method of letting minds wail against the inevitable before they broke and stilled like the rest.

Where typically there was a stretched void occupied by the downtrodden that would obey when called, now there was screaming it hadn’t induced! That was unacceptable! Only it was allowed to make the screams! How dare that infernal-dabbling whelp!

It was that very difference in its prison that caused the elemental such grief. When it controlled the stimuli, it also controlled how occupants could react. Nothing had ever penetrated it mentally; that was what he did to others! The soon-to-be-dead girl was thieving his tricks! The Blight had been thoroughly unprepared for such an event, because the act itself was unthinkable.

Ah, but wait. Had his nuisance guest referred to the whelp as ‘his daughter’? The elemental felt his frustration growing. His detainees were rioting, fighting back, refusing commands, and worst of all: dancing. The Blight couldn’t apply complicated efforts in the world around it when it couldn’t even properly control the prison of its own mind.

He’d regain control in time, but for now his near physical body uncontrollably thrashed around the caverns. The elemental raged as it fought the technique, cutting off the nightmare’s Essence supply once the effect was isolated. Just so it could actually make some progress against the percussive festival. That one-trick whelp was at least true to her name: dealing with this was a nightmare.

* * *

Dodging incorporeal infernal tentacles was a surprisingly taxing bit of parkour. The energetic arms ranged in type and size, from spindly string to kraken-sized slappers. While some bashed aimlessly into the cave walls as they thrashed, others came into being only to whip out from an unexpected angle.

They’d have been sliced thin enough to slip through a fishnet if Astrea hadn’t been calling out incoming attack vectors as if she were a seasoned sergeant. Artorian pondered that last thought. It was entirely possible she was used to commanding people, given where she’d been on the totem pole when he finally managed to whisk her away. As per usual, Artorian had chosen a terrible time to ponder.

“Duck! Throat level horizontal slash from the left!” All heads dipped moments before a violet blade, looking like a guillotine, whiplashed from the left wall and slammed into the right, only to get stuck and dissolve the space around its impact point while the group ran on. They didn’t spare even a moment to look back.

Artorian felt tired. He hadn’t had time to restore his Essence reserves, and that last little jumping stunt had taken what little he had remaining. That high of a jump from a standstill was costly. Even the mapping pulse he’d sent through the caverns had been cheaper, and heavens had charging that jump been slow.

He’d forgotten how excruciatingly awful it was to move Essence through his body rather than through his Presence. The downside of hookah-assisted cultivation was mostly mitigated thanks to his functional Presence, but he’d needed to use his body both so that he could keep his plans secret… as well as actually perform the jump.

He wouldn’t have tried it at all had he not known Jiivra was ready to catch him, as well as pull him along if he stumbled. He flinched as Astrea spoke again. “Split and hug the walls, fat one coming through the middle!”

Artorian’s thoughts got pushed to the side as the floor they used opened into a ravine. Several dozen thinner ‘hairs’ bristled up from the opening like a fish breaching the water’s surface with its dorsal fin. They went right back to running the second Astrea pushed away from the wall, the brightness rising when Astrea called out that she needed more.

Of the group, Jiivra and another student, Ronan, provided lighting. Jiivra used her normal body-illumination method while Ronan held a concentrated cube of fire in each hand.

Artorian locked his vision onto the object. Cube? Yes, six sides. No, don’t question it, there’s running to do! The fiery cubes shone with light one would expect from a healthy fireplace, and the boy himself appeared a dexterous fellow. If anything, the old man was pleased as punch that the odd reactions to his daughter had stopped. Then again, that tended to happen when someone was saving your bacon. There was a life lesson in there somewhere.

In fact, it went on Artorian’s list of the three kinds of people never to disrespect. Those who handled your food, those who handled your gold, and those who handled you. His lips twitched into a smile as he recalled Tibbins and Yvessa.

“Abyss! Entire front is all black. I don’t know. Stop. Stop!” The five skidded to an unwanted halt. They could hear a wet surge rushing behind them. They knew it wasn’t water filling the cavern, but it didn’t need to be. They could all imagine seas of grey goo flooding the empty space behind them. Their heads turned when the pathway before them squeezed shut like a violent muscle spasm, crushing solid rock into gravel.

Ronan brightened his cubes and squinted at the ‘muscle’ blocking their way. “Did we get swallowed? That looks like the inside of a throat in the diagrams from the Second Volume of Medicinal Practice.”

The others looked at the fire practitioner with quirked brows, and the discomfort made Ronan blast the barrier with a stream of fire. Something shrieked in response. They didn’t like that; a shriek meant a physical thing. The throat released its hold, and at Astrea’s push they all continued their mad dash for freedom.

Tired, frustrated, and on edge from avoiding dungeon-level death traps. Jiivra snapped at nobody in particular, “Someone tell me that wasn’t a real thing that just happened.”

The Headmaster hopped over a pothole and fell into step next to her. “Still the same creature! Smoke signals aren’t exactly good for long explanations. It’s an infernal elemental, it can go physical under the right circumstances. No, I don’t know what those conditions are! Just run! Stick to the plan!”

One of the other students in the group of five, Ishtar, swiveled her head around, and her long braid nearly smacked Ronan in the face. Her voice was soft in comparison to the guarded and borderline panicked tones of the others. She’d been brought along to keep their movements quiet, but the air essence student was out of gas. “What is the plan? You forget we do not all speak glow-moss or read smoke-signal. How do you even do that? No, forget I asked—plan! What is?!”

Astrea agreed. “I know all the bits of how we get to granddad, but the rescue was improvised and I didn’t hear anything about a plan!”

Jiivra’s face turned sour. “I said we’d think of something when we got to it!”

Ishtar sassed back, because that was in no way an answer, “Well, we got to it. Now what!”

The silence from the glowing combat instructor didn’t do their morale any favors. She bit her lip. Just getting to the correct cavern so they could recover their Headmaster had been the extent of her plan. They were up an unpleasant creek, and didn’t pack spare paddles. “It’s not like we can leave the mountain! It’s crawling with undead out there!”

Astrea skidded to a scared, sudden halt. “Everyone on the ground! Now!”

They all almost made it as they hit the ground. Tearing through the ceiling, an infernal mouth bit a chunk out of Ronan. Everything from his torso on up was gone in a crunching flash, including the illumination his cubes provided. Only the legs remained. The remaining four didn’t have the liberty to remain as still as those legs as their infernal guide screamed at them to get up and run.

Astrea glanced at something behind them right before her scream, and nobody dared to look. There was only running. They soon came upon the large domed cave where the rest of the students awaited them. Welcoming cheers turned to shrieks, and expressions of joy quickly turned ghastly at seeing whatever was behind them. The four didn’t halt, yelling in unison: “Run!”

Chapter Ten

An aspect of Favor checked a very fine gnomish pocket watch for the sixth time. What was taking so long? You’d think that a vast workforce of countless undead toiling without pause—and with strength their previously living counterparts could not have mustered—would be able to make some kind of tangible progress.

*Click*.

The lime green sigh fogging from the skeleton’s mouth was proof that even he was tired of waiting. The aspect clicked the contraption shut and held its perfectly bleached skull with a bony hand. Seated cross-legged on an appropriated palanquin, it watched the minimal progress. It’s not as if the ‘princess’ had any use for comfortable seating when her bones were scraping at dirt and rock the same as all the others.

It was just a forced cave in. Even if the blocks were sizable, excavation should not take this long. Just how deeply had the entryway collapsed? He dearly hoped it was not particularly far. They had a schedule to keep… oh. Wait. No, they didn’t. This assault on the mountain was significantly ahead of schedule. They weren’t supposed to be able to take the region for… what? Another decade at least before they’d even been slated to try?

Favor counted his blessings that no demons were present. That would have altered this entire engagement. It also would have meant he’d not have gotten the credit for what was about to happen. Him, a mere Favor, succeeding in an assault that the bigshots hadn’t seen as possible. What an upset! He’d felt strung along at first, and hadn’t really wanted to come. It was a known suicide mission.

Alas, favors are favors, and they were merely a currency for the powerful. Whatever insidious plot the Vizier had finagled was certainly working out, and the credit would be all his! Sure, the sudden… disappearance, of the Favor before him was… worrisome. Yet a bargain once struck is final. The aspect sharply looked up.

After that freak rainstorm, it had turned out to be a very nice day. The sun was shining, and barely a cloud stained the sky. Had the Favor still been able to feel the heat on its skeletal frame, he might have even called it pleasant, had the threat of eternal torment not laid so heavily on its soul. Alas, such was the fate of a skeleton, and the reminder was always there; where you’d go if you’d fail. How easily failure came to pass. All it took was a little pull from a displeased caster and *pop*! An unimpressive pile of bones clattered to the ground and off you went, screaming back down into the abyss.

As an undead, one really needed to work and show results to stay connected to your summoner. Especially as an intelligent undead; those were expensive and problematic to raise. Having been a necromancer several hundred years before this raising, this particular bag of bones was exceptionally keen to show immediate fealty.

It was what had landed it in the ranks of ‘Favor’ instead of being stripped down to a ghoul, or ghast, or other near-mindless undead that would have guaranteed a downfall. Even undead, Favor shuddered from that thought. His bones rattled unpleasantly. Anything but going back to the abyss, and he did mean anything.

The abyss was entropy personified. Infinite, yet contained in the worst of ways. The place was timeless, yet you could feel the seconds grind past. You didn’t have a body there, therefore you couldn’t do anything. Yet one could experience the violent, unknown, chaotic changes that occurred there. Things existed, but they were named such because they were otherwise indescribable.

The aspect had no clue how he’d held onto even a scratch of sanity. It might have been the type of energy involved when he was fished back out? It had certainly been nothing like his own vague recollections of being a Mage. He never, not once, brought an undead into being which was something other than an angry, mindless murderpile. Your mind is one of the first things you lose in the abyss. Then when you come back, the return to a lack of pain is…

Favor didn’t know how to describe it. Maddening, perhaps? He heard a chunk of rock cave in, and a glance let him see a fresh dust cloud obscuring the crushed bodies of easily a dozen undead. Maybe that was the problem? His poorly controlled army was digging a hole that just kept collapsing in on itself from above. A ‘two steps back’ scenario. His bony hand pressed to his forehead. Some intellect was certainly lost; how had it not noticed that sooner?

Craving a distraction from failure, Favor glanced the other way. Some infernal geese honked at one another, having a tiff with undead c’towls. The c’towls! Now those were things of beauty. Sure, they’re the puffiest little monsters alive, but dead they’re all murder and no fluff. He loved them, which was an odd concept for a creature not actually capable of love. Was an undead skeleton even a creature? Probably not. A worry for another time. He scratched the losses and rough time of day onto the vellum.

That’s odd, hadn’t it been barely morning? Why was it so bright? Forget that question, why was there a second sun, and why was it getting closer? Favor pressed the sleeve of its robe over empty eye sockets out of habit. Not that it did anything. The blindness only grew, and something suddenly enraged Favor. It didn’t even know what, or why; it was just so, so angry. That a skeleton could feel anger wasn’t considered. All higher thought was tossed out. Similarly, the other undead in the region also reacted in the same way.

Favor reached out a clawed hand towards the incoming meteor, and saw his hand… melt? What the abyss? A creeping, awful feeling crawled over its being. It felt… soothing? What an agonizing, terrible experience! No soul that spent time in the abyss that acclimated to the normality of pain and discomfort could accept this atrocity. This feeling wasn’t just harmful, it was insulting. Being basked in this glow was akin to being afflicted by an Essence healing effect. Those tore undead up like a salt block in water, and the light from the fireball was no different.

Something about the descending ball of doom made all the afflicted undead in the region howl bloody rage at the object’s impending planetfall. The burning meteor turned sharply in the sky, veering down at a forty-five degree angle to steadily whistle towards them. They wanted to attack it, rip it to pieces, charge it en masse and tear asunder whatever dared to take pity on them and take away their pain. They had earned their resilience!

They should have known to hide. To seek cover. To do anything other than charge towards the depths of peril. Such considerations didn’t happen. There was only wrath, and only vengeance was accepted. The light had to die; they would make it die. It didn’t matter that their legs melted away to soup. They would crawl. It didn’t matter that their arms broke to brittle pieces like sugar cubes in hot tea. They would hinge forward on their jaws and bite!

The enraged hordes didn’t get to do any of these things. They, along with all the vegetation, nearby land, and most other objects not bolted down with the weight of a mountain were wiped from the map. The mountain, unsurprisingly, was the only thing that didn’t budge. Everything else wasn’t so lucky as the full force of a meteor impact wiped the slate clean. The previously hilly and wall burdened city of Jian was reduced to flattened wasteland in a bright flash.

Nothing remained as shockwaves uprooted and tossed matter out of the way. Stone wall sections flung far into the distance, sure to give whoever was below them an exceptionally bad day when it was time for the projectiles to come back down. The burning wreckage would be one thing, but the thousands upon thousands of Jian made swords and spears that zipped off into the distance like glimmering dots of glitter were sure to cause all sorts of strife.

What would a lone adventurer think when a shining blade flicked through the sky, only to split the clouds and stab deep into the ground before them? So it was for a great many people. They thought that the heavens had suddenly destined them for a new calling; for the weapons didn’t just retain their Jian quality luster, unique shape, and honed craftsmanship. With the meteor’s impact, something more imbued itself into the crafts.

The resulting dust plume mushroomed the sky. Mana crackled and flared into being as the impact point drenched the region in aberrant fire Essence that set aflame any wreckage and uprooted any greenery it could get ahold of. The landscape of waste and ruin was soon a raging caldera; a pyre that fueled itself. The inferno even caught lingering clouds of dust aflame.

What had, a few minutes prior, been a war won ahead of its time was now reduced to a total loss. An explosive wave of Mana repelled rogue particles, and an orb of incinerating swirls helixed around a rising figure at the center bottom of the newly born caldera. The impact had crunched and packed earth much more than anticipated. Unknown underground tunnels that wildly sprawled were all empty space, and didn’t hold up as well as solidly-packed ground did when a several-ton object comes knocking from the skies above.

Ember brushed off her shoulder and took a single step before looking at the devastation she’d wrought. Her power absorbing body emanated visible waves of burning energy. She was actively trying to pour as much of it into her environment as possible, and she’d taken the opportunity to sink several A-level Mage ranks into energy expulsion on impact.

Securing her own well-being had been worth the cost of the resulting nuke she set off. Gathered walms of power released fully, and she now stood unharmed in the ruin of what had once, probably, been a place.

When she’d noted an unpleasant lack of life during her descent, Ember had upped her output. There was no reason to hold back and attempt to save lives when there were none to hold back for. She didn’t care for the abundance of undead either. One stone. Two problems. Or in her case, one Ember-shaped meteor. Her rank ticked up again as she looked around. She’d bought herself precious minutes with that outburst, but it wasn’t good enough.

Ember had spent far too much time looking for her friend, and she had more than a limit; she had a deadline. She was sure the current S-rankers were enjoying the few extra moments of game time, but she didn’t have time for that. Calling out seemed pointless, and since she’d only gotten a single response from her Mana fueled echolocation tracking, she was happy to have even gotten this close.

Who gave up when so near to victory? Certainly not her! Yes. Good. That was a stable personality trait. Hold onto it. Keep it. Hold it tight and don’t let it go. That was one more thing that could provide a basis of her S-ranked actualization. The new body that would come into being couldn’t survive or thrive under the shaky self-image she currently had. Where in the Abyss was…?

A *ping* reached her Mana, and Ember’s vision snapped straight down. A wave equivalent to a solar flare burst from her body as that tiny motion was performed at Mage speed while at full emanation. Ordinarily this was so wasteful one would die from it, but she was in a Judging.

“Below!” Realizing what she’d said, and what she’d done to the ground made a chill grip her heart. Oh. Oh no…

Panicked, Ember grabbed empty space above her head and spat blood. Blood? Yes, blood! Sure, it was mostly Mana, but Mages did still bleed! It was that darn ripped fire Essence channel, and the new celestial one wasn’t exactly helping. The channel had previously mended to a perfect connection, but the sheer mass of energy moving through had torn it right back up. The injury to her affinity channel was throwing her off. If she wasn’t currently being gorged in energy influx, she’d have no idea how to cultivate now that such affinity channels were present. How was she even going to cultivate as an S-ranker? Did that even work the same?

She tried to push through the panic, which only caused increased blood loss. Her Aura laughed at the cost, shifting into the horribly expensive starlight variant even if it did little. Expensive was good right now! So was thinking she’d make it to the S-ranks! She would make it. She could do this, and Ember screamed to build herself up. “Come on, You’re a Yaran! Yarans can do anything.”

Rogue firestorm Mana wreaking havoc in the region, and starting to do its own thing, stopped when it felt the pull. Turning, it hurried to fill the space between the A-ranked Mage’s hands. Ember squeezed her eyes shut, trying to think of something, anything, that could help her find the mind that she needed right now. Think. Think! What was connective enough? What would be a message that could be recognized when she couldn’t directly talk to who she needed? What would be the one easily recognized thing that would make someone realize she needed help, and either rush to her or let her find them easily?

She glanced up and winced. Manastorms were no joke.

Manastorms actively being fed without a solid intent were even worse. It crept into surviving material, and upon being called, sought to find form and meaning before answering to a hierarch. Mana was no different than Essence in that regard. It needed direction, or it would go wild. Ember’s pull was enough for it to adhere; for all of it to adhere. Some, however, had already self-generated things it was going to accomplish.

While the Mana gathered, so did all the objects and items it had crept into; similar to the distance flung weapons, but on a far more deep and intense scale. While the weapons that flew far and wide had been ingrained with a Mana that changed their internal composition and structure to allow for a randomized fire-based effect, the effect in Ember’s immediate vicinity was far more profound.

Entire suits of armor dug their way from the ground. Rising to heed the sounding bellow of the warhorn. Weapons burst from scorched earth to freely float to her beck and call. Circling around Ember’s being in a wide ring before being grasped by the empowered gauntlet of living armor, adding to their collective intent. Because Ember’s intent was to find anything that could help, her Mana did its best to improvise. Like a toddler trying to be helpful by bringing you a handful of mud when you casually mention needing plant food.

Storming the region, Mana lashed out in its wild search. What was the region plentiful in? Weapons. Crafts. Creatures. Such scant options. Crystal cobras remade with Mana now sported three, rather than two, affinity beast Essences. They herded in a manner Ember was used to, adhering to a tactical rank and file. Each of them rose up once in ordered place, hoods flaring. They felt threatened because Ember felt threatened. Her power, freely emanating from her panic, bled over into everything she was wantonly calling.

C’towls with fire instead of fur traipsed into formation with their common catlike grace. Owl intellect shone in their eyes as the geometric symbolism on their foreheads absorbed rogue Mana, forming into B-ranked Beast Cores as they sat on their butts. Geese rose… but exploded, burning to cinders as the infernal basis of the creatures couldn’t hold up to the trickle of celestial that was present in the raging, jagged lightshow pervading the area.

Ember closed her palms around something, and it filled her with the sensation of relief. All the other entities nearby mimicked the Mage’s behavior, calming as she did. “Yes. You, you are perfect.”

Ever so barely parting her hands, she kissed her chosen creature sweetly. “Fly. Find. Give, and let me know.”

She released the chosen just as a blackened skeletal arm punched its way out of the ground. Angered by how the undead thought it was wise to delay her further, she altered her vision. Ember saw a great multitude of unfriendly shambling shapes come up from the ruined, burning ground. Survivors that had been buried instead of having the decency to be crushed. There was an unpleasantly great number of them, and most were crawling from the place Jian had once stood.

She didn’t have time for this, and she was seeing thousands, and thousands more crawl from the ground. Some of them didn’t stand up to the Manastorm, but far too many did. While Ember didn’t know it, removing ‘Favor’ as an intermediary had latched the skeletal control of the fallen horde to someone a tier higher on the rung. Someone with actual power was now holding the reins of these puppets, and the increased power tier connecting to the undead boosted their power, blackening their bones in the process. What Ember did know was that she’d seen the effect before. This wasn’t her first anti-undead war.

Unlike the last time, she looked around. Where previously she’d faced such a group alone, this time she had an impromptu army of her own; eager and willing to receive identity. Her words were terse and with her little sweetling carrying the fate of all her hopes on its tiny wings, she did something she was good at. No, something she was excellent at. It was time for war. “Destroy all undead. Everywhere. Forever.”

Sapience burst into being within the army of the Eternal Pyre. They chose to call themselves this as they received Ember’s strength through an utterly overabundant stream of Mana. While it was ordinarily folly to give anything enough power to self-sustain past the point where easy control was ineffective, Ember did not care. She was not here to babysit, she was here to survive. Her hand slowly reached out, and a blazing suit of armor dropped to a knee, offering fealty and blade.

Ember had wanted a swordspear, but subconsciously she knew that it was swords that were held by the hand of a leader. She didn’t know why it was that weapon specifically which inspired such a connection, but that is what her subconscious told her. Ember took the jian. Granted by a soldier that knew no fear, knew not what it was like to tire, knew not of disloyalty. It, like every other scorching entity was an inferno of purpose. Together or not, they would fight and persist to the last drop of their Mana before fizzling out.

Their duty was paramount. It was prime. The Eternal Pyre turned to face its enemy, and a spark of righteous might flickered with the touch of celestial influence from within them. Lifting the jian, Ember rose the tip to the sky and twisted on her heel. Her order boomed through what was now a valley, and individualism bloomed in each burning warrior as they set forth to carry out the order.

“Charge!

Chapter Eleven

The world caved in. Blight was crushed, entrapped, and smothered in the avalanche of dirt, rock, and… heat? The Skyspear survivors didn’t have the luxury to really think about it as the massive cavity they occupied decided to cease being a cavity.

Huddled together, screams and outpoured Essence were all that kept a hexagon shaped area of space from collapsing in on itself. Earth Essence students and anyone with even a hint of an earth affinity was pouring out energy to support those who were trying to keep them all alive.

The shape they occupied cramped and crunched to become smaller and smaller, but now was not the time to be picky. People were shouting as emergency backup ideas sprung into existence. Ideas certain people had never wished to use again; had hoped they’d never use again.

Ali had been the saving grace, shouting the intended hexagonal shape out with the idea of repulsing earthen matter in that particular formation. It was just a shape, they could do shapes. All the earth Essence students had been through the ringer when the self-important Cataphron had still been a quasi-instructor.

That man wasn’t one for treating his students like anything other than expendable workhorses. However, it did make for exceptionally gifted students that had been forced to work their butts off in an attempt to sate their instructor. A feat much harder than the critical predicament they found themselves in now, and this was do or die.

Everyone was tired, but tired wasn’t a good enough reason not to challenge fate when it was bearing down on you with unknowable tons of dirt. To Astrea’s surprise, it had not been the impending threat of being crushed to death that was the most dangerous thing in their little hexagon. Oh no, that had come when her Fringe elder spat out an idea—or maybe an imperative—that made them believe he may have gone insane. A real Fringe order.

“Everyone give me your refined Essence so I can give it to the earth affinities!” While the earth affinity students led by Ali didn’t see this as too big of a problem, considering they were all holding the ceiling up, everyone else did not like what had just been demanded. Another student snapped at their Headmaster.

“That’s not possible!”

Jiivra was far less inquisitive on the how or the why. If there was anyone who could pull off such a strange idea, it was certainly the codger. Worst of all, deep down in her soul, she somehow felt responsible for this mess.

“Explain how, now!” While most others were still coping with personal concerns, Jiivra lived in the moment. If they could get enough refined Essence to the people currently keeping them alive, the only bottleneck given they were plenty motivated, they could make it out of this! Seeing the looks sent her way, she snapped back at the students. “Personal growth is worthless if you didn’t live to use it!”

Artorian responded, his left hand pressed against the back of the earth student showing the most physical strain; a good indicator they were bottoming out. “Razor! When I tell you, drop into active cultivation! I need you to pull.”

Concern washed over the young man’s face, as his current efforts were entirely dedicated to preventing imminent death. Active cultivation was going to force him out of helping, and stuff him full of corruption. This was not a place to turn the technique on!

Even if it was underground, and otherwise likely perfect for earth Essence, underground was still just too dangerous, you had no idea what sort of rogue elements could be at play. He also was one of the students with two affinity channels: earth and fire. Starting his cycle without fire present was just… abyss!

“Headmaster, I don’t think that’s-”

His reply was cut short by a surprisingly calm voice as the Headmaster spoke. “My boy, do you trust me?”

Razor felt his teeth click together as his jaw snapped shut. He closed his eyes, reassessed his life, and exhaled a reply. This was a hill, and he might have a chance to save people even if it meant… oddities. He chose to fight and die on this hill. “Just say when, Headmaster.”

A nod was all the reply he got before Artorian’s right hand reached out for anyone willing to grasp it. Jiivra clasped it and felt the pull. What a… familiar sensation. She could do the opposite of this. Healing was giving, and this… this was taking. She didn’t have the time to ask what she needed to do; instruction flowed from the old man like water down a stream.

“Drop your Aura, all of it. Let my Presence connect to your hand, and just shove. Shove refined Essence into your hand like you’re trying to charge grip strength. You’re going to feel like you’re losing it… because you are. I’m going to channel all your refined Essence straight into Razor’s spine so it floods his center.”

Jiivra got the jist, but Razor froze up. “Do… do I need to drop something?”

He felt a supportive tap against his spine. “I’m already through the little you had in place. You didn’t get to the stage where Auras are important yet, just don’t resist, and pull! In three… two…”

Jiivra dumped refined Essence into her hand exactly as she would if trying to vastly empower her grip strength. Since Artorian had only specified ‘refined’, that’s all she fueled. Her ranks dropped so fast that she felt nauseous and sick, but the glow on the old man’s Aura strengthened. Soothing comfort washed over everyone present, and that did wonders for morale.

“One… now!”

Razor took a shuddering breath, and prepared to get wrecked. He dropped his support to the group technique, but his addition had been so minimal that the loss wasn’t noticed. Can’t help without Essence, even if the structural pattern of the effect was boosted via inclusion. While in his center, Razor began to pull, dipping into active cultivation.

The shuddered breath hiccupped into a sharp inhale. His ranks jumped! Again and again his power flooded until he felt like he was drowning. His entire center was drenched in refined Essence, the influx ending when there was roughly no more room left for it to go. It could have gone into his cells, but while it was in the center it was ready for immediate use. For a cultivator at Razor’s level, that’s exactly where it needed to be for him to be useful.

“Razor! Stop cultivating! Hexagon!” The student snapped out of it, reactively slapping his hands back on the hexagonal shape of their little self-made prison cell. He flooded the technique with enough juice to suddenly be of significant assistance to the rest of the team. He smiled wide; now this was helping!

“Ali, you’re next! Don’t pretend I don’t see that sweat! Jii, let go! You’re too close to dropping below your death plane Essence level. You dying is not worth the rest of us making it. Someone else grab my hand!”

Jiivra weakly trembled as her hand released. Her hand felt desiccated and cramped. Letting go was so, so difficult to do. A great amount of Skyspear students couldn’t give Essence without hitting the death plane, but since their combat instructor had set the example, those who could, did. Astrea stepped in to follow suit.

Her ability had been forcibly cut along with the destruction of their surroundings, so she knew their foe was going to quickly recover now that she wasn’t actively causing problems for it. She’d likely not manage to fire her nightmare effect off a second time. The chance the Caligene’s mental defenses would be ‘as down’ a second time was unlikely even in the best circumstances.

Astrea grabbed hold of her grandfather’s hand, and joined Jiivra after a weakened tumble. Seven ranks had vanished from her body in a flash, and the loss had been violently disorienting. She dropped like a rock, caught by now prepared students after seeing it happen the first time. Their little hole wasn’t much of a hexagon right now; more a squeezed down bubble that was trying to bounce back into shape.

Ali’s improved output became a turning point when she woke back up from active cultivation. Slamming fresh Essence into the technique once more. Alone, this would not have been successful. As a group? It made all the difference.

Sharing their ranks wasn’t something they wanted to do, not really. Still, refined Essence was transferred to the students whose skills were directly relevant to all of them making it out of this predicament. When the ground tremors ceased, the strain on students holding the hexagon together visibly lessened. Razor and some of his friends groaned, falling to their butts to recover. Ali exhaled out relief, and coughed out the first spot of good news: “The crushing stopped. We’re stable.”

Astrea pushed herself up against the slanted dirt wall, very much aware they weren’t out of this yet. “What’s next? We might not be doing so well on air.”

Eyes turned to their Headmaster, who was doing something… odd. Then again, judgement was withheld since odd might be exactly what they needed. He was whispering to some of the moss? Alright, maybe not that kind of odd.

Touching it with a finger, a luminous plasma wave sparked along the bleached greenery, which glowed in response as a pulse shot through the rock and stone surrounding them. He grit his jaw, borrowed Essence cycling in his eyes. “Abyss. I have the worst of it against earth. Earth affinity students, which one of you can cycle Essence into their eyes well enough to find the closest cavity or passage?”

The huddled mass of students broke into hushed arguments amongst themselves, pointing out strengths and flaws. Boasting was no good here, as they needed to pin down exactly who had the skill set for the next task. They were also aware they were about to lose whatever refined Essence they might have left, so it was a swift game of pass-the-baton.

Jiminus became the final choice. Artorian couldn’t say he was surprised, given the lad was the second earth and fire affinity mix. He did not like the Blight, but there was something to that one statement it had gleefully lectured him about: affinity channels were everything.

That thought was dismissed. No amount of natural gifts could beat out sustained practice and hard effort. Artorian momentarily considered a well-trained single-affinity user and an untrained all-affinity user, and didn’t like that he’d probably just… proven the Blight correct.

He despised how much accurate information that awful mass had given him. Lies would have easily been dealt with. That annoying blob likely deduced as much, and had told him mostly truths, successfully unseating him from a position of comfort. The gall. He loved comfort! “Jiminus, you’re up. Do you know what you’re doing?”

The boy jumped up and shuffled closer. “Find a cavity or open space closest to this position so someone else can tunnel to it before we run out of air.”

That shut the Headmaster up. Both because it was grim, and… right on the nose. No other explanation or questions were needed, so Artorian channeled refined Essence into Jim’s spine. The boy needed as much Essence as his eyes could hold.

It took a few minutes, but the announcement arrived nice and quick. “I’ve got something.”

The congregation thought that was… too fast? They didn’t complain, fast was good! Artorian’s curiosity still got the better of him. He had to know. “So swiftly? How did you accomplish this?”

Jiminus pointed at a hexagonal corner going down. Sharply down. Down was not a good direction to go, but if it meant a new source of air… new sources of air were a positive.

“While it’s not the closest, there’s a tunnel network there that has remained mostly intact. It’s a metal tunnel rather than an earthen one, so it held up against the crushing. When I cycle my vision, I normally see all the rock. I had the thought to invert it instead, so instead of the rock, I see the empty space as big black blobs while the earth is just see through. I couldn’t do this without so much Essence powering me.”

Razor frowned as Artorian cut in. “Why aren’t we taking the closest?”

That sentiment was shared by a few, but Jiminus started moving his hand in a wavy circle. “The closest one is actually right on the other side of that part of the hexagonal wall, but particles of dirt are somehow very wildly swirling inside of it. It reminds me a lot of…”

“Blight,” Astrea pitched in, finishing Jim’s sentence. She was squinting at the wall, confirming the worry with a thumbs down. She was cycling the bare minimum she could, but it was more than enough for her to pick up the flailing infernal cloud on the other side. “Definitely Blight. Very active, not happy. If that came into contact with something it could consume… that’s the end of our road. Jiminus did a good job not choosing that direction.”

With that information, Astrea pulled some of her refined Essence back. There was a limited amount to go around, but that was incredibly important information for their survival. She regarded her grandfather, and swallowed, “Call it, old man.”

Artorian smiled and nodded at her. His hands went to Razor and Ali’s backs, and Essence fluxed into their centers. “Get us to that metal tube.”

Chapter Twelve

Fresh air met them as Ali and Razor pried apart the stubborn wall of metal. The headache they all shared began to fade as the influx of breathable space provided exactly what they needed. Air students had pulled the breathable oxygen along with them, but were glad for a break as the tunnel behind their backs filled in. There was no other way to make a tunnel, that dirt needed somewhere to go.

Skyspear students spilled into the sizable metal tube as soon as they were able. It was malformed and difficult to traverse, but they didn’t care. This tunnel offered one more step on the path to survival. Jiivra called out, “Jiminus, Astrea, where to?”

“Not that way, for certain.” Astrea tiredly pointed at the tail end of the dark tunnel while holding the side of her head with her free hand. The lack of air hadn’t done her any good, and she was the only one who didn’t currently benefit from her grandfather’s soothing Aura. Sure it was… nice. Her infernal Essence simply didn’t agree.

Jiminus spent a little longer looking around as the rest of the students spilled in. He had less Essence to work with, but made due. Some of it needed to go back to the tunnelers for them to actually make it. Well, they’d made it. “I’m seeing nothing from this position, I can’t even see what Astrea is talking about. If we can walk to the mouth end that goes up a little, I might see something after some climbing. For now, it’s all bad in all directions.”

With no better options, they made their way up the tunnel. The passage lacked the expected cave thematic. No stalactites or stalagmites, no damp walls or anything of the sort. Just a big, fat tunnel that seemed to go on forever in an upwards direction they were happy about; it meant plenty of air.

“Hold up… I see an opening.” Jiminus pointed at the ceiling, but Astrea didn’t agree.

“No good. It is there, just not moving. There’s a big patch of nothing past that though.”

The earth and fire affinity student grumbled, “Also no other open space that I can see nearby. We…”

He stopped when Astrea squeezed his shoulder, her head snapping to look behind her. Her voice carried the same tone from when she was calling out instructions to avoid infernal tentacles. “We need to run. It got in, and it’s catching up fast.”

Cursing under their breaths, every student and instructor made a run for it. Artorian and Jiivra took up the rear, Astrea and Jiminus led the front, with Razor and Ali directly behind so they could work some stone if needed. Jiivra saw the violet cloud worming its way up the tunnel behind them at a glance. It was aglow with infernal energy, angrily bouncing off the metal tube confines as it thrashed forward. She didn’t need to hear the shrieking to somehow be aware of it. “That looks unfriendly!”

Ali’s voice called out loud from the front with good news. “Cavity dead ahead! Get through, we’ll seal the way!”

Earth students were already closing the gap they had to squeeze through long before the back of the line was close to making it. If they didn’t, even rough mental math said they would all be dinner. Jiivra shared a glance with Artorian. It didn’t look good for them if they didn’t hurry up.

Artorian glanced over his shoulder mid-hustle. “Doesn’t look very intelligent, or like it’s anyone we know.”

Jiivra shot him a look of fury and confusion. She was not okay with him risking a foolish ploy to buy them time, they needed him to funnel Essence between them. “Don’t you dare old man!”

She didn’t say more as a quick glance revealed some… unpleasant realities. There wasn’t a lot of refined Essence to go around anymore. They were all running on fumes, and the old man didn’t have much to spare. She was tapped, and far too close to her own death plane to really say anything.

“Grab those last in the line. Get in the cavity and work it from there. I’m going to buy you… those extra few seconds.” Jiivra bit her lip at the academic’s words. Emotion was breaking her, but she couldn’t afford to do so much as stop running.

“We’ve got fresh airflow in here!” one of the students yelled through the closing metal pipeline. That passage was getting awfully small. “We can get outside!”

Artorian smiled at one of his favorite people and pressed a hand to her back. His Aura winked out of existence as the Essence needed to sustain the soothing effect dropped below the minimum requirement. The light in the tunnel literally went out, and when Jiivra flickered on her own Aura… she was no longer running next to the old Elder from the fringe.

She bit her lip to silence herself, swooped up the two stragglers in an arm each, and hurled herself through the metal split and into the cavity behind it. She hated herself for shouting her next words… even if she knew it was necessary. “Seal it!”

As the metal creaked to a smashing close, a tiny, buzzing, red dot zipped through the final remaining inch of the passageway. Artorian turned. His back facing the closed metal seal. He was panting, sweating, sore, and out of breath. He relied fully on his Presence to carry him through life, and now that it was teetering… there was no point in running. He sucked in a breath, and his external Aura just barely sputtered back to life. “There we are, a little extra light to keep the violet worm at bay—gah!”

A violet claw was three inches from his nose. It had moved so fast. Based on the speed the Blight had been going, he should have had easily another seven seconds. He’d been deceived. While watching the tendril retreat, the charismatic, oozing voice clicked at him. Abyss. Cataphron. “Tut… tut… tut.”

A familiar shape crept into being as the amorphous worm shaped blob took on an appallingly familiar violet body of infernal energy. Cataphron soundlessly clapped his hands together. Why didn’t it make a sound? Ah. Right. No real body present to make sound with, probably just the voice box. “All that running! Look at where it brought you. I was so close… you were nearly on your knees. I thought ‘I have him’! Alas, it appears that I’ll have to wait, oh… maybe a minute longer?”

Artorian’s Aura sputtered, and in that blink of time the infernal violet body flashed forward, as close to the old man as it could get. The elemental ended up a scant three feet away, compared to the… thirty it had been before. Not good.

“I told you I was willing to wait for my sweet, sweet satisfaction. I had prepared follies and fogies as distractions. Pathways and prefectures of dead ends. Years of quips and one-liners. Here it was all… for naught. I’ll have my vengeance, and so much sooner than anticipated. Can you hear it my friend? The rumbling of my stomach? I wonder what you taste like…”

“Salt and vinegar.” The old man took a deep breath and steadied his Aura, regardless of how weak it was. He heard something, a sound the Blight clearly wasn't making. It was distinct, and utterly out of place for their location. His attention broke away from the Blight, and it was not happy about that.

“You’re a clown, I bet you’ll taste funny. No matter, it all goes to the same place.” Though it couldn’t see what had distracted its prey, Cataphron saw Artorian hold his hands up and clasp something invisible. The old fool was playing a trick on him again, but something about the fool’s expression made it feel… wary.

Artorian couldn’t believe what he was holding. It was living fire, but didn’t burn to the touch. If anything, it was soothing. His kind of soothing. The familiarity was making his heart pound as he held the tiny, single… bee.

It crawled around on his hand like a real bee, just like all other bees had loved to crawl around on him. He still didn’t know why they did it, but the sensation was heartwarming, and it brought a softness to his previously dim and dour face; a smile that was half sadness. “Well… will you look at that.”

The bee fluttered its wings at him. Undisturbed by his surroundings, Artorian pet the little beasty with a single, tender finger. Brushy brush…!

Cataphron screamed at him, but it only resulted in the barest minimum of reactions. “Look at what? There’s nothing! You think you can steal my victory by pretending to go senile? I have you, old man! You’re mine!”

A small set of chuckles left the Headmaster. His eyes rose up to regard the personified Blight. If he’d been wearing a set of glasses, he would have looked over the rim and adjusted them to cause a glare to shine off the glass. “No… so long as I have my moss in place, you’ll never have me. You’ll never find my last little trick, and it will strip you of all victories.”

The chuckle became laughter. His Aura weakened, but it was worth selling his last little distraction ploy. His enemy took the bait. The Blight found every instance of that odd, harmless looking moss and devoured it whole wherever it was found. It wouldn't allow a single thing to taint his satisfaction. “I will have the last lau… why are you smiling…?”

“Oh, Blighty…”

Cataphron took a cautious step back as Artorian plucked a patch of moss from his pocket. “I hope you packed your bags, because you’re going on a trip. You don’t eat the glowing moss.”

Lifting the bee to his lips, he exhaled fire Essence onto it. Speaking with a whisper. “Honey…”

The bee lit up with Mana, and finally the Blight could see what had been hidden as the celestial shell coating the insect peeled away. The opposing energy had hidden the creature from its gaze! The Blight felt wrong. Its ability to see was going through a worse psychedelic phase then even Astrea’s nightmare had caused. Cataphron’s reality was starting to go through an odd inter-twisting kaleidoscopic set of landscapes.

Exploding in a harmless burst, the bee sent out a pinpointing shockwave of Mana, loudly heralding its exact position. The cavern filled with ambient Mana, providing the general region an outburst of fire Essence as the Mana followed the direction to ‘give’, and purposefully disassembled itself. Artorian’s eyes shot open wide at the realization. Kicking his sun core into gear, the confined fire Essence slammed into the cultivator. This was in part a terrible idea, but Essence was Essence, and he was almost out. The C-ranked cultivator’s skin turned red at the rapid absorption, and his pearlescent core became hot, hot, hot!

The Blight wasn’t doing too well. All that awful moss had been imbued with celestial energy. It didn’t take being a scholar to know that a creature made entirely from infernal didn’t do so well when ingesting a material that was its pure antithesis. The identity trapped in the moss only made the effects worse. What had this terrible geezer done to this stuff? Where in the world did glowing moss exist which wrought havoc directly upon the mind? It didn’t have the ability to think any further, and blindly charged the old man.

Visibly unable to uphold the Cataphron identity, Artorian deduced there was no threat of triggering the land-law. But while the Blight could no longer reason, it was still bigger and had more Essence. It would win.

Against Artorian, yes. It would have won. Against the burning thing that split the earth from ceiling to sky like it was ripping apart a cardboard box? No, there it could not win. It also could not stop itself from trying. Infernal masses flooded the crevice and shot upwards in the form of countless gaping mouths.

Ember wasn’t interested in the defiant mewling of a fake B-rank incorporeal creature. Her left hand was raised palm up, and a tiny bee made of incarnate fire hovered a few inches above it. She regarded the scene below with sclera as dark as the deepest void in space, her body cracked and covered with searing spatial tears.

She leaked Mana like a shredded waterskin as she descended, yet her density only increased. Ember hit A-rank eight, causing a wave of energy to explode outwards. Her Mana easily burned away the oncoming darkness storm, and reached out to grip the culprit. A Mana shaped hand comprised mostly of flame and a touch of celestial squeezed the life from the Blighted cloud.

Phantoms shrieked, and her light shifted from torrential pyrostorms to radiant starlight. Artorian gasped in relief, feeling invigorated. His active cultivation drank in the Essence generated by the rapidly deteriorating Mana. Except that this variant was already in the configuration he desperately needed. He’d been a toe away from his Essence death plane, and he collapsed upon the ground, no longer even attempting to uphold the charade. The ploy had worked in the nick of time.

While he was certain the Blight would recover from consuming celestial Essence sooner than he liked, Artorian had known that in terms of raw power… the Blight was going to win out sooner or later. He was still stuck in a hole in the ground, living on a timer that was ticking toward ‘done’. When he squinted his gaze to look upon his savior, his hopeful smile bled away to horror.

“Ember!” he called out to her, hoping that the fractured creature in her shape was actually her. It was getting hard to tell, and it had been a taxing few days. From rescuing Astrea until now, life had been a nonstop wild ride of activity. He was exhausted. Still, from the look of it, the rest would need to wait. There was no rest for the weary, nor the wicked.

He tried again: “Ember!”

The spaced-out Mage blinked, her head jerking back an inch as she saw rather than merely looked. Mage speed was incredibly swift, and Artorian hadn’t finished his second call to her by the time she hovered before him, her arms embracing the old man as softly as they could. He still felt a rib creak in complaint. He spoke with great effort. “It is good to see you… my dear.”

Ember’s inhale drew in enough breath that all the air in the cavern moved. She was aflame, but didn’t burn to the touch. That, or his core was so hot he wasn’t feeling the singe. Hmm… little of both? His cultivation slammed shut as she hugged him; he couldn’t let Mana in.

Ember released him slowly, and a burning field in the shape of an orb surrounded them. It countered the Blight when it blindly attempted to swamp over them, but she didn’t seem to care. Her voice was as cracked as her skin, and Artorian gently took her by the shoulders. “You t… too. I n… need help.”

His nod was sharp, and he mentally caught up faster than her Mage speed could move. “Details. Short.”

Ember tried not to break her friend’s arms when she gently squeezed for support. She’d found him. She’d actually found him! But she was out of time. Ember would hit A-nine shortly, and then she’d have seconds on the clock. Her voice was hasty and frightened, her tone streaked with gasping tears as she tried to get the words out at the right speed.

“S-rank. I’m… Actualizing. I’m Incarnating. I don’t… I don’t have a stable self-image. I don’t know me. Who am I? Artorian, who am I? I’m going to rip apart without a proper personality, and I didn’t have the t… time. I don’t have the t… time.”

He’d never expected the knowledge from the Blight to have been such a boon, especially this soon. His arms shook off her uncertain grip, surrounded her shoulders in a hug as his mind raced. “I’ve got you. I have an answer for you. It’s not the answer you want, because it doesn’t answer the question you want answered. A philosopher does not find the right answer, they find the right question.”

“The correct question for you, my dear, is not who you think you are. Nor who I think you are. The right question, is who do you want to be. Those values, those viewpoints, those core patterns. Grasp those. Think of that which you would want most in this world, and claim them. Grasp them tight and hold them close. Find that which you would promise yourself forever and ever, and never betray. For that is the core of a person.”

She swallowed away a panicked breath as tears stained her cheeks; they were vaporizing as they touched her skin. She was here, listening, because she was placing her trust in the hands of a frail little human that wanted the best for his world. She desperately wanted to believe that she was part of that world. “W… where? How do I even begin?”

Artorian clasped her hands and closed his eyes. An idea came to mind, but he didn’t want to tell her. He considered it a violation, but… if it might save her… he had already prepared to die just earlier, what was a few extra minutes with a friend? “Ember, tell me again. Please, if you ever told me before. What was her name? The name of your youngest, the one they called the Fire Soul?”

Ember frowned; that was a sharp left turn away from a useful topic, but there was no way in the Celestial Heavens that he wasn’t asking for a good reason when the timer was so close to ticking. She hit A-rank nine, and swallowed as she diverted the energy away from the confinement of their safety sphere.

Everything outside of their sphere became molten slag, but that detail would need to wait. She closed her eyes, and sent her mental hand reeling into her heart to open up a box she did not wish to open. Gritting her teeth as steaming tears ran freely down her cheeks, she opened the box and pulled free the memory of her child. Her precious, dearest little one.

Her jaw moved, but no sound came out. He spurred her on, adding volume to his concerned words. “In your language…”

Her breathing became hectic, sporadic, shuddery. She snapped her eyes open, and within them Artorian saw only the void of space. The depths of the unknown, and blazing irises that swirled as a mighty supernova. She was different. Something had happened to Ember, and it was tearing her apart on more than just the S-tiered level.

He had a thought… it was a terrible thought. Ember swallowed, and this time her mouth moved, and words were spoken.

“Dawn. I wished to name her… Dawn. For she smiled bright and playful. She greeted the world with a noise of elation, and when I held her… she was at peace. At peace until the end. Until her last breath, my little one was the first ray of light on a new day. She was my hope. The first, and last Zaran. Taking the name of Yaran one iteration further.”

Artorian held her tight. This was taxing, heart-rending, and a deep burden. Yet he had to say it; he had to. “Think, my dear, of how you would have raised her. What values you would have taught, what lessons you would instill over the centuries of her growth. What would you have said, if she stumbled? What would you have done, had she been hurt? Where would you have been, had she needed you? For she needs you now. She needs her mother to think of her and all the things you would have done. For the soul of fire is named Dawn. The Incarnation of the will of flame awaits her calling.” He squeezed her harder, though she would never know it.

“Who, my dear, is about to become the Incarnation? Who better to honor the daughter that embodied hope than the one who holds tightest to her memory? You have named the soul of fire, and she awaits you in the spirit of the Law. Greet her. Give her the life you wished to give her. None knows those values, those lessons, those desired personality traits better. Than. You.”

He swallowed hard, trembling. “You are not stuck being what someone else wants you to be! That’s not their choice to make. A sense of identity, who you are, is decided entirely by you. Let me meet you again. Let me meet the soul of fire. Please, let me meet Dawn. For that is the name of hope you have always embodied.”

The cracks on Ember’s body tore wide open.

A-rank Nine.

Zenith.

Chapter Thirteen

‘Death or graduation’. This was the universal motto by which the S-ranks functioned.

Pagacco and Duke hadn’t moved an Ur-piece on their board in over an hour. They just sat there and watched, unable to speak. They didn’t want to admit the failures they’d gone through to be so thoroughly stripped of their remaining S-ranked power. They could feel the inversion looming; it was just a matter of time before Ember was completely topped up and the judging concluded.

They knew the outcome to their ranking decrease. They were about to suffer incredible, horrific pain as their Incarna bodies turned inside out, reverting to the original A-rank bodies they’d had so long ago. Neither of them liked the idea of those forms after eons of being what they wanted to be, but it was inevitable. They had no good ideas on how to keep their current niveau of power.

Even the dungeon Karakum was silent… albeit for different reasons. The fire Law-bound dungeon Core knew something was afoot; it just didn’t have the intelligence to puzzle out what. The silence was… palpable and intoxicatingly depressing. Its two annoyances were about to lose something. It didn’t know what, it just knew it had to hide its unbridled joy. It had plans. Several, since it recently had a Mana influx that let a dungeon of its type and color actually do something.

If the duo became weaker, such as in the areas of suddenly being a Mage rank… why, then it would no longer be vastly overpowered by either of them. Oh, the games they would play! It didn’t have time to consider further. The dimension it occupied—the one considered ‘reality’—froze in a world made entirely of greyscale.

It could not hear, but it could see. It saw the agony of the wailing figures. They held themselves and fell to the ground. Roiling. Writhing. Twisting in unnatural, incomprehensible ways as their bodies seemed to turn in on themselves, collapsing onto a single point in space while simultaneously having a form spat out from the other direction of the spin.

The judging had concluded. Their Law had found them wanting.

It restructured the proper order of the world within the field in which it had dominion. The gavel had struck: the Law had judged. Mana made bodies coated in a shell of Incarnate energy lay twitching on the glassed desert floor. The greyscale effect bled out of reality; neither of the fallen beings would be able to make it happen ever again. They were no longer Incarnates; they were Ascended. They were Mages. Both Ancient Elves sat up with a displeased groan when the pain stopped.

Karakum could tell they were happy to be alive, but just who were these geezers that looked a thousand years old? These methuselahs didn’t remotely look like the two playthings it had expected. Karakum was so startled, it didn’t know what to do as it shifted viewpoints to look between the two; experiencing the emotion known as ‘flabbergasted’.

The two ancient geezers got to their feet. Wobbly and uncertain, but to their feet nonetheless. “Ha! Look at you! Your beard reaches the ground!”

Pagacco was having none of Duke’s banter. “Says the hunched over corpse with bent ears!”

Duke felt his ears. Oh abyss, they were actually bent. He waggled his bony finger at his old friend, a hand pressing to his lower back to get used to a body of… Mana. *Ugh*. How awful. He had to deal with bodily functions again. He didn’t want to~o~o! It didn’t matter. He smiled as Pagacco had trouble walking.

They quipped back and forth until Karakum the dungeon Core got the gist of it: these were the creatures that had tormented him! For the first time in centuries… Karakum smiled. The mana around its core cracked like glass. Reforming to create the expression as it was trapped as an orb no longer. Finally free to form its own body, Karakum grew. A ruby-armored crystal scorpion once more.

* * *

Es-illian-Yaran held her head and howled. Not with her voice, but as an emanation of power to the endless void. Ember’s lament was filled with memories of her little girl. Of her body crumpling into a single point in space, directed at the very middle of her cultivation’s center. She shifted to and through a small, indistinguishable pinprick as her mind and body were moved into her Soul Space, as her Soul Space inverted. Her center spilled out into the real world using Mana as an intermediary. The energy of her soul became manifest, and the first thing it demanded in order to exist was shape and personality.

Over the eons, Ember had encountered many theories of the soul. Many were suspect; most were flat-out wrong. Her favorite was that the soul served as a mirror image of the traits one had as a person. If one was a good person, then it was to be said they had a good soul. The theory was named HunPo, after the scholar who came up with it in the Golden Age. She passed before her time could truly shine, but by the age of thirty was said to have grasped the will of the Heavens and Earth.

Hun’s peerless mind divided her writing into conjoining segments. Yin: vital force expressed in consciousness and intelligence. Yang: physical nature expressed in bodily strength and movements. When the Yin and Yang move in unity and harmony, they express themselves as the nature of the soul.

A person is how they carry themselves, think, react, and act. These reflections are carved into their soul, and the soul reflects it on the endless lengths of a still ocean; silent and unmoving for all to see.

Ember’s soul was no lake. It was a twisting helix of rampant fire. Her pyre. The Soul energy needed immediate information on what she was. She realized… the old man hadn’t been wrong, even if his words had been the epitome of recollected pain. It wasn’t who she was at this moment that needed to be actualized; it was who she wanted to be. The person about to come anew into the world did not need to be broken, and didn’t need to be a war torn Yaran. It did not need to be a Zaran, for that was a title afforded to only one… one who had passed.

The shoes of her daughter—however tiny they were—were a pair too big for her to fill. Still, the words of the wise resonated to a soul that needed them most. The person going back out into the world did not need to be her. It did not need to be her grief, her loss, her damage. It could be… Hope. A new perspective and horizon.

Yet, how could she do this? She couldn’t just-

A memory played before her. It was small, and it was weak. It was haphazard and frail. It wasn’t… hers? Her mind latched to it, absorbing the information in less than a moment as she experienced the Wood Elf technique of memory giving in a fashion so direct and profound that she was assured her Incarnation energy was somehow involved.

In the space between worlds that Ember currently occupied, the Law of Time snapped its fingers and acted in accordance with the rules. An Incarnate would have all the time in the world to Actualize. So it was written, so it was agreed, so it would be.

Yaran blinked. The pain was gone? No. It was not diminished, it didn’t disappear. The ticking time bomb that was her Mana-made body simply no longer applied as the first droplet of Soul energy blossomed into the real world. Cracks still coated her body, and while she was unable to move, this was her soul space. She looked at herself from outside her own perspective, and found everything frozen in a landscape of grey.

Her eyes closed, and she absorbed the gifted memory. A footfall on a bridge that didn’t exist stepped into her vision. A walkway of darkness without borders or walls squeezed into being, and at the end of it… there was a bonfire. There, she saw her friend. Then a younger version, and younger still. All were seated on stumps around the fire, versions of personality that were partially discarded.

She watched and listened as the Elder of the Fringe sat and surrendered. He could go no more; he could live no longer. The task ahead required someone… not better. Different. Traits and choices that would lead him to a path his current self could not walk. As that Elder looked to an empty stump, Yaran saw a new man appear from nothing. Perhaps… not from nothing, but from the traits needed. The traits wanted. This person, she recognized: this was Artorian. Her Artorian. The version she knew. The nosy, distractible, excitable, gabby, foxy, playful old man.

There had been… something else. Beneath it all, that veneer of personality was hiding core traits. The required curriculum. She looked deeper, and the memory allowed her to see; where she expected resistance, she found only welcoming warmth. Where people would ordinarily wish to hide the truth of their being from all others, Artorian trusted her to see the truth. The awful truth of who he really was beneath it all; what he sacrificed to become ‘him’. Ember had to see. She needed to see.

Peeling away the coat of paint, there was wrath, rage, fury… and there was war. These aspects, she knew ever so well. Dropping a layer deeper, she found something unexpected. She found that the previous layer of action was built upon a layer of reason. She couldn’t believe her eyes when three moving pictures played over, and over.

In the first, it was the old man. The Elder of the Fringe, holding his adoptive children from families not his own. He smiled, and they beamed back. How he loved them! They had bright minds with bright futures, if only he could give them the opportunity.

The second, a youthful, spry warrior decked in the imperial regalia of a commander. A practice before he ever needed to go to war, the first preparation before the first battle, a young woman smiled at him and held a tiny baby in her arms. His baby. He’d never spoken of his child, nor the woman. How he loved them! Even when they were gone forever.

In the third, and last, he was a youngster himself. He was playing around with… some kind of animal? It pounced on him, and he held it tight. It licked his face, and his childish hands rubbed down the bristled mane of what by all rights should have been a dangerous beast. That didn’t matter to the little boy. How he loved it! How sad he’d been when he’d buried the creature under the cover of rain.

A layer deeper. Ember fell. She understood now, that his wrath, his rage, his war… they were not the driving force of his being. They were the tools to accomplish his means to an end. A willingness to do what had to be done. The Incarnation of a good man, going to war to protect that which he loved; even when it was gone from this world.

Her feet hit the floor. A hard, unforgiving floor. There wasn’t a moving image here. Instead she found two replicas of her friend. Yet they were scarred, bleeding, dying. Falling to the ground once again, their broken forms stirred. She tried to step closer to help, but found herself unable. The sheer force of the absolute core of his personality rebuked even her.

Even broken. Even battered. Even pushed to the brink of losing all that was worth living for in the world. A single, shining trait did not quit. It did not stop. It did not surrender. It would get up, get up, and get up again.

Ember was moved beyond words. He’d said it to her before. A hint, perhaps? Never had she taken it to mean anything with such incredible willpower. At the very basis of her friend’s psyche, the bottom most fundamental core of his being, the truth he wanted to show her. The truth he needed her to see was that through endless trial and tribulation, there was a trait he wanted her to have. The only gift he could grant her that could possibly have some meaning. There, at the very basis of a little human’s mind, Ember discovered what it meant to be unyielding.

She looked up, and saw that the figures had stopped falling. The bloodied, broken, tired, and identical exhausted men looked over their shoulders at her. It made her freeze, or feel the sensation of frost. It passed when they smiled at her, the second core trait with an arm around the first showing itself. It was the truth: that he could not do it alone. The figures mouthed words at her, and while unspoken, she heard them loud and clear.

“I believe in you.”

A strength filled her. A knowledge that, while this was the most difficult tribulation of her life, she wasn’t alone. The core personality traits watched her go, keeping fists to the air in solidarity of her journey as she moved back up the layers. The three stilled images moved no more, they only regarded her. All three versions of her friend smiled at her, a companion in all walks of life as they raised their hands to wish her well. The tools of strife did not quarrel or shout when she ascended to their layer. They saluted her proudly, as a fellow compatriot of endless trials.

She opened her eyes, seated at an empty stump at the bonfire. The pleasant, foxy, playful personality smiled at her. It took her hand, kissed it, and gave her a playful wink just to be coy. It was nothing serious. A pleasantry designed just to serve as a reminder that she was lovely, and had not a shred of judgement to fear from her friend. He mouthed words at her, and she could hear him clearly.

“I leave this place to you. May you find yourself in the exact place you need to be.” With those parting words, she was alone in the bonfire construct. The mental room where an old philosopher came when he’d failed and needed to try again. She took the idea, and left the memory.

Back in her soul space, she squeezed her metaphorical hand into a fist. Ember imagined and built her own bonfire. Hers was the helix of her cultivation technique, but it functioned all the same. Opening her eyes, old versions of herself littered the camp by the hundreds. She was, after all, much older than her human friend. Feeling far less alone, relief washed over her at seeing how far she had come. She smiled, and they all smiled back.

Taking a few steps, Ember exhaled deeply and seated herself on an available stump. The others around her said nothing as she turned to the empty stump next to her, and spoke from her heart. “I can’t do this anymore. Can you?”

A copy of her current self manifested slowly, and smiled as it regarded her. The new self looked younger. More vibrant. Full of life. “I can.”

The new version reached over and grasped Ember’s shoulder. “It has been an honor, and a privilege, to have been you, Es-illian-Yaran.”

Yaran swallowed her worry, and shuddered as the next words trembled out. She knew the answer to her question, but she needed to hear it. Just to be certain before she passed her torch. “Thank you. What is your name?”

The new version steadily gained the perspective that the old one lost. It beamed at Ember, and took her hands into theirs. “I am the one that will finish what you have started. I will be who you wanted me to be, with the lessons you wanted me to know. With the memories and sights you wanted me to see. With the actions you would have wanted me to take. I am the life you wished you would have had, and I can’t wait to show it to you. I am the hope you always wanted everyone to see. My name, mother, is Dawn.”

Ember’s viewpoint dimmed as her personality came to an end. She let it go willingly. Made anew, Dawn Aran rose from the stump…

And became certain of herself.

Chapter Fourteen

Artorian could have sworn he’d heard the snapping of fingers as his connection to Ember closed. He didn’t have the luxury to ruminate the fact that his last-ditch effort to give Ember information was cut short before he felt he had gotten it across. Abyss! He had hoped that if words failed, a memory dump of a key memory that could help might be of some use.

Alas, he didn’t know if it had gotten anywhere. Artorian watched the flaming orb that was their protective dome fade and thin. On the other side, Blight hungered; it beat against the shield now and again like an animal testing for weaknesses. It lost some darkness in the process, but it had plenty to spare.

Worse still, the moss effect was either in the end stages of fading, or had fully expired. The academic couldn’t tell while the shield was up. Though, in truth, he didn’t really want it to go down. His core had cooled since he’d stopped the influx of Essence gathering, but he’d accrued more fire corruption than he’d liked. He’d need to be careful in the short-term future as he now had more of it than any other. Artorian knew he could be quick to anger now. Even if it was contained, corruption wasn’t that easy to just stop.

When her shield flickered and showed an obvious gap, Artorian closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He could flicker on his starlight Aura, but that was only good if the personality present wasn’t Cataphron’s. From the look of it that wasn’t the case, but he’d still be overwhelmed by the sheer amount of infernal energy. That would be the end of the story. He didn't have the Essence to go toe-to-toe with an elemental. He might as well be challenging a Mage to fisticuffs while in his skivvies.

To his surprise, no flood of infernal came. Peeking open an eye; he saw all of Ember finish collapsing into a single point in space. She was gone, and only a black dot remained at chest level. Her shield followed suit in the next instant. Artorian’s arms fell limp to his side as a figure he didn’t know made its way forward; some Ancient Elf with long ears clapped as it approached him. He could hear the claps, so it was a fully physical manifestation.

It was here to gloat, no doubt. *Clap. Clap. Clap.* “So close! Yet no victory…”

Artorian dejectedly dropped his eyes down to admire the black hole. At least he had something he’d never seen before to look at before he got… eaten. His words carried that dejection in his defeated, insulting tone. “What’s with that ridiculous body? Who are you supposed to be now, someone exceptionally good at gloating?”

The phantom laughed to itself, and that Artorian could hear even more clearly. It was a cruel, clever laugh. “Oh, this body? Well, since you aren’t exactly a threat, I had to reconfigure against that which was. You see, just in case I heard right, and that person was a Yaran, I have to uphold the land-vow that protects me from attack by that particular lineage. After all, it never hurts to be too careful when it was Es-Arcturus-Aran that knocked me from the moon using a mountain as a club, then trapped me beneath it.”

This was a part of history that Artorian did not know, and it… countered some prior information. A flicker of an idea played behind his eyes. Ember was gone, but he didn’t know the details of S-ranking. Just some… hearsay, by a possibly disreputable source. “Too bad… I hope that hurt.”

The Blight reached its clawed hand for Artorian’s neck at the speed of darkness. Still, before it ever touched his throat… the world stilled. None could move, and Artorian couldn’t even slide his eyes sideways. He could, however, see that the new color of the world… was grey.

The black hole ripped open, and just as a body had been sucked in. A new, advanced form slowly manifested and came out. A bright mocha-skinned beauty freed herself as Soul energy constructed her desired body. Black and burgundy cloth clad itself over her young features, and metal rings that appeared to be gold fastened about her upper arms, sealing the cloth in place while exposing her shoulders. A matching ring on her middle finger kept the material across her fiber taut as it vacuum-sealed into place.

Lush lips matched burning orange eyeshadow as a flock of fluent, wavy locks spilled from her head. The coloration began as bright yellow, and with ombre smoothness turned orange, then red, until the tips showed a soft, deep-dark tyrian purple. The hair ends had no color. They were dark as the void, and sparkled like the depths of space. Shorter than expected ears grew into being, still elven in design… but, dare he say… cute? Two cuffs sealed themselves on the top lip of her ear, and a thin halo of burning white circled into place around her head.

The crux came when the woman before them opened her eyes. Accented by long, thick, dark lashes, her sclera were the black of endless space. Her irises shining as mighty supernovas that spun in the void. The difference was that Artorian believed with certainty that was what he was actually looking at. Only then did he notice her perfectly done dark eyebrows. He’d never pegged Ember as the overly aesthetic sort, yet this body was the textbook definition of sexy style. She flexed her hands, showing off bright orange stiletto nails that shifted to match her most prominent ombre hair color.

Yup. Definitely went hard on style. She didn’t just look like she’d manifested from a black hole, but all senses screamed that she was one. There was nothing she couldn’t fatally attract with a look. Nothing she couldn’t crush under oppressive infinite pressure, which was exactly what happened to the Blight as it flattened into a paste against the floor.

Artorian remained unharmed; not feeling any such deadly pressure. Exhaling, the world trembled as ‘Ember’ took and released her first real breath. The greyscale ceased to be, and a wobbly old man was caught by… nothing? Space was just holding him up. He couldn’t tell what space, or where. Just… space, which gently brought him to his feet where he could steady himself.

“Oh… well. Thank you, and hello. I am Artorian. It is lovely to meet you.”

The girl smiled wide, and extended a hand. Her voice was milk and honey, carried over the space of a dozen galaxies that played with planets as instruments; like the music of the spheres descending to grace the mortal world with their perfect tune. “Dawn Aran. It is good to meet you, my old, and new friend. Please, call me Dawn. I have been very excited to meet you. Thank you. For everything. I know you didn’t have to do all of that for me, nor show me the memory of who you are. Please do know that in your venture to reclaim your family. I offer my full support. It is the least I can do.”

Artorian beamed and tried to keep a steady face. He had expected to die, not regain so incredibly much. “My dear, I am just happy that I could see you again. It would have been a long road without you, my friend.”

Dawn gently hugged him. “I’m sure you would have told me all about it, when I saw you again.”

The old man brushed under his eyes with the back of his wrists. “Oh stop, you’re making me weepy.”

Dawn smirked and winked at him. “As if you didn’t do that to me with your little pre-Actualization speech. That hurt, you know…”

She released him just to pout and turn away, holding her own shoulders as the tip of her toe left the ground. She remained there, floating in place. Was… was she playing with him?

A different trait. How very… new. He smiled and poked her in the shoulder, giving her a little push. Sure enough, she just floated along like gravity didn’t matter in the slightest! She turned from the push, her eyes shooting sweet daggers at him as her pretend pout gave way to a beaming smile.

“Had enough of this disgusting reunion?” The Blight’s Ancient Elven body reformed from the ground up. The pressuring effect on it had expired, and the regional darkness was swelling in strength once again.

Dawn pressed a finger to her lips, loudly musing. “Hmm… that’s funny. I was sure I’d crushed you like a bug.”

Artorian frowned and crossed his arms, turning to face the S-ranker. “Aren’t we all bugs to you at this point? How does Soul energy work? Just how much more powerful are you than you were?”

Dawn popped her finger from her lips. “Oh… significantly. Compared to a zenith class A-rank nine, this is so much more powerful. A full category higher. Yeah, I’d say a categorical difference, at least. I could sneeze and release A-nine power; it would be nothing. Which is why I’m… confused why Blighty here—who I remember getting rid of with the Wood Elves—isn’t paste.”

Artorian filled her in before the phantom could. “He’s got a land-law covering his butt. It’s why he’s in that elven personality. When he was in the previous Headmaster of Skyspear, we couldn’t attack one another because the land-law would do us in. Or at least, it would smite the aggressor dead on the spot. Whatever he has with you must be different, he doesn’t seem… phased.”

The Blight laughed and did a… twirl? This personality was a jester.

“Close again! However, I won’t tell you anything. I’m more than aware she’s got the power, and you’ve got the mind. As if I'd tell you anything after that trip you sent me on. Clever boy for hiding that trap… I’m afraid you’re all out of tricks now, and your Essence count can’t be doing well. She can’t kill me, and you’re unable. Sooner or later she’s going to look away, and then it’s bye-bye Headmaster, and hello afternoon snack.”

The violet Blight rubbed its hands together with a self-assured grin. It stopped smiling when it saw the academic ponderously running a hand down his beard. “C’towl got your tongue?”

Dawn quirked a perfect eyebrow, leaning on empty space as she patiently smiled at her friend. She knew what she was good at, she knew what he was good at. Dawn was just… waiting for it all to fall into place. She had an eternity. First thing she learned: S-rank lifespan? Permanent unless killed. It was intrinsic knowledge.

The Blight leered at Dawn. “Since we’re all still figuring out what to do. Why aren’t you… on fire? I vividly recall from the forest days that you were a Fire Mage. So there should be… more *fwoosh*. Less ‘mystical’.”

Turning on an axis in the space she occupied—she defied gravity just by existing—she spoke aloud. “Well, S-rank of the Law of Fire. Correct. There is just a minor difference between ordinary Actualizations and the one I went through.”

She pointed at her chest. Even the Blight thought it rude to stare at the given location. “Ripped fire affinity channel. Though that’s to blame for another problem I’m going through. What you likely can’t get your widdle head awound… is my new celestial affinity channel. Got it from trying to copy an ability from my thinking friend over there. Oh, looks like he didn’t even hear me. That’s fine, he’s going to do his thing.”

The Blight spat at the S-ranker. “An affinity channel? That late into your Ascension? That’s paramount to suicide!”

To his dismay, the floating woman agreed with him. He didn’t know he would hate her agreeing with him! “Oh yes… having multiple affinities doesn’t prevent a low-tier law from accepting you. It does however open up additional options when Incarnating. See, it offered me two choices freely, out of three. The first is your average S-ranker. Nothing special, just as normal as they come. The second… well, you’re within proximity. I know you’re an elemental.”

She opened her hand, and fire sprung freely into being. “You have also been denying yourself the innate feeling that you know that I am also one. At least partially. Maybe fully? Don’t know. I was only born today…”

“Third?”

Dawn righted herself and did a little side-to-side shimmy. “Third is a little bit of this.”

She snapped her fingers. “A little bit of that. And a whole lot of look at me, because I’m a fancy cat!”

The Blight thought she was crazy. “So you’re a cat? Could have gone for c’towl, they’re superior in every respect.”

Dawn beamed a smile at the creature, and something deep within it became unsettled as the woman phased out of reality. This caused some sort of void that started sucking him towards it. Just him. Nothing else. Only her supernova irises were visible in the absolute depths of the void. They were so pervasive that even as a creature of the dark he feared this space. Never should he go there. Not even the land-law might protect him wherever that black hole led. Then it clicked, and he understood. “The Law conspired with a higher Law, because it couldn’t account for your peculiarities!”

Dawn manifested back to reality and blew him a mocking kiss. “Got it in one! The Law really didn’t want to give me the option, but being quasi-elemental made quite a stir in the Tower. It had to contend with a higher tier Law, Holy Fire. I was bound to Fire, but the higher Law outright gave me the option to Ascend. Special circumstances… you’re right, it is suicide to unlock an affinity channel that high into the Ascended ranks. Given how much I’d done for the Law of Fire, the other Heavenlies existing in matching nodes were all in an uproar. You should have heard the Law of Celestial. Oh, it tried hard, but unfortunately it has active S-rankers.”

She danced around the air like a ballerina. “The Laws came to a compromise. So long as I took on an Aspect of Incarnation that didn’t conflict with existing Incarnates, I could do it. The Law of Fire was ecstatic to keep me. To conform to the rules, I gave Holy Fire a big hug, and whispered sweet thoughts into its ear. I wanted to send a message to a higher Law that I knew wouldn’t want to talk to me. Yet I was surprised at how the bigshots pay attention when you least expect.”

She giggled, of all things, while hovering in loose geosynchronous orbit around the violet manifestation of Blight. “See, the big contribution I made to my Law was how to replicate my friend’s starlight effect using Mana. I was surprised to find there is no Law of Sun. I was hoping my message was going to go there, since the Incarnation idea I had directly correlated to the concept. Even if I have but the measly two. Yet, two was enough. For the concept involves no air, no earth, no water, and no infernal. There is nothing to further break down.

“Whereas the sun is a star, there are holes in space where no light can escape. I wanted to be what happens when a star reaches the end of its lifespan, and comes into existence anew as something else. My best friend is my sun, so I will be the dawn of the endless void that comes after.” Her grin widened; intent clearly evil.

No, there was no evil in her smile, it just felt as such from the apparent malice she was directing toward the Blight. She’d answered his question in a way that guaranteed he understood that however long it might take… she would end him. There was indifference. Apathy. Her expression was heartless, emotionless, and callous. She was the void where things went to end, and she had chosen to hunt him.

The Blight wriggled as its bodies shuddered with temporary deformations. They recovered quickly enough as Dawn’s expression returned to normal. He might have been a monster, but this wench was on another level. Luckily for him, he was untouchable…!

“I think I figured it out!”

Dawn beamed her smile at the Blight, her body language and posture slowly turning towards Artorian. “Oh? Please do tell me… and welcome back! You were gone for a bit there.”

“Oh, well. Yes. Sorry about that.” The embarrassment was apparent on the scholar’s face. He pretended not to have been aware of the entire interaction while he’d been puzzling. “Though it turns out it was rather simple, there might just be… side effects.”

The Blight threatened him with an accusatory finger. “Not. Another. Word.”

Artorian challengingly turned his eyes on the virulent mass. “Hmm? Or what?”

Chapter Fifteen

Jiivra and the student body made it safely to the surface only to find an all-out war.

Tired students ducked for cover as a blazing c’towl catapulted over their heads and tackled into a group of skeletons that just wouldn’t stay down. A flash of burning light blocked their vision as an earthquake struck, a massive ravine opening nearby in the location where that metal tunnel had been. Something shining and bright jumped down, and the blinding effect ended.

“Instructor! What do we do?” Jiivra’s students were panicked, and rightfully so. In need of a swift plan of action, she looked around and saw… indescribable devastation. Everything was flattened, gone, reshaped, or… she didn’t know. There used to be a city here, now she couldn’t even see traces of ruins. Just… things she didn’t believe, like animated armor or floating swords autonomously attacking skeletons with blackened, almost glossy looking bones.

One problem at a time. The mountain was still there, better than nothing. “Back to the mountain, dodge the… everything!”

Her half-hearted words—while shouted—were acted on by jumping hastily back down the hole they’d crawled out from as a slashing sea of swords sundered the space she was in only a moment ago. The burning blades whirled in place and flung themselves around like a school of fish. They became discs of hot, spinning death that tore up undead in their path. Mostly.

“Nevermind!” The snapped change to her own command forced her to hold back students that would have blindly charged forward. There were always some, but a jian-storm was reason enough to wait it out.

Astrea offered her two coppers. “I like the safety cave. Safety cave is great.”

The news and decisions spread down the group well enough until it got all the way to the end; the message had devolved into ‘steel swarmy boys ahead’. It was confusing, but once they’d gotten clarification from the front it didn’t seem all that incorrect. When razor sharp clouds of sapient weapons wrought unholy abyss upon endless fields of slash resistant skeletons, hanging back was a fine idea.

Skyspear was exhausted regardless. With plenty of fresh air and the passageway sealed with no further pending threats from below, most of the student body collapsed and lay down to rest. They were wiped from running, being Essence drained, and something about the mounting stress from fighting to survive.

The sheer concept of ‘living weapons are having a tiff with animated skeletons’ made the majority of the student body throw their hands up and check out. They were aware of some crazy concepts, but that one took the honey cake. That was with knowing about their Headmaster’s antics. Going down was death, going up was death, and there was no sideways. Seemed like a good time to nap.

Astrea sidled up next to Jiivra, who had her face buried in her arms while seated and hunched over. Her weariness matched that of the students. Her Essence count was equally low, and while she had a C-ranked cultivation technique, she was still heavily deprived. Her effective level was currently closer to the low D-ranks. “You getting by?”

Jiivra half grunted out a response with genuine effort. “I’ll live.”

Astrea snorted out a half-giggle, her hand muffling her mouth as the tired combat instructor glared at her beneath heavy eyelids. “That’s something my Elder would say, after he arrived to the longhouse after a long day of suffering through our pranks.”

Jiivra snorted back. She believed it, having been present in the Fringe during the early days after the Salt village was raided. The years of Skyspear life had only further ingrained her thoughts on the old man. “Yeah, that sounds like him. With a dumb little smile on his face, trying to pretend he wasn’t horribly bothered over something incredibly minor that wouldn’t have annoyed anyone else.”

The celestial cultivator turned her head, laying it on her arms as she regarded her opposite. “How about you? Holding up?”

Astrea’s smile was a carbon copy of the everything-is-okay-but-it’s-not smile that was just described. She tried to hide the pain behind her smiling expression, but the twitching gave the lie away. She got fist-nudged calmly in her shoulder; it worked on the old man. To Jiivra’s surprise, it worked equally well here. Astrea took a deep breath and spoke.

“I’m afraid. I’m out of Essence and hiding in a hole. It’s likely the grandfather I wanted to go home with just threw himself to the beasts to buy us time. I’m tired. I hurt. My vision keeps flickering and if Blight comes, I won’t notice it before it’s too late. I’m shaking, I’m cold, and the only reason I’m not falling apart is because there’s too much going on and my heart won’t stop pounding. I just. I can’t… I can’t…”

She fell sideways, or was pulled. Astrea couldn’t tell. Her rant had quickly deteriorated into tearing up, but a tight squeeze surrounded her. Ordinarily she would have complained all the way from the abyss, all the way up to the heavens from being hugged by someone she’d only known for days. Today it didn’t matter. She wasn’t the only one that needed comfort; plenty of other students had huddled up, and so she said nothing.

Being held helped tremendously. That hadn’t evoked comfort since her Fringe days. Jiivra held the back of Astrea’s head, keeping an arm curled around her back. She said nothing about the huddle. This was fine. It helped them both. Within the confines of support, Astrea managed to mumble, “I’ll live.”

Jiivra nodded. They’d be alright. “We will. Just have to wait out the bar fight on the surface. I bet when we get up there, your old man will be standing there with one arm behind his back and a hand on his beard.”

“Oh, there you are. What took you so long?” She sassily mimicked Artorian’s speech pattern. Astrea snorted again, a little smile playing on her lips. Jiivra continued: “I’ve got some confections in my pocket! Stuff this in your face so I can stand here and look bemused, nodding to nobody while asking you questions to make you talk with your mouth full. I find your embarrassment… humorous! Fufufufu!”

She received a minor jab to the ribs. Alright, maybe her gag had been a touch embellished past the truth, but Astrea was smiling. That was worth the entire affair. Jiivra would have said more, but a tiny, familiar snore came from the curled-up bundle sleeping on her chest. She smiled, and wished she had a blanket. Wait.

Jiivra’s hand reached for her shoulder and found the soft, familiar brush of a snoozing, oversized sugar glider. Had this snooty little mongrel slept through the entirety of their nonsense, remaining so still and silent they’d forgotten he’d been there? She pressed her lips together in the patented Tibbin’s squeeze. Because yes, yes it had. “You cheeky little…”

She tickled it under a wing, and the sleepy C-ranked beast stirred. His celestial ignore-me field lifted. Blanket mewled upon waking, chittered, and licked its nose. It had a few seconds of looking around, released Jiivra, and stretched. After a few of the still waking students jerked from the sound of the chitter, Blanket made a loud squee. While everyone else was dead tired, Blanket was happy as a clam to go around and meet absolutely everyone. There was petting to be had!

Group morale improved drastically when there was a creature of pure fluff that wanted nothing more than to give you some kisses and love up on you. Those who were awake adored running their fingers through the incredibly soft fur. It was soft, and comforting. Most importantly, it made them smile.

A harsh crunch repeated as something scorched, and glistening dark color tumbled down the crevice that would get them outside. The ones that were awake felt momentary terror grip their hearts as a skeleton shambled to its feet. The drop hadn’t killed it. The attacks above hadn’t killed it. They were out of Essence. They were abyssed.

Blanket blinked at the entity of hate and murder that looked at its family like it was about to tear them asunder; mostly because the mindless thing was about to do exactly that. The sugar glider took exception to a threat.

Jiivra didn’t quite believe her eyes at the sight that came next. The waking students were silently glued to the… fight? That couldn’t have been called a fight. It was easy to forget that, between the love and sweetness, Blanket was still a C-ranked beast. The glider zipped over in a celestial flash and clamped jaws on the back of the undead’s glossy skull. One *crunch* later, the pile of bones harmlessly collapsed into a pile. They watched as individual bones dissolved into misty black sand.

Blanket bristled. Standing up on his hind legs, he looked up to the crevice the undead had fallen from. Oh, it was not having any of this. Slowly, the Glider sat on its haunches. It chuffed at the ceiling light, daring another to try and come down here. A few glances told Blanket that his family was tired. They needed sleep. Blanket was awake, and strong. When it saw Jiivra smile before weakly nodding off against Astrea, it took on the mantle of responsibility.

Blanket defends.

Blanket protects.

Chapter Sixteen

The Blight glanced up to the ravine above. All it needed was one undead. Just one… to fall close enough for it to grab. Since its vision couldn’t be seen by others, it was confident that this plan wasn’t something his… company… had seen through. There were things it wanted to do, but it had held off on wantonly attacking in favor of a higher priority. As usual, distractions were getting in the way.

“What was it you said?” Artorian rapped his knuckles against his forehead. He recalled, and mimed the words with as much insult as he could muster. He disliked parroting the Blight’s words, but it was all for the sass! “Oh, you can’t begin to understand how wrong you are there… you might have had a chance.”

A cruel smile crossed his lips, so unobstructed and visible that Dawn quirked an eyebrow. She didn’t know the old man to be one for malice. Her senses felt the change on his skin before his lips pursed into an expression of cheeky amusement, like a child that knew something a sibling didn’t and couldn’t wait to tell mother.

The violet Blight elf hummed as it pressed a hand to a nonexistent hip. “Shame that you really don’t… you’re more drained than a twisted rag, squeezed dry of water and left to hang in the sun. You’re holding on… how, exactly? You should be crumpled.”

The academic laughed back with a mocking ‘Oh, hoh, hoh!’ “A comment on my well-being? I’m in better shape than that pitiful excuse of a body you’re trying to form. Your ears aren’t even… even. Might want to work on your shaping technique, boy-o…”

The Blight elf snarled and lashed out a dissolving violet whip of desiccating energy at the irritant. There was no reason to let the mongrel keep talking. The desire of watching the bug suffer over a long period of time to savor his slow demise had been fully replaced with a need to just shut. Him. Up.

A pleased smirk graced the Blight’s locally formed body, but it faded and dropped to dissatisfied agony as its attack was blocked by… it didn’t know what. The invisible orb surrounding the old man had stopped whiplashes from twenty differing directions and bent angles; all the hostile energy stopped dead in its tracks.

He shot a glare to the Actualized hovering nearby, but she silently blew the Blight a kiss. Of course she wasn’t going to let her friend be threatened. The protective energy wasn’t even visible; like it occupied a part of space not active in the real world, but still prevented his assault all the same. S-rankers were known for their greyscale effects, yet it had perceived none needed to put the shield into place. Wasn’t it a requirement that the field activated if they used any Soul energy?

*Clap. Clap. Clap.* Artorian mockingly copied the clap Cataphron had given him shortly after he’d first woken in that awful pit of despair, filled with countless dead. “Look at you, trying so hard… really though, fix those ears?”

The old man winked and pointed to his own left ear, whispering, “I’m sure you’ve heard this plenty of times but… it’s a little short!”

Dawn covered her face to stifle a brutal giggle. The Blight wasn’t remotely as amused at the two-millennia-old stab. “There is nothing wrong with my ears. They’re supposed to be like that. It’s… stylish. I won’t have my favorite technique be spat upon by a creature such as you.”

Artorian brushed his ears and nodded sagely. “Correct, and you saved me the need to ask a question… awfully kind of you!”

The darkness screamed at him with a hundred raging mouths, but didn’t advance. Its attacks repeated, only to be equally rebuked as the hot orb made his Essence whips catch fire. Essence, catching fire? Soul energy was a cheat.

Artorian held his hands behind his back, face aglow with maximum snootiness. “You see, you’re right. I am awful at techniques, absolutely terrible at them. I’ve been relying on a trick I learned from my dearest friend here to get the Essence back by creating a zone of sovereign Presence. A space owned by me. Mostly I just throw Essence out, carefully crafted with identity, purpose, shape, intent, and a myriad of other factors. However, if I throw it out, it mostly isn’t coming back. Not much of a technique if it isn’t stable and fails to reel in the majority of spent energy.”

He trotted towards one of the energy tentacles bearing down on an invisible shield. Yet his walk seemed to move the shield, forcibly altering the attacking whip pattern as well. He wouldn’t be able to inspect it closely. A shame, but he described the knife the Blight was about to get shanked with.

“Yet… for all my ineptitude, I could not have even attempted such a feat if I didn’t have one, particular thing that let me do it. To manipulate Essence, I need a cultivation core. A refining technique that lets me gather, store, and use relevant energy. Why, I would venture to say even Dawn still has one, and so did the Wood Elves! Strange thing, that last one. You see, theirs weren’t in their actual bodies. Yet still, they use and refine techniques with skill I haven’t had the time to replicate.”

He paused in his stride, and winked at the floating S-ranker, who promptly pretended to react as would a shy noble lady to a troubadour playing beneath her window. “So that leads me to a simple conclusion, Blighty. As you just so kindly confirmed for me, you’ve been using techniques. Honestly, you think you’re brooding and clever but your ideas have as much spice as a salt sandwich.”

The Blight didn’t like where this was going, but couldn’t do much about it. That abyssal Actualized was hanging around, stifling his wick so it could not burn. That failed student from the mountain was also still not shutting up, and electric distaste sparked through its mind when Artorian asked a question that no one ever should. “Sure, you generate Essence, yet that isn’t enough to satisfy the requirement of control. So, my dear boy… you say you can’t be killed. I say, where is your spiral?”

The Headmaster pressed fingers to his puffed-out chest like a guest lecturer at a public forum, adding more pomp to an already pompous, purposefully aggrieving choice of words. Meanwhile, the Blight was sending an impressive, diverse array of differently shaped and identity imbued attacks at him. It didn’t like being looked down on, in fact it actively despised it. It was just more proof for the academic that the lack of self-control was indicative of having poked a sore spot.

Dawn was having a great time. Fresh from the inversion, she was still ‘cooling off’ and coming to terms with just what exactly she now was. It was thrilling. She knew borderline nothing about what to do from this point; beyond the fact that she’d need to learn new things all over again. The age of stagnation was over for her, and she delighted in the thoughts of future opportunities while lounging about. So she indulged in a show of verbal backhanding while still ‘waking up.’

Watching her friend lambast an ancient… evil? Well, it was elven in the golden age and thought it was doing well for itself now. So… evil idiot? The correct term was ancient idiot. There was also something annoyingly familiar about the way the violet body was shaped, and Artorian’s mention to the ear had made her pay attention. There was a poem in her family concerning the sacrifice of the first Aran; the person whose lineage she had taken the name of, as she intended to start it anew.

She tried not to hum as she recalled the verse.

‘In depths of void, and coldest spite.

There lived a creature of darkest night.

It spoke with haste such that it spat.

A tale of an ego that could fit within no hat.

The first of Aran fell to lay it low.

Yet none under the sun could deliver a fatal blow.

If ever the dark would see the light.

All those lives shall be granted respite.’

Dawn mused over the verse a few more times, but found no wisdom in it that she could offer to her friend. The first Aran had been like her, a fresh S-rank, though one tied to a higher Law than her. If her greatest forefather hadn’t been able to extinguish this stain from the world, she wasn’t going to do it either without help. Yet that was just the thing: she had help. A memory flashed of her time within the bonfire. The lesson that one couldn’t, nor needed to do it all alone.

Dawn’s smile flashed at her wordy friend that was quipping back and forth with the Blight; both untouchable as they flung poorly veiled insults at one another. They were each trying to step onto some higher, more noble platform of moral superiority. The dark one was going to have difficulties with that challenge… if you wanted to wax poetic, you could not come ill-prepared. Unfortunately it appeared ‘Blighty’ over here hadn’t just been idling time away. As amused as she was over the verbal destruction being swung about with the subtlety of fish being used as clubs, she cleared her throat.

Space warbled. Grey exploded from her being, and Dawn frowned as she found that she was the only one capable of moving freely. Everything else was stuck, stopped. She hadn’t done anything different? Why was there a field now? Could she make it go away?

Space stabilized as she thought about making the effect disperse, but the grey remained. Oh. It was even worse than not tightly controlling your Mana at all times. She hadn’t held too much Soul energy before, but now the trickle was building bit by bit, and her thoughtless action had caused some to… leak? No, not leak. She’d lost nothing. It had just… forced its effect upon the world? No. Still wrong.

She nearly snapped her fingers, but stopped herself as she realized she’d cleared her throat at S-ranked speed. Not Mage speed. Mage speed was sluggish in comparison. Where was the sound she made in her throat? Oh, it was still here, traveling as a visible ripple of sound waves. Not very fast, but in motion. Dawn realized the effect of those tiny waves might… utterly reduce anything within in a sneeze’s radius to fine particle dust. The grey field was preventing an effect from being unleashed upon the world.

It wasn’t an attack, or some special feature. It was a defense, a precaution! Well, a little late now, it was out in the world. Her own fault, really. So it was her task to stop it. What to do… more energy wasn’t going to fix this. A voice played in her head as she tried to ponder. “You looked, but you didn’t see.”

Without trying to physically do anything, she looked around. What was different? What was new? Aside from the world being grey… grey. It was grey. Why was it grey?”

She could feel a smile in her thoughts. “Now that… is the correct question.”

Dawn was imagining Artorian’s voice, but it helped. The region of space she occupied didn’t defy the rules of nature currently in progress. It more… took them elsewhere? This was her space, and the earlier mention of sovereign territory came to mind. Not exactly the name using Presence should have. It was just Presence. It also just happened to make it easy to reclaim resources spent in an area. Like taxes. Oh… sovereign territory. She got it now. Clever.

So, what was here, and what was ‘elsewhere’? Motion in the space wasn’t present. The world was still. Her grunt was still ‘here’. Could she… move the grunt ‘elsewhere’? She focused on it since the world was essentially not moving anyway. She could see the soundwave fade into obscurity, and successfully move… ‘elsewhere’. Well, that was going to need significant exploration in the future, but as soon as the threat she hadn’t intended was gone, the grey effect on the world dropped. Much like her friend did.

The Blight brushed itself off, then pointed at the fallen academic just to laugh. It had experienced S-rank pressure before, and Artorian hadn’t. Gasping for air, the Headmaster heaved in a breath and sat up on his butt. “Great Woah! What in the name of cultivation was that?”

Dawn pursed her lips and said nothing. She was keeping up a shield of Mana around her friend, since that’s what she’d had available at the time. Yet her control was starting to crack as her Mana was fed into her soul space, and her Soul-ranked… something… gulped it down to trade it in for Soul energy. It was just like trading Essence for Mana; except she couldn’t discern the source.

A world of grey washed over them all again as Dawn turned. Just turned. Oh, this was hard! Even just thinking of the Mana shield made the orb suck away from its current position, leaving Artorian vulnerable. No! Not acceptable! With a wave of her hand, a new bubble formed in place. She’d done it hastily, and had forgotten something. Still, protections were in place!

Artorian was on the ground again when the grey field lifted. He heaved a deep breath again. “Dawn, my dear! Please do be careful with those, I can’t breathe when you do that!”

Controlling herself, she really pressed herself to drop to Mage speed, then mundane speed. Working on it, she realized that the confines of that bubble didn’t have a replenishable air source. She altered it to allow for some imperceptible holes to allow filtering. She kissed out the words, “Sorry, bee-bee…”

She got the conversation back on track. If she was losing control of her abilities the more powerful they got, a quicker resolution was better. He’d been onto something early on. “So, why is the location of Blighty’s spiral important?”

Chapter Seventeen

Artorian brushed himself off. He could have sworn something odd had occurred in the space around him. It felt cramped, but he was already mentally trucking along. He too, wanted to give this annoying foe a fatal back of the hand.

“Do you recall in the Grove, how Wood Elves retained their Core techniques outside of their personal bodies? I am convinced Blighty here is no different. There’s no way this fake body before us, or messy amalgamation-mass down below, holds a cultivation core able to hold enough Essence energy to make our boy here ‘all-reaching’. Words from his own mouth.”

The academic pointed an accusatory finger at the arms-crossed violet Blight; who was snarling at being picked apart like this. It needed an undead to fall already. “The techniques in use don’t appear too cheap either, and I’m a wasteful fool when it comes to expenditure. I can tell. So given your flattening earlier didn't do him in. It means the vulnerable part isn’t what we’re looking at. Like we’re facing a phantom of the original. He hasn’t been defeated because nothing has been attacking it somewhere it can actually be hurt.”

The Blight snapped at him, “So what? Theories aren’t going to help you! If there was such a thing, it could be anywhere. Maybe even on the moon!”

The creature bent backwards to laugh, but it petered out quickly when it saw the foxy smile the old man had plastered on his face. “Awfully strange that you mentioned waiting on an undead to come by, so you could escape. Your Core isn’t anywhere far, it’s here. There’s no other place it could be, because of the very thing supposedly protecting you from Dawn.”

She picked up on that cue, but said nothing. It was better for the attack strategy to be laid out entirely.

“A function of starlight definitely hurts you. Yet if it’s not affecting anything except rogue fumes. Not very effective, yet Dawn supposedly can’t harm you because of a land-law. Why else take that ridiculous elven body and personality? Not that much of a personality is left. Now, to be immune from whatever she can do to actually hurt you, you need that land-law. Funny thing, that; do you know where land-laws don’t work?” He was beaming. The Blight wanted to tear his throat out.

“Outside of that land’s area! When you leave the relevant territory, the rules in that place can’t express themselves upon you anymore. You should have seen the books available on the topic in Alexandria’s library. Interesting stuff… so if the only place you can be protected by the land-oath is here, then here is the only place it could be relevant. That means your Core, your real body, is here. There is also a second, incredibly important aspect to consider.” He brushed his beard. The Blight was desperately looking for ways to silence the man; and it noticed something. A tiny space in the shield, just enough for particles… and particles is all it would need.

“I was wrong before. There can only be one land-owner of a given area. You were right, and I repeated the sentence just for this reason. ‘I’ could hurt you. For ‘I’ am the landowner, and a land-rule that prevents you from harm in general will not function if the land-owner rescinds the ruling. I just have to say that I revoke y…”

*Chhlggg!* Artorian fell to his knees and grasped his throat. Tears of pain ran from his eyes as he turned red. Unable to breathe or speak after inhaling… infernal particles? Abyss! He flickered his Aura to life and switched it over to affect his Presence, filling him with the effect as the heavy celestial Essence in the Aura trashed what was preventing him from breathing. His voice, unfortunately, had taken a severe toll. Blood dribbled from his lips as he coughed. He saw that Dawn was already purging the area with… he didn’t know what. Fire? It was probably fire, but it didn’t feel hot to him; it was also bright neon blue.

He could just see that Dawn was raging mad, like the Blight had exploited a weakness she thought had been foolproof. On second thought, that’s likely exactly how the Blight must have been feeling this entire time: stripped naked as its protections were explained and peeled away like the skin of a fruit.

Without the ability to talk, he couldn’t rescind the rule in place that was preventing the Blight from true harm by Dawn. Even an S-rank can’t defy a ruling that was being upheld by a Heavenly. He would have said it sooner if he’d put the abyss blasted dots together! He thought of it, and had immediately turned his sentence to declare the change.

His throat wasn’t healing internally. Why did it have to be infernal that dealt this damage? It was significantly more difficult to heal since he relied on celestial involvement. It wasn’t his fault he’d only focused the best one for the job! Okay, fine, perhaps it was. Artorian had a backup in mind, it just wasn’t one he wanted to use. It carried terrible… side effects. He soundlessly bashed on the inside of the shield. Unable to make sound, and still not being good enough on Essence to cause a sound effect, he was down to just trying to get Dawn’s attention the old-fashioned way: wild flailing.

The damage an S-ranker could do was the kind of thing stories were written about. Her first punch into the Blight-mass drilled a hole so deep into the ground that only her shield had protected him from the viscera it churned out. One needed an awful lot of room to store a city’s worth of dead bodies… and it turns out that blood is still a liquid, and doesn’t accept being squished.

He wasn’t going to get her attention in time. Artorian pulled free his hidden pouch on the small of his back, nestled neatly under his robe. He opened it fully and desperately dug around in it. Armor. No. Weapons? He hissed at himself, his throat still not allowing words to form, “No! Vellum, paper! Give me something to write on!”

Artorian had nothing. A scribe and scholar, and he didn’t keep so much as scratch paper on him? “You fool, you’re going to be a laughingstock!”

He glanced at his robe… it was material. He had no ink to write with, but his orb-shield was covered in… red. Red that was oozing into the tiny openings meant to let him keep breathing. Ah, no wonder Dawn was so mad. He fished around in the spatial pouch. Not a single quill? Artorian felt the bundle of Sequoia’s bow. He’d never had the heart to unwrap it, but he pulled it free now. For with a bow, comes arrows! They were thorn arrows, fine tipped, and perfect for impromptu delicate applications.

It would do!

Hastily throwing his outer robe down, he scraped up a red line from the inside of the shield, and carefully got to writing. That it was written in blood… surely it wouldn’t affect anything. It’s just a medium, yes. Don’t overthink it, old boy. Just a medium. Just ink. Don’t think of where it comes from. Focus. Focus…

Dawn was deep underground by the time she’d even slightly calmed down. She brought her might to bear upon any part of the phantom she could find, and even bedrock was but brittle sand that burst apart if she moved through it. Her greyscale flashed on and off underground; her unchecked rage not as caring what overbearing effects she let free upon ‘the real’.

The entire time, the Blight mocked her. “Is that all? Harder, oh yes, harder! You pitiful worm! Even your grand-forebear struck me with more force… and still accomplished nothing!”

She beat him to ash and dust, her surroundings a living inferno. It was to no avail. It made no difference. The phantom reformed, reshaped, and returned to mocking her, spurring her on. Her fist stopped an inch in front of the next iteration of the Blight. The sheer force behind it still evaporated buildings worth of space, but the strike itself halted as her mind caught onto the situation. Spurred her on? It wanted her to hit him. It was doing nothing but mocking, but was still pulling her far away from—abyss!

Artorian belched out blood. The raw amount of infernal Essence pouring into the shield orb was overwhelming his flickering sunlight Aura. Raw amount was all the Blight needed. With the ability to be in several places at once, a little distraction was enough. Left vulnerable, that shield did nothing. The convenient blood to write with dissolved, and a very hunched over Artorian had needed to find… alternative sources of ink. This was the work of folly.

Putting the final touches on the robe, he felt weak and pale as his lifeblood ran down his arm. Unable to use the blood falling from his mouth as it boiled away, he’d stabbed the arrowhead into a place without a great many nerve endings. This didn’t mean it did not hurt. To his great displeasure, his Aura was also healing him up as much as it was rebuking the smothering infernal cloud. So when he needed more ink… there was more pain. “Finished!”

He pulled the robe close to his chest and curled up into a ball, protecting as much of the written text as possible while making himself as small as could be. Less Essence was needed to protect a smaller object, but the amount he gained was barely enough to keep staving off the death plane. Each slammed strike from within the shield wasn’t harming him directly… yet. It was still driving him ever closer to complete Auric failure. Once that went down…

Blue fire washed across both sides of the Soul-shield as Artorian’s Aura flickered. He was tired. So, so very tired. Everything was heavy, and dark, and cold. Fire or no, he was cold. His vision was hazy, and as light once again filled the bottom of the ravine he peered up with tightly squeezed eyes. Dawn. That shape reminded him of Dawn. It could be the Blight, tricking him with a fake body?

Blue fire? Enough information to make him risk it. Dipping his finger on the bloodied arrow as it once again drew ink, he wrote ‘Sign’ on the inside of the shield, in reverse. His arm dropped to his side in the middle of writing the ‘n’.

The soul shield dropped, and a barely breathing academic hung limp in Dawn’s arms. She’d seen what he was writing. She’d gathered the gist of it and pulled free what he’d been holding close. Part of his robe? There was text on it. She grit her teeth after reading it. Yes, yes that would definitely solve the problem… with significant cost.

She bit her finger without a second thought, and pressed the dot of her energy to the cloth. There was no blood. Apparently, S-rankers lacked that, in favor of a damage resistance that made Mages look squishy. The contract was signed. It was done; he’d done well getting this ready. The fight wasn’t over, and Artorian was still breathing.

Wrapping him in a field of grey, a single step took her from the deep ravine in barren, flattened wastes to the top of the Skyspear mountain like it was nothing. She lay him down, wrapped in a foggy grey mass that dispersed as the body within was ‘fixed’, and acclimated to the change in elevation. She unfurled the contract, and read it again.

“By my power of land ownership, I, Artorian, hereby grant my title and land-claim to Dawn, Soul of Fire. Undersigned thusly.” His signature was messy, but there. Next to it there was a spot with ‘Dawn’ and a line beneath it. She’d placed her dot of energy there, completing the transfer. An extra line caught her eye, a line that didn’t have anything to do with the contract.

‘Under the mountain.’

She wondered what that could mean for only a moment. It was the location of what must be the Blight’s Core. He’d written it with his lifeblood, and wouldn’t have done so if the detail wasn’t crucially important. Her friend would rest here in safety, so she declared a changing of the rule as land owner.

“I, Dawn, owner of the Skyspear, hereby declare that I revoke all prior protections that this land might have granted.”

The mountain shuddered. Lightning cracked in the sky as her revocation was checked, measured… and approved. For it was the purview of the land owner to make such changes. Dawn folded up the cloth and pressed it into Artorian’s hand. He was out cold, but when he woke would be able to see she’d signed it. He’d know what that meant for both of them, after this fight was done. She also saw her old spatial pouch, and dipped her fingers in to retrieve a single item.

Now she could do something she’d wanted for a century: Dawn could kill the Blight.

Chapter Eighteen

The Blight didn’t like feeling stripped of protections. Literally stripped as entire swaths of Runes were ripped from its cultivation Core beneath the mountain, peeled away like layers of cloth as intricate patterns faded, popped out of existence, or crackled with electricity and shattered completely.

“No. No!” Oozing its prior charismatic voice once more, the amalgamation roiled against the changes, trying to hold the Runes together. In place. Something. Not only was it vulnerable, but now, without the Runes stolen from Dark Elves. It was…

“Found you.” Dawn’s burning voice quaked forth as if a furious volcano was speaking. The ground around her melted. She scanned the underground with Soul-energy-fueled vision, and had seen so much more than basic Essence combinations ever could. The tremor that her words and movement caused finally made an undead trip down the ravine. She had traversed from the top of the mountain, down to next to the Core in a single straight shot, melting a literal hole right through the earth to arrive in exactly the location where she wanted to be.

The undead tumbled. Fell. Broke. Shattering before it could zip all the way down at terminal velocity. The Blight saw a ray of hope, and lunged for it. The mind connected to the skeleton was something that, if strong enough, the Blight could piggy-back all the way back to the caster. There would be a personality battle for control, one it couldn’t lose. Or prior to this point, wasn’t able to lose. Now it was going to have to take the risk; risk that it could absorb the caster’s mind, and that it was a Mage rank or higher. Preferably higher.

An infernal claw shot to the sky, planning to snatch the skull conduit from midair. It was so close! Then the world turned grey. The undead conduit stopped falling, and so did any movements the reaching infernal hand was making. It watched in horror, as the skeletal body dissolved into particles of ash. With the connection severed, and the remains useless, the world of grey dropped away, allowing the residue to harmlessly fall to the ground as soot, where it then started to melt and boil.

“Tut, tut, tut…” The void in Dawn’s voice carried over vast underground distances. “When I’m done with you… nobody will remember you ever existed.”

The Blight shrieked in fear. It had to retreat. It had to flee. How could it have been such an idiot? This was all going to be for naught if…! The sound of space warbling, or tearing, reached the Blight’s ears. It was an awful sound, and the worst part is that he’d actually heard it. Not with a gimmicked body, but with its real one. Dawn had located his core.

Dropping the perspective from the cloud, real eyes opened after centuries of being closed. They were orbs of pitch-black tar, but they saw the burning god before them all the same. Dawn’s voice caused rumbling earthquakes. “That is the single largest piece of honeycomb opal I have ever seen. Believe me when I say that I have seen some big rocks in my life. I’m going to enjoy squeezing the life out of it.”

The Blight’s real body didn’t have a chance to speak as a combination of pressure and solar heat melted away the gathered layers of infernal protection. It was pulling together all its infernal gas, tendrils, and anything else it could get ahold of at a prodigious rate… just to collapse everything around it as a shield to stave off the torrential, cosmic heat for just a few more seconds. It needed to think of something…!

Like lightning, an idea struck its elemental brain. It was going to perish here; it was too late for anything different to happen. Still… dark laughter filled the area. “Even if you destroy me, here and now, I will return! So long as the Skyspear stands, I will come after you, and all you care for again and again! An elemental cannot truly die, I am bound to this land! You will not wrest me from it! I curse your lineage, and the lineage of Artorian, to be fouled by Blight!”

Dawn swung her arms outwards, as if grasping the piece of mammoth-sized opal from far away. Heat rolled out from empty pockets of space where her Soul-energy was condensing. “So long as the Skyspear stands. I promise that you will do no. Such. Thing.”

The Blight madly cackled at her. That had been so easy! His assailant was so wrapped up in her fury that she hadn’t noticed his last, cruel little ploy. It had no power now; it couldn’t actually curse her! But words had power, and promises even more so! “I accept!”

Dawn felt a cold shiver in her soul as the vow she’d unwittingly made clasped around her heart. She would die on the spot if she broke it, and realized too late what the infernal elemental had done. She was trapped! Even if the elemental was gone, she had promised against the possible threat of his return. Even as land-owner, this was not something she could simply overturn. A promise against a possibility was a no-win situation for her. While Skyspear stood, she could not leave the territory it occupied.

Dawn screamed dark vengeance, burning away the last of the defenses with ease as the Blight’s main, actual elemental body became visible. It was person-shaped, of all things, with one ear shorter than the other. It was as black as the abyss, and spewing out infernal energy at a relatively stable pace. Had an infernal cultivator gotten ahold of this… they would have had unimaginable power. “Abyss you!”

She pulled the item nicked from the spatial pouch off her back. Grasping it firmly, she squeezed the grip on Sequoia's bow. A string of Soul energy sprung into being between the ends, allowing the wood to bend taut as an arrow of similar make particulated into being between her fingers. The arrow sprung to life as it took on the Incarnation of the sun, and became fueled full of identity meant purely to erase.

Dawn took a deep breath, and for a moment regarded the memoriam bow as she opened up a connection. Distance was nothing to an S-ranker, and she was pouring energy into this effect just to uphold it for a few seconds. A few seconds was all she needed for a reply. “Call it.”

Across vast distances, a grove of roaming Wood Elves felt a knock on their forum doors. The familiar warmth that radiated through made several of them toss the connection wide open. Rosewood, Snowbell, Oak, and more held open the strained passageway that was trying to slam closed from the demanding new connection that burdened their communal mind space.

The congregation present looked at what was being shown, saw the reality, and heard the call. The answer was swift; all were in agreement. To gain retribution for untold centuries of anguish. To wreak vengeance upon an ancestral foe. To remember their loved, and fallen.

The will of the grove poured through the connection, and the shape of her arrow burst full of meaning into a new shape as it took on the conglomerate will of an entire people. The answer was clear.

“Lance him.”

The arrow pierced the defiantly screaming elemental and punched right into his cultivation core. Not the little fake double it had hastily made to try and trick Dawn; such minor obfuscations no longer functioned. Not against an Incarnate. She saw clear as day that the Blight’s actual Core-cultivation technique, along with a myriad of others, were all painstakingly carved inside of the monster-sized opal.

She wanted it. It was so pretty… unfortunately, not even a speck of dust would be left since she was now fighting against the possibility of the elemental’s return. So it had to go. All of it. Every last speck of crystal would break down from a fully physical thing, to matter, to corrupted Essence, and then she would burn even that to cinders.

Sure, she could grey-zone the entire area and ‘place’ the opal elsewhere, but that wouldn’t destroy it. Just displace it. She needed it gone. Permanently. The Blight shrieked its last vile laughter, pleased even in its last moments before it forgot entirely who and what it was. The luminous erasing effect spread through every connected Essence particle of its being. The elemental vanished with a pathetic *pop.*

Sequoia’s bow sprouted a single, victorious leaf. The last, and only acknowledgement of vengeance completed before the entire bow crumpled to ash, utterly overtaxed and overburned by a category of energy it had no business handling. Dawn plucked the leaf and gently set it behind her ear as one would a prized feather. With a snap of her fingers, a makeshift simulacrum of a sun exploded into being, surrounding the entire opal and hastily reducing the object to protomolecules from universal-scale oppressive forces. It took but a few moments, the release of her fingers extinguished the sun as quickly as she’d sprouted it into being.

Even as she ceased emitting light, her surroundings were luminous with sizzling heat. She closed her eyes and expanded her senses. Everywhere the Blight had touched. Everywhere it reached. Everywhere it tried to crawl to… it either burned, or forgot what it was and returned to being base Essence. She ensured it.

Dawn exhaled, the first released breath of relief. A gust of air that could knock a tornado from its path whooshed through the tunnels. This S-rank level was… insane. She was so powerful… it was going to take her decades of time to comprehend herself, and everything she had to watch out for. The worst part was that she was going to have to do it alone. Or at least without the direct presence of her friend. They needed to talk about that. She remembered that Artorian was going to be forced to leave the mountain as soon as he woke up, so she addressed it without pause.

“I, Dawn, under authority of land ownership of the Skyspear mountain, allow Artorian and his family to remain without repercussion.” Even being deep underground, she heard the lightning of confirmation. It might not be enough, but it was a start. She flew upwards, leaving the vast open cavern of molten slag and terrible memories behind her.

Chapter Nineteen

Dawn was at her bestie’s side when he awoke a few hours later. “Hey there, old timer.”

Her voice was soft, and Artorian blinked as he saw the sky he remembered falling asleep under… sort of. A few things had happened in between. Was there any chance that had just been a bad dream?

He needed help sitting up, though his cultivation was already rolling. The academic felt less hot, though drained in nearly every sense of the word. He needed days of sleep, tables of food, and… he groaned loudly as he checked. Years of cultivation just to recover. Again. At least it would be faster this time. His poor children. No! They had survived this long, and he wouldn’t fail them by dying from rushing their captors too early. They would need to survive a little longer, no matter how terrible he felt about that fact.

“My dear?” His words were so weak he didn’t believe they came from him, even if he heard them. His voice was in an awful state. Celestials above, it hurt to speak! His memory was foggy and his Essence stores were pathetic. He wasn’t alone, and that counted for a lot. Dawn anticipated his needs, because a water cup easily made it into his hands, followed by a piece of… bear meat? Artorian smiled. She was making a joke. Still the same old Fire Soul he knew from the grove.

He drank water, and ate the actual food she’d gotten together. Yet the entire time he was with her, she looked sad. It was pending news, and it would have to wait until his risk of death was eliminated. A good meal went a long way to accomplish that while his passive cultivation gulped starlight Essence faster than his mouth could accept food.

When his Presence flicked into activity, the soothing waves of healing that ran over the insides of his rasped throat did wonders for his speaking and food swallowing ability. It might be a shame; he was tolerable when quiet! “Get it off your chest, my dear.”

He smiled at her, knowing she was holding back bad news for his sake. Dawn carefully drew some air, thankful that at least there was no need to repeat what happened underground. Her hands slowly slid over his, and Artorian supportively held her. “You made me landowner.”

“I recall.” Artorian nodded sagely, face breaking into a burdened smile. His hand motioned all around, even though all there was to see over the ridge was devastation. “You could have it all. My empire of dirt.”

He wiggled his sandals. “I’m actually surprised my feet aren’t making me rush out, though I do feel the discomfort, the push, and the unwelcome nature. Nothing might be driving me out for some reason, but I most certainly abandoned my duty here. The land wants me to go, even if it can’t enforce it. Your doing?”

She returned his quiet nod, though her frown spoke volumes. “I take it… something happened, and you can’t come with me.”

Her lower jaw trembled, and she nodded again. She didn’t, or couldn’t speak right now. Her power would rampage, and even if she had that under control, she wouldn’t have known what to say. She’d messed up badly down there. He patted her hand with a loving smile.

“Nothing we can’t get around. Tell me every detail when you feel better. Later. Why don’t we just sit together for now. Just for a bit? It’s a lovely view with plenty of sun. I could use some sun, and it would be a terrible thing to waste.”

Dawn moved a finger to his shoulder and carefully pushed him. A quick nudge was too much. This would do. Her friend opened his arms wide. “You think I'm going to let you be sad that you can’t make excessive movements? If you can’t, don’t! I’ll hold you.”

She frowned at the thought of an S-ranker being held, but was already altering her density to be a weight that wouldn’t pulverize him if she slipped. Wordlessly, she curled into his arms and nestled her face into the side of his inner robe. The outer one was missing, but it had perished to a good cause. She didn’t mind being held, and could actually hear it when Artorian turned on his cultivation technique. It made music. Like a kalimba. She’d never known it to make music.

The starlight Essence that had been flooding in before rushed through his being as if a levy had been opened on a massive dam. It only increased the volume of calming sounds that Dawn heard, and she adored it. Just a few minutes. This was fine, for just a few minutes.

Artorian said nothing when she fell asleep. No amount of physical or Essence power to shape the universe changed how taxing some experiences were on the mind. Physically, he doubted she’d ever know harm again. Mentally, touchier subject. However, she wasn’t alone. He’d find a way to assure that even if they couldn’t remain in the same place. He thought about it as his own thoughts descended into his Center.

If there was one good thing about a solidified C-ranked cultivation technique, it was the Essence draw and refinement speed. His reserves were back into the mid D-ranks within minutes of active cultivation. He was absolutely going to need to invest in techniques. This kind of Essence loss was exactly the thing he’d told himself on his bed in the Fringe that he shouldn’t be doing. He sighed and got cozy, scratching his head at one particularly extra red containment ring. Survival came at a cost. It was going to take him an extra… ten years to lance all of that away.

He had the time. It would be fine. A little cultivation, and he’d get his things together for one last descent down the mountain. It felt awful to be on it. Maybe less so to be off it, yet nearby? Worth a try. When able, he planned to go and find his students. For now, it was cultivation time!

* * *

Blanket was tired by the time night fell. The sugar glider had stood watch until then, when the first of the stirring students woke up. Many piles of black sand lay strewn all over the floor of their surprisingly safe little hole in the wall. The tubular metal cave had held through earthquakes, explosions, vast torrents of air movement, and sounds that would make a grown man not want to look outside. The beast mewled at Jiivra when she woke up, pouncing her into the ground.

“Morn—huhg!” Tackled into the dirt, Astrea woke up in mid-air as Jiivra tossed her in the progress of tumbling backwards. She flailed in the air, a breath gasped in panic as her senses started picking sensory data up on the way down. Falling happened in dreams, it wasn’t supposed to happen for real!

“Gotcha!” Astrea’s fall was broken by something squishy. Glancing down at what she was laying on, both Ali and Razor groaned. They had body blocked her impact with the ground; they calculated what was needed to catch her on the way down, but heavens were they bad at math.

“Still… got you…” a pained whine from Razor wheezed out as Astrea accidentally pressed her hand right onto his spleen when getting up. There were bodies in the way! She had tried not to hurt him! While brushing herself off, the students got up as well; though Ali had to drag Razor back to the wall.

A defeated sigh rang out from Jiivra. People turned to look at her and tried not to giggle at the sight of a very large sugar glider having decided he was going to curl around her for a nap. It was nap time, then after a nap was eating time. He was tired and hungry, and social decorum wasn’t something a beast understood. “Blankie… get off.”

Astrea leaned against the wall, rubbing her eyes with bemusement. The fall from mid-air had woken her up in a hurry but she was still incredibly tired. “I don’t think he wants to do that. He has the face of a content beastie.”

Jiivra groaned, actually whining, “Is it safe outside yet?”

The infernal cultivator shared some glances with other students. It was considerably quieter up there, and the light show seemed to have ended. No noises came when she stopped to listen, and it’s not like she could smell anything other than terrified people and metal down here. She guessed she was going to have to check it herself since nobody was jumping to volunteer.

Carefully she made the climb only to barely poke her head out of the crevice. She scowled and kicked the wall. “You have got to be joking.”

“Oh, there you are! What took you so long?” A heavy pink puff-cloud left her grandfather’s lips after a mighty draw from a hookah. He was set up nearby with a maddening array of culinary crafts. Who… where was he getting this food? How had he gotten this food? How was he alive? Wait… he was alive!

“Dad!” Artorian dropped his hookah pipe, his eyes locked onto Astrea with bewilderment as she leapt from the gap to charge him. She was crying by the time she was in a full-on tackle, but her Elder caught her like she had the weight of a lightly stuffed plush toy. He wasn’t going to judge; ‘Dad’ was fine. Grandfather would have been preferred, but Dad was just fine. As if he could say no to his family.

“Hello, my dear. I’m so glad you’re alright. I take it the others are in that crevice? Won’t you fetch them? I’ve got some confections prepared. Thought you might be hungry by the time the hubbub died down.”

Astrea squeezed the life out of him, or at the minimum tried, but she didn’t have the Essence to get very far. He didn’t mind, and made little pathetic groaning noises anyway to pretend she was doing a number on him. “Oh, I am defeated! Squeezed by a mighty princess. I have been felled!”

He got punched in the shoulder, and all was right with the world. “Help me get them out. I barely made it out myself.”

He nodded and waddled over, leaning on a scavenged scabbard as if it were a walking stick. Poking his head into the crevice, he whistled and called, “Hello down there! Is anyone hungry? I brought pie!”

Jiivra’s eyes snapped open, and she was upright so fast Blanket was launched to the opposite wall as if a springboard trap had just been triggered. Blanket did not like this in the least. He hissed at her and chittered, bounding up the walls to escape the crevice. Only to see the face of a very adored old man. Blanket activated its tackle maneuver, and down Artorian went. It was super effective. The old man rolled backwards a few times from the sheer loving force of Blanket’s impact. “Oof!”

Jiivra was seething, and almost fully crawled out of the hole by the time Artorian was up with Blanket relocated as a cape. Fueled by rage and a need for answers, she threw her leg over the crevice’s edge and rolled the rest of the way. “Do you have any idea how worried I was? I thought you were dead, stop hurting my heart!”

She had him by the front of the Gi moments later, and if she’d had the strength, she would have manhandled him and given the old fox a heavy back-and-forth shaking. He couldn’t stop laughing when Jiivra threatened him, arms swallowing her up in a hug. “I’m so glad you’re well. Now come. Eat. I have questions to ask while your mouth is full! *Fufufufufu*.”

Chapter Twenty

The rest of the student body was hoisted to freedom in short order. It took a while to get everyone out, and their reactions of what happened to the surface became repetitive copies of those who’d come before. Some thought they’d arrived in a different place entirely. It was all so devastated, save for the Skyspear.

Large blankets had been brought down from the still mostly intact academy. They served as picnic blankets on endless lengths of desolate dirt. A variety of hookah, fresh dishes, and fruits were strewn out in clay pots and bowls. Piled up tapestry rolls were systematically rolled out to make more room as an ever-increasing flow of hungry, tired students joined the survivor’s encampment.

Nobody questioned where the food came from. They were just glad to have it. Stuffing their faces and downing whole vases of water. Surprisingly little was said. Most remained shell-shocked at recent events, and many had suffered great losses. Friends were gone, instructors were gone, and… well. The city was gone. It was a lot to take in.

Jiivra popped a grape into her mouth and clambered to her feet. A quick glance let her find her target, and some wobbly steps led her to nudge Artorian in the shoulder. Silence was fine, but there was a pertinent question that had been bothering her. “How’d you survive?”

Artorian smiled up at her and pointed to the mountain while chewing on a sandwich. He didn’t talk with his mouth full, and received a less than gentle sigh in return. That didn’t help the celestial cultivator, but her Headmaster’s fingers suddenly moved up before sharply coming down. A nearby *thud* hit the ground, softer than a falling object should have any right to be.

She glanced over and went pale in a heartbeat. Artorian grew incredibly confused when Jiivra dropped to a knee. Her right hand kept in a fist while pressed to the open palm of her left. She held the position, moving the hand-greeting above her head while keeping her gaze downcast. Artorian whispered in response. “My dear?”

A hasty hiss spat back at him under her breath. “Artorian what are you doing? Bow! That’s a Saint!”

Artorian’s confusion doubled as he glanced up to see Ember was here with a fresh batch of food for them. She was the only one that could quickly go up and down, and the only one with actual cooking skills, as odd as that was. Oh, whoops. Dawn! Not Ember. Drat! He was doing so well. Now he was slipping. His face scrunched a moment before getting up.

Upon doing so, he noticed that anyone with a clear line of sight to their combat instructor had copied her pose in an absolute hurry. “I… Dawn, dear. What’s going on?”

Dawn set down a hollow rock containing a literal ton of goods. She took in the behavior and dropped her forehead into an awaiting hand; blocking her vision with her palm and fingers. “It’s… I forgot about this part.”

Artorian raised both his hands to the air. Making an ‘I don’t know what’s going on’ motion before loosely dropping them down to his sides so they slapped his hips. “This ‘part’ being…?”

Jiivra was not amused in the slightest. Her stern hush carried an intense, sharp sense of urgency. Worry filled her expression. “Artorian! Get. Down. That lady is a Saint! Show deference. Now! You’re essentially telling a Vicar to abyss themselves if you don’t!”

The Headmaster heard her, but just slowly moved his gaze back to the S-ranked cultivator. Jiivra had whispered louder than she wanted to. Students who had been equally confused overheard her. They were cultivators too. Even low on Essence, their enhanced hearing went a long way. Not wanting to risk a negative event, onlookers joined the rest without a word. Seeing as a person they couldn’t defeat if they teamed up on her was on a knee.

“Please… don’t. Please get up. I don’t actually like this.” Jiivra shot up at Dawn’s words, changing her kneeled bow to a standing one. One similar to the standard Skyspear greeting of deference to a Master. It didn’t make Dawn any more comfortable, as it turned out that their relative position to the ground hadn’t been the problem. The Incarnate realized that this wasn’t going to play out the way she wanted, and for a moment slipped into the role Jiivra understood. Just to move the conversation along. “Can y… *ahem*. You can relax.”

Heavens did she hate stuff like this. Why couldn’t everyone just treat her like a person? This was like her late Mage days all over again. Actually… “Artorian, have you met any Mages? Aside from myself in the earlier days?”

Jiivra didn’t actually relax. Her posture did, but her hand motion and bow remained unchanged. Jiivra feared for her life, regardless of the fact that the Saint was talking to her Headmaster with a distressingly casual tone. If she and the students would not have been present at all, that would have been preferable. Holding to tradition was far safer, so she would. Insulting a Mage spelled the end of your entire lineage. Failing to placate even the slightest whim of a Saint spelled the end of your dynasty.

Artorian held his beard, answering the question. “No…? No, I don’t believe I have. Why are they all bowing even though you said it was fine for them not to do so?”

Dawn pressed a finger to her lips, her elbow leaning on an arm that she kept around her midriff. How to explain this…? “Do you recall that, as a Mage, I was potent?”

Artorian affirmed with a positive nod, his arms crossed as he tried to follow where this was going. His thoughts weren’t coming easily at this particular moment. Since he was paying attention, she filled him in just as if they were having a lesson back in the forest.

“In your measurements, that was the scale of an A-ranked cultivator. Also called a High Mageous. A B-ranked cultivator is just called a Mage. What I keep referring to as an Ascended. To me there is no difference between your B-rank and A-rank, however, to all your students, that difference is one of life and death. A Mage has such power that their desires change the course of history. A body of Mana makes one nigh invulnerable to all the ordinary threats a mortal can face.”

Artorian swapped his position to press his arm about the small of his back, free hand pensively resting on the beard. He’d grasped the context well enough to follow along, and nodded for more.

“A Mage is respected by realms as a whole on a fundamental level. One upset Mage means the end of your kingdom, queendom, or tribe unless you have a Mage of your own to counteract this. With Mages, no two individuals are ever truly on the same scale of power. Affinity count, Tower tier, technique proficiency, Core cultivation technique, inherent identity of the Law in question, and a few other circumstances are directly important when it comes to comparing one Mage to another.”

Dawn held up a few fingers. “As example. The amount of Mana they’re currently holding, amount Invested in their actions, or how compatible their abilities are with their personality and Mana Type. Once you are a Mage, you exist in an entirely different world of problems. Even if all your old ones cease to exist.” The old man rolled his wrist to ask her to go on, but he was stopped. Getting a look from Dawn in return that meant she wanted to know if he was actually following, before she kept speaking.

Artorian cleared his throat and filled in what she was looking for. “Power translates to respect, because the threat of not respecting those individuals leads to fear out of what they could do if you crossed, disrespected, or otherwise inconvenienced them. So… people bow, or otherwise wait to be addressed even if their social rank may be higher. Social rank plays second fiddle if the person you’re speaking to can whistle and turn every stone in the vicinity to shrapnel. I get it…”

Dawn was pleased, and motioned at Jiivra. “Even though I have requested it, your student is afraid because she cannot afford to chance the possibility of an offense. Perceived or not. A Mage would do this to a High Mageous, because that is again such a vast gap in power that the roles take on another category. Think on this: a king bows to a Mage, a B-ranker. Then the person the king bows to shows deference to someone else. The social impact of this is heavy. Further factors are compounded when High Mageous types are involved, as their relative scale of power is even wilder when they try to compare to one another.”

She grimaced and waved away her next words, “I have avoided the topics of items and equipment so far, for at this rank most cease to hold relevance unless the object is something truly potent. Such as a dungeon Core, or crafts of true significant power. The Soul-item one manifests in their soul space has an incredible impact on ability output. The theme one ties themselves to as an A-ranker directly impacts their Actualization process—their S-ranking.”

Dawn made a motion for Artorian to really break up his student’s poses, as it was visibly making her uncomfortable. Artorian took a few steps and lay a hand on Jiivra’s fist. He hadn’t realized she was sweating so heavily. Her breathing was steadied only by sheer force of will. Artorian had a thought as to why that might be. Vicars must be A- or S-ranks, and she had her cultivation ripped out of her once already. That kind of mental scarring doesn’t just get glossed over.

“My dear. She’s serious. Please relax.” He met her gaze and gave her a warm grandfatherly smile. “You asked how I survived? I would like to introduce you to my best friend, Dawn. She just so happens to be an S-ranker.”

Jiivra’s stared at him and whisper-screamed, “What is wrong with you? How do you know people like this? What even, old man!”

She was trembling as Artorian pulled her a single step in the direction of the Saint. She stumbled, and Dawn was eager to help; sadly, her sudden appearance in front of Jiivra hurt more than it helped. Jiivra went from pale to chalk white, eyes flicking between the offered handshake from the Saint, and the… utter otherworldliness she exuded. Her hair and eyes were made of empty space, or something! Her eyes had irises made of fire suspended in black emptiness! This was entire existences too much for her.

A weak *eek* left the combat instructor as Dawn took her by the wrist and gently shook it with a smile. Frozen in place with her muscles taut, Jiivra tried to say ‘hello’ but all that came out of her was a squeal-noise with a *huuu* attached.

Dawn let Jiivra go and shoved a thumb across her shoulder to motion at what she brought. “Fresh meals are in the rock, just take the top off with… nevermind.”

She snapped her fingers and the lid of the ‘pot’ popped off, revealing steaming piles of meat-buns. All that bear had to go somewhere, and steamed buns were easy to make in large amounts. Artorian spoke to fill the silence: “What makes Saint so different from a High Mageous? For a mortal like myself, I’m not sure the difference is graspable. Just another tier of who bows to whom.”

Artorian received a nod from Dawn in return that said ‘essentially’, and she pushed up from her toes to hover in mid-air. Blanket awoke, and did itself a startle! There was a thinger next to it, a floating thinger! Its tiny eyes blinked at Dawn, and it didn’t know what to think for a moment, until it got a very gentle scritch under the chin from the floating warmth that smelled of fresh buns. “Do you want some treats too, big boy?”

Blanket’s loyalty was bought with honeycomb within the minute, and Dawn beamed at him as he lapped the sugar up with munchy pleasure. Artorian harrumphed. “That little traitor!”

Jiivra nudged her Headmaster in the ribs after an hour. She had to get comfortable while the entire student body lined up to give Dawn a handshake. “The Saint title is the faith version of what adventurers call the S-ranks. Those people are so powerful that… I don’t even know if I can make a comparison. They end up ruling countries because there is simply nothing to oppose them. Entire wars have been decided by which side’s S-ranker fell first, as that single detail determines an outcome immediately.”

She swallowed and steadied her voice. “In the Choir, all S-rankers automatically become Saints. Even if you were an A-ranked Vicar before. The title swap is instant, as are the expectations. There’s so few left in the world that you just don’t see them outside of positions of incredible influence and reach.”

Artorian nodded and motioned for another bun; he was handed a few and copied Blanket’s eating pattern of ‘more food in the stomach is better’. Jiivra said nothing even though she would ordinarily scold him, since it put a fraction of a smile on the Saint’s face. She was glancing over far too often. Also, she was an instructor, not a student! Jiivra quenched that thought immediately; the Saint could call her a piece of grass and her only response was going to be a resolute ‘thank you’.

She sipped her tea with a hint of spite, and a long slurp. The tiny smile vanished from Dawn’s face, and the celestial cultivator just about gagged on her drink. Oh, come on! Jiivra stood with a grumble and quickly took steps away to plop herself down next to Astrea. Abyssal Saints and their abyss blasted preferential treatment.

Astrea enjoyed the addition of the company. Her social status had risen significantly, and she was no longer getting the cold shoulder. Fully included in a very familial feeling unit as the Skyspear survivors paid no further mind to her infernal nature. She was getting buns and water refills with the rest of them. Astrea was included in jokes and jabs, and didn’t get flak for returning them.

Artorian noted the interaction, pleased as a busy bee after finding lots of honey that his granddaughter was getting some well-deserved social time. His little one was smiling and laughing. Surrounded by devastation or not, that made his world just one bit better.

“She doesn’t look like you.” Dawn weightlessly leaned on Artorian’s shoulders, curling around his back like a ghost that didn’t bother to adhere to gravity’s rules. Her hands were atop one another, placed down just so she could rest her chin on them. Artorian smiled with a grandfatherly sigh, matched with an expression that signaled both pain and pride.

“She’s my daughter all the same, and I love her so. We’ve two more kiddos to rescue. I’ll figure out the rest from there.”

Dawn nodded as she bit her lip. “About that… talk. Is now a good time?”

Chapter Twenty-One

Artorian held his chin as Dawn told him about her mistake: that she’d accidentally been fooled into making a land-vow which prevented her from leaving the region. She was full of guilt since she wanted to help his other ventures. It’s not like she was otherwise tied down with social responsibility, or the usual confines an S-ranker tended to lock themselves into. She was fresh, with the ability to freely do as she pleased.

He pressed a bun into her hand when she was getting too down on herself. “Eat something, you’ll feel better.”

She just ended up shaking her head. “I no longer need to eat. Or anything of the sort.”

“You’ll feel better.” He pressed the bun into her hand regardless. His tiny supportive little smile made her take a weak, unnecessary bite from the dumpling. He gave her a look of ‘go on’ and she took a bigger bite. It gave Jiivra a migraine to watch her Headmaster make a Saint eat.

“So, so long as Skyspear stands, you have to protect it from a possible threat. I’ve got that right?” Dawn pursed her lips, body language making her seem small as she curled in on herself. Her tiny, almost nonexistent *mhm* squeaked out at such a pitch that Blanket thought there was another animal around. The C-ranked beast momentarily poked his head up out of Astrea’s lap, but went back to napping while several people rubbed his fur. Such was the difficult, rough life of a soft sugar glider.

Artorian glanced at the mountain, and exhaled, “Well, alright then.”

He leaned back and called to his family. “Alexandria, dear. Those Fellhammers. I mean, the Dwarven group we had come by. Did they mention they were going to come back? What happened to them?”

His spry youngest got up from her group huddle, taking her bowl with because there was no way she was done snacking. She plopped down next to her Headmaster as best she could, but Dawn was taking up an incredible amount of space even if she was just hovering around her adoptive grandfather’s back. She wasn’t bothered, but glared at Dawn while deliberately scooting her butt closer. The entire idea of power dynamics and differences didn’t quite… register. Dawn smiled from ear to ear at Alexandria’s feistiness. She loved people with fire in them.

“They left after you went on your walk. I had someone write it down, but it’s up there.” Her tiny hand pointed to the top of the mountain.

The Headmaster exaggeratedly made large upper body nodding motions. “Beautiful, beautiful! I figured you might remember more, without the writ? You are the smart one after all. What did they say?”

Alexandria sat up a little straighter, trying to fit the image she was being given. She didn’t dislike feeling smarter than the tall ones, and her chest puffed out a bit even though her eyes squinted and her forehead frowned. “They…”

Both her hands held the side of her head as she tried to remember. It was kind of adorable. “They said they would be back in seven moons with reinf… reinfurt? Reinforcing mints!”

Her grandfather leaned over and whispered into her ear, and the youngest jumped to repeat it. “Reinforcements!”

Artorian pretended to not have said anything at all, performing another dramatic iteration of positive nodding as he closed his eyes. “I see, I see.”

Alexandria didn’t follow. “Grandad, your eyes are closed, you can’t see.”

Dawn snorted and had to look away, covering her mouth with her hand while Artorian beamed, and peeked through his eyelids. “Boo!”

Playfully screaming, Alexandria jumped up and ran away, ducking for cover into Blanket’s grasp. The critter had jerked up upon hearing the outcry. It bundled her up and hissed at anyone in the vicinity trying to touch her, not realizing they were all family. Blanket wasn’t exactly awake, so it was all instinct. The interaction got a chuckle out of nearly everyone, but Jiivra’s expression remained flat and unamused.

“What’s wrong?” Astrea whispered in Jiivra’s ear, and the quiet words shook her out of her visual, albeit silent grumbles.

“Nothing.” She glanced to Dawn a little long, pouting over how she was just fawning over her Headmaster. “Nothing.”

Astrea was doing her best not to giggle. “Uh-huh… don’t worry, there’s someone out there for you.”

The surrounding students said nothing as their combat instructor was being figuratively slain. It was feed for the gossip mill, and the sheer discomfort of their instructor fed them better than any feast Artorian could plan.

The red-faced instructor was on her feet and marching away while Astrea smiled broadly with her teeth showing. Interrupting Dawn was preferable to this torture! Sure, it was harmless and nothing was meant by it beyond being the butt end of a joke. Still, she was terrible at handling it. “Headmaster. What do we… what do we do from now on? Everything is gone.”

The students quieted down. The answer carried some importance to them. “Well…”

Artorian raised his hand up, and Dawn helped him stand. The answer was important, and he understood that in this case, there wasn't any joking allowed. This was their lives. “I have a teensy plan. It is going to sound like an odd plan until you hear it all the way through.”

“You’ve had normal plans?” Alexandria’s face was hooded by Blanket’s wing, but her eyes were exposed, and she saw no problem with butting in to blurt out her comment. A stifled laugh went through the student body.

Dawn decided she really liked this one. Her friend was stumbling over his words for a moment. Oh yes… definitely liked that one. Recovering, Artorian began to pace without thinking. Dawn let him go and floated up so as to not be in his way, lying sideways on vacant space to watch the show.

“So, I asked about the Dwarves because I am going to pull off an absolutely bonkers idea.” Eyebrows went up. We’d gone from ‘teensy and odd’ to ‘absolutely bonkers.’ Oh, they needed to know. Their Headmaster motioned at the devastation all around them.

“We can rebuild on the land, but all of the value, all the gold, all the treasure, really anything of value, is under it. When the Dwarven reinforcements come, I expect they’re not quite going to expect… this. I want to play on that viewpoint. For reference, I am no longer the landowner.” He motioned to Dawn. “She is, and since it’s only been roughly a week since they left, they don’t know that.”

His pacing quickened. “We, as the little family we are, will steadily move the academy down from the mountaintop. We’re moving! Now, I know this might sound strange, but that’s what I meant with odd. When the Dwarves come, we’re going to ‘convince’ them to build a settlement here. ‘Here’ including…”

Artorian pointed down. “Under the ground. I’m sure you’re all very aware of the tunnels. Now I don’t know about you, but I hate the idea of leaving those unguarded; shifted around or not. The promise of free wealth should be enticing, but I want to sweeten the pot.”

He motioned at the mountain. “Recall how we’ve been mining it for wealth and trading the metal to Jian? Well, underground construction takes a lot of stone, and starmetal is no joke. That should get them to salivate. I want to rebuild the academy above ground. With some silly feature, like on a lake or something if we can get a whole lot of water together. It’s an idea in progress. Don’t look at me like that.”

His pacing continued. “While beneath the ground, using the entire mountain as a mineable resource likely means an inquisitorial secret base gets constructed. One able to house an entire—if not multiple—Dwarven clans. They’re fantastic at keeping tunnels in check, and who would suspect a secret Dwarven base under a cultivation school?”

He spoke under his breath, eyes flicking to Dawn as he turned so nobody saw. “Skyspear specifically refers to the menhir shaped mountain. If the mountain doesn’t stand, there’s no land-vow to apply. Contract loophole, found!”

Tiny cogs started turning in the Incarnate’s mind. Would… would that work? It was dumb, and taking a vow to the letter. However, if that was enough, she’d be free of the location she’d otherwise forever be trapped within. Her glimmering smile let the old man know she was on board with his scheming. A student's hand went up, and he pointed at it.

“What about a really awesome tall tower!”

An *oooh* resounded around her, and another student filled in. “A nine-tiered pagoda!”

“Why stop at nine? Why not more, like a spear!”

Artorian rolled his shoulders at the student suggestions. Yes, excellent. That was exactly the kind of positive forward thinking he was hoping for. He glanced to Jiivra, and she gave a thumbs up. For her, it was several beasts with one stone. Her academy would get saved, she wouldn’t be separated from her family, and she’d make a branch of the Church do work for her.

Now that would be tasty, tasty vengeance.

The students had glints of scheming joy in their eyes. They got to be included in one of the plans, and what a plan it was! As a bonus, no more mountain meant no more stairs. That was huge for them, and the whispers between them would ensure that detail would be kept quiet, lest someone get the bright idea to add some.

Artorian beamed and rubbed his hands together like an evil villain. “Looks like everyone’s in. Here’s what we’re going to do…”

Chapter Twenty-Two

The Inquisition rolled up on a hill far steeper than they remembered. It wasn’t that detail they were bothered about, but that rain the size of marbles pelted them from above. The kicker was that the water was black, like it contained the remnants of a massive forest fire. Even midday, it was dark. Pyrocumulus clouds densely packed together overhead, visible cracks of red lightning snapping between them.

The gloom served to make their trip all the more eerie. A league and a half away from their goal, the entire cohort dropped to a standstill. All foliage and vegetation this far out had been flattened, and some still burned regardless of the heavy pitter-patter of rain. They could see the horizon in every direction because there was nothing left to block their line of sight, save for the hill.

A roughly five-hundred strong force had marched to Skyspear, the majority of whom were grumbly. The reason they’d stopped a league and a half away was the road itself. The trodden dirt patch changed into packed, dense clay and charcoal. Further up, shimmering flat patches of glass could be seen reflecting the scant trickles of light that made it through the clouds. All in all, not enough of a concern to stop a military convoy.

Kiwi Fellhammer pressed his hand over his eyes, shielding his Essence fueled vision from the unwelcome shower. “Those are definitely suits of burnt out armor lining the roadside. It doesn’t seem like anyone be in ‘em.”

O’Nalla’s expression was sour, she didn’t like the rain. Her arms were crossed while she rode atop the front of the primary support cart. Even though the hooding of the Dwarven caravan kept her dry, it didn’t improve her mood any. “So can weh go now?”

Kiwi grumbled in Dwarven under his breath. “Ah think so. ‘Bout half a league from the hilltop, there be kneeling suits of armor on either side of the road. There’s a destroyed sword in front of each of ‘em, and their helmet be resting on the hilt. They’re as ruined and scorched as the rain that’s fallin’, and there be a person sitting at the hill’s apex. I can see the back of a robe, and the interesting bit is that it ain't wet in the least. There’s a bubble around the bloke keepin’ all the water away.”

That last spot of news was far more interesting to O’Nalla Fellhammer. Anything that kept water away was a friend of hers. She pulled on the warhorn and tooted the combination for the march to continue. When the Dwarves came up behind him, Artorian didn’t turn to greet them. He just sat on a dry pillow in the middle of the road, overlooking the desolation. O’Nalla was pleased as a Dwarfling who’d just gotten her first clan mug to be immune to falling water once she stepped within the bubble, but the sight that awaited her made even her hardened heart drop.

“Great pyrites below. What… what happened here?”

Kiwi didn’t know what to say either. Several more Inquisition officers joined the convenience of the large water repelling Essence bubble, but they too could not find the words. The impact crater was bigger than any hole they’d ever dug. The entire lower half of the Skyspear mountain was scorched and blackened from whatever heat had been present to scour and break the land. All that farmland they remembered seeing was just flat, or part of the crater. The entire city of Jian they’d passed through days ago was nowhere to be seen… like it had never existed.

Artorian swallowed and started speaking: “Well, I went on an enthusiastic walk through the woods-”

O’Nalla’s armored grasp clamped his shoulder before he could continue that ridiculous start to an explanation. It made the old man stop, and seemed to have gotten the point across as he started over.

“So, I was minding my own business-”

The sound of a tea kettle boiling over peeped between the angry Dwarven woman’s lips, and the grip on Artorian’s shoulder squeezed. Kiwi wanted to laugh at the landowner’s attempts at humor, but the view was grinding that pleasantry down with mortar and pestle. “Did ya get yer wee one?”

The old man released a heavy sigh. “I did… at a cost.”

The question of the cost didn’t need to be asked. The view was enough. The teakettle noise ceased, and O’Nalla’s grip loosened. “The survivors are in the academy, packing up to leave. We’re going to try and save what knowledge we can before burning everything else to the ground, and laying down a land-law so that none will ever be allowed to enter these lands again. We will leave a hoard of wealth and eons of knowledge inaccessible to all, locked away until dust is all that remains.”

He tiredly looked up to Kiwi. “You were too late, my friend.”

A look from the Fellhammer head made O’Nalla take swift and silent steps backward. The hefty Dwarf plopped himself down next to Artorian, patting a hand on his back. “Don’t let it eat ya. It’s just how things go sometimes. Think o’ yer wee lass.”

The old man somberly nodded in an exceptionally slow fashion. “Yes. Yes, that’s a good idea. It’s just such a shame. I planned to build a new life here, you know? We even had a large number of recent breakthroughs, and… this.”

He pulled a sheathed jian from under his cloak, and several of the Inquisitorial commanders took a cautious step back. Even sheathed, the raw power emanating from the gap where the hilt touched scabbard was viciously palpable. A borealis of light poured free when his thumb pushed the grip away, releasing waves of incandescent heat that hung in the air. The old man tiredly looked at the lights, his gaze wistful.

Kiwi swallowed, entranced by the sheer might contained in a weapon not more than two feet away from him. Wealth fever crept up along his spine, and his lips moved before his brain could tell him it was a bad idea. “Could I… see that?”

Snapping his mouth shut, the Inquisitor fully realized no man would hand over a weapon that emanated such vast power. One leaking Mana, as if it was a wasteful byproduct of the true potency the weapon contained! Dawn had let Artorian have the jian she’d personally used. It was a crucial part of the initial deception.

Without even looking at the star struck Dwarf, Artorian clicked it shut and handed the weapon over with dejected, downcast casualness.

“Sure. It’s the only one I could recover. The rest…” He sighed, motioning with rejection at the crater before him. “Lost. Buried.”

Kiwi and O’Nalla’s gaze met, a silent conversation taking place with mere looks as the Inquisitor firmly squeezed the jian in hand. The implication that there were more weapons like this… just laying around… even this sword alone was a tool that could swing tides into the favor of a C-ranker, or be a suitable gift and sword for any Mage that got their hands on it. If the old man was going to lock this region off… all that power would be wastefully lost.

The Dwarf snuck a peek. Nothing within him could resist a glance as his thick thumb popped away the hilt once more. Freed more than by merely a hint, the blade released a steady stream of iridescent grey energy which flickered and ate through the air like a firework burst. The grey, void filled flame shot towards the closest suit of charred armor, and filled it with a waking wholeness.

The empty suit of armor popped and cracked. The insides were fueled with the growing, silver-grey flame as its charred arm reached out without a body inside to control it. The helm was taken and placed upon the space where a head should have been. Held firm by an unseen force, the helmet remained steady and in place. Four sharp lines burst into bright silver behind the burnt-out helmet; eyes of energy that judged all flaring to life as it sought the eternal enemy.

Dwarves close by drew their weapons and jumped back. Wary troops realized the existence of a possible threat and bounded forward, bearded axes in hand. They circled the kneeling armor, which did naught but place both its gauntlets atop the blade’s pommel. It remained there, like a loyal knight awaiting orders.

Kiwi released the blade from its prison no further. His concern stained with worried eyes flashed to the landowner. The man was still and downcast, unaffected by the events that just transpired. Which meant he must have seen it happen before and was jaded to this spectacle. Kiwi connected the dots that there were ‘many blades’ and ‘many suits of armor’. That ‘wealth and knowledge’ was going to be ‘abandoned’.

This was a gold mine for the Inquisition, if he could but claim it. He needed to convince a single, depressed old man that lost the majority of his region not to lock it off. He also wanted to keep this sword. Kiwi badly wanted to claim and hoard it. Yet if he did, it would be seen as the act of greed it was. The old man would not take him seriously with any talk if he kept it. Seating himself back down, he bit his tongue and said nothing as a very shaky, unwilling hand returned the weapon.

The old man smiled weakly, took the sword, and pushed on the pommel to fully sheathe it once more. He laid it on his lap like it was a piece of plywood, giving it no further thought as the light within the armor began to fade. Taking its helmet back off, the scorched suit placed it back upon the sword hilt. When it took the position of rest, the same as all the others in a very lengthy line, the four silver lines faded. When the potential foe stilled, the nearby Dwarves relaxed as their commanders gave hand motions for them to stand down.

Kiwi paid it no heed as he leaned sideways. “Y’know. You don’t have to leave. Could always rebuild.”

Artorian rubbed his forehead. “Y… yes… I suppose I could. However, with almost every piece of silver, copper, and gold buried beneath the dirt I can afford no work crew. With the materials to the swords stuck in mountain veins, we can mine them no further. The secret knowledge of the breakthrough of a new kind of weapon empowerment is equally buried in the dirt, along with most everything else of value.”

His next words seemed to ring out from a hollow space within himself. “I have no workforce, no money, no goods to trade with for reconstruction. There are no more local resources to rebuild with, and there isn’t a human in my academy that knows how to work stone well enough for new housing. I have students, but they are children. Tired, drained, and injured children who just lost their families, their lives, their friends.”

Artorian sighed once more and buried his face deeper into his hands. “The time it would take to recover Essence alone, for my tiny group of scholars and lads to recover enough to do work, would leave us starving a good few months before we could commence any sort of work. I have nothing. Nothing. Just an empire of dirt. I cannot hire and cannot pay. I cannot grow on desolate land. I cannot retrieve what is lost, for we don’t even have a single shovel.”

Those with knowledge on how to build settlements agreed that those conditions were dire. The man before them was a landowner in name only, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t set the land-law to kick them all out. The wealth fever was creeping into many more of them, having heard the kind of riches that would be there for the taking if they only had the time to unearth them.

“Then, if somehow I could rebuild. I need facilities of such complexity that only gnomes knew how to make. If we cannot store the knowledge of our library safely, against the weatherings of time… better to burn it. I know of none with the power to craft a room sizable enough to store centuries worth of vellum and scrolls. I might know how to move them, but…”

He shook his head, hiding his face in the crook of both arms. The robes he wore hid his expression, but he had all the bearings of a man defeated. O’Nalla motioned at the hunched over figure, mouthing angry, soundless words at her superior not to let this opportunity go by. An upset motion at their cohort of troops, and sharp point at the crater was enough for the Inquisitorial leader to get the message that his subordinates were on board with the claiming effort.

They’d come here to fight a war, instead they could go home without a single casualty, bringing the Inquisition a golden platter of resources. The honor they could bring to their clan for such a feat was massive, and such a gift didn’t come by every dynasty. Kiwi cleared his throat, “Well, I’d say that’s not quite right. Ya know at least one who could make that sort of building.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

Artorian placed his hand over his heart and shook his head. “Please don’t give an old man needless hope. It will only hurt bitterly in the end.”

Kiwi Fellhammer gripped Artorian’s non-sore shoulder. “Look, lad. Listen, I’ve got four hundred and eighty soldiers behind me that came here to help. So we came late to the fight, it’s true. That’s still nearly five hundred heads worth of smarts, and a thousand hands with Dwarven muscle to get something done. Why don’t you tell ol’ Fellhammer here what’s in yer heart, and we see what we can do. Ya look burdened. Get it off yer chest…”

Artorian’s heavy exhale failed to be masked as he pressed his mouth against palmed hands. “Lord Inquisitor, really, I cannot afford your services. No matter how kind and heartfelt they may be. What could I possibly offer you for this boon? I have rocks and dirt. Rocks and dirt!”

The Dwarf slapped Artorian’s back and didn’t let up. “Humor me. One old soldier to another.”

Those words made Artorian’s eyes sparkle. He knew that saying, and he knew it well. With a stern breath, he righted himself. Motioning to the crater, he spoke with his hands as much as his mouth. “Oh, very well. I apologize for this old man’s childish daydreams. If I could do anything, I would strip mine the mountain tip to base. Crack every vein of ore, find every grain of starmetal, and gather every handful of rock. I would wish to rebuild a brand-new city in the crater from this. The edges mark a perfect city border, and as much as it pains me… the burnt woods will allow for farmland that would yield fantastic crop yields.”

He swallowed and motioned lower. “It was joked that we could have a lake now. A paltry attempt to get a smile from the weary. I would dig deep into the rock, reclaim the lost riches, the lost swords, and the lost arts. I would have ordered massive construction projects to allow for an underground library with exact conditions. A hidden city under the surface, masked by a sprawling cultivation school above it. A multi-tiered pagoda at its center, the new Skyspear.”

He dropped his hands. “Ah, such dreams I have.”

O’Nalla sharply head-motioned at her superior, sending hand signals that translated as ‘clinch the deal already’. Kiwi’s attempt to say something was interrupted as an interested sound came from the Headmaster, followed by a message that wasn’t great for them.

“Though, perhaps you are correct! I do know one who could help! It has been quite a long time since I have encountered Modsognir. I don’t know the name of his clan, but he was a merchant. He might work out some kind of deal if I… perhaps sold off some land in recompense?”

Kiwi’s words were short. “Don Modsognir? Fox fur trim gambeson, fine wolf pelt boots, buttons of platinum closing his arctic elk jacket?”

Artorian’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh, you know one another?”

The Inquisitor did his best not to grumble, but the sourness spilled through regardless. There wasn't any bad blood between Dwarven clans, but there were frequent… opposing viewpoints that resolved in a violent manner.

“Few do not know of Clan Modsognir, which, so you know, is the clan name. They are a kind of… merchant, yes. However, the one I was referring to was your connection to the Inquisition. I’m aware you’ve encountered a Fellhammer brother in the Fringe? It was my hope you were on good terms. Since you mentioned them, I see no reason not to inform you that contract would be acceptable. However, if you would be willing to let the Inquisition do the work, we would be willing to do so for only salvage rights.”

He motioned at the sword with a thick finger. “It’ll pay for itself with coin and goods you would have owned regardless, and it will save you the trouble of needing to dig it up.”

He saw the old man frown and hold his chin with a hand. The landowner was clearly considering it. “Can… can you do anything about the immediate survival of my students?”

O’Nalla stepped in behind her leader. “We could certainly add that to a contract if you were willing to draft one with us. We could speak of terms and conditions, and the like. Not only would it give you a chance to specify your worries so we could address them, but a contract would ensure that we would not back out of assisting you. Your wee ones benefit, you benefit.”

The surrounding Fellhammers nodded in agreement as well. They were in on the ruse, and they were going to take as much land and resources as they could get away with. Still the old man had to agree to actually sign the Mana contract. Sweetening the words used even if the contents of the pot didn’t change was a perfectly acceptable Inquisition tactic. It was even in the rulebook. Chapter three, section seven. Acquisition without assault.

Artorian released his chin. ‘If… if salvage rights will do for your immediate assistance, does that mean to imply that you would be willing to indulge the entirety of my childish dream for… more?”

Kiwi’s wealth fever struck him hard, and his tone was sickeningly sweet. “Why, my dear Headmaster, whatever could you mean to offer? As a skilled force of the Inquisition, not to mention that we’re comprised of Dwarves and half-Dwarves, your dream isn’t only possible, it’s within reach.”

Artorian sat up, and shifted on his pillow. “Land? Land sounds like it would do. Though you’d likely want a duration.”

He pensively opened his roughened hands and looked at them. “I’m not getting any younger… it… it might be best for another caretaker to take over in my stead. What… what about a full land transfer? With the caveat that it occurs when the last of the Skyspear mountain is mined away and not a single rock of it remains, and that I see the majority of construction to completion. Particularly the school and main pagoda spire? Would that… would that be sufficient? I’d like the chance to see my children happy before I leave for greener pastures.”

Kiwi roared orders over his shoulder. “Fetch me vellum and ink!”

O’Nalla was beaming. That was perfect…! “Aye, this sounds like good business. We can begin right away, after we got some signatures sorted and inform our men.”

Even with the heavy rainfall, well over three-fourths of the cohort was already aware of the entire goings on. Essence-enhanced hearing, while it made the rain worse, was plenty for keeping information well gathered. They were the Inquisition after all. Inquiring was their specialty. Those who didn’t know were filled in swiftly as events occurred, and the wealth fever spread.

They were building a brand-new outpost and were getting away with hiding it. With official documents to cover it up, and what sounded like an immense haul of loot to take home. The honor they were about to bring to their clan… Blessed pyrite was looking out for them this day! All this trudging through rain had revealed a mountain of gold at the end!

Kiwi tugged at his shoulder, whispering lower than needed. “Greener pastures?”

Artorian leaned back in his direction. “I might be a cultivator, but it isn’t buying me the time I expected it would. I have a few years left in me, certainly. However, I’m doubtful that I have more than that. No amount of refined Essence can indefinitely keep my wreck of a body together. C-rank wasn’t what I hoped it would be, and I’ve expended many years dilly-dallying. I have two more children to get back home… and for that I need a home for them. Do you recall when you told us where they were?”

The Fellhammer recalled well, and the thought wasn’t pleasant. “Deep in enemy territory. You’re thinking of leaving the territory in someone else’s hands so you can go on a last-ditch effort for yer children. Can’t say that ain’t noble. Also, can’t say it doesn't make me understand why you’d set the transfer on completion of a task, rather than, say, yer life ending. Ye want yer wee ones to have a home, in the likely case ya don’t actually succeed.”

The old man pressed a hand to his chest again, leaning back in shock that he’d been so easily seen through. “Am I such an open book to you, my Inquisitorial friend? Here I thought I managed to be clever, if not outright sneaky!”

The Inquisitor could easily tell Artorian hadn’t lied about his lifespan problem, it was a well-known issue for older cultivators; they never got the same results youngsters did. That’s why so many young adults tended to run the show and go on wild adventures; their physique could handle explosive growth. “Well it is mah profession, my friend. An’ what father wouldn’t want a better life for their wee ones? We’ll build you a fantastic hold.”

Artorian mused it out, a small smile on the corners of his lips. “Imagine that… a Dwarven hold named Skyspear. You’d never even guess it.”

Kiwi nodded generously. He was counting on it, in fact. The vellum was delivered, and a small flat surface was prepared before them. As if a small table was a challenge for an entire squad of gifted earth cultivators. “Anythin’ else?”

The Headmaster folded his hands and pursed his lips. “Maybe… a small little place. For me. Here on the border, overlooking the crater. It’d let me see the progress, and when the time comes… I can slip away without too much notice. The place could be a little shrine for… when I’m gone. Maybe we can gather up all the statues from the mountain path and plunk ‘em here. What an honor it would be to spend my days within the sculpted presence of Woah the Wise, Corey the Mountain, Scout the Succulent, and Danielle the Detailed.”

Artorian chuckled. “Who knows, maybe one day we could have a whole host of sculptures with personal scriptures from their lives? Why, I remember a vivacious Choir lad who wanted to be a scholar. How nice it would be for him to succeed. I can see it now, the Obelisk of D. Kota, greatest scholar of his age.”

The Inquisition gave the sermoning old man a nudge and a quill. Artorian blinked and looked down at it like he’d forgotten what in blazes it was. Then he took the implement, dipped it in ink, and began scribing. The Inquisitor had no issue making Artorian do the majority of the writing work; his scribing talent and clarity was impeccable.

The cohort was directed to proceed and get comfortable by setting up camp. They each smiled as they passed. Their Head Inquisitor was securing their clan a hold! As if to herald the success of their glory, the rain slowly ceased and the skies cleared. Rainbows and additional light peeked through, shining honor upon the birthplace of a new legacy.

Chapter Twenty-Four

“Do you think they bought it?” Astrea sat hunched over, hands pressed above her knees as she squinted to the crater’s edge down below. Every now and again she could make out the pinprick that was her grandfather, but that was the best she could do.

Dawn lounged on a floating carpet nearby. Why bother with rocks as flooring when an anti-gravity hammock was just so much better? Her voice wasn’t salty or sassy in the slightest, confident in her assessment. She’d heard the entire goings on through all the husks of armor nearby. “Oh, they bought it.”

Students jumped victoriously into the air. They had gotten things set up just in time before needing to flee to the spire to make it look like things had been properly staged without their involvement. “Can we make it stop raining now?”

Jiivra walked by and gave the exhausted group of water and air students a proud thumbs up. They collapsed to the ground and were glad to be done. She sat in the makings of a hedonistic hotspot, glanced over the ridge, and pulled out her pocketbook when satisfied. Astrea quirked a brow when the quill and ink came to bear, watching the woman start scritching words into it. “Does that pocketbook have a title with your name on it?”

She nodded slowly, not wanting to interrupt her writing progress. “It does. Your old man put it together for me in the Fringe. I was a different person then, and would have tumbled off a cliff had this tiny thing not made it into my life.”

Astrea leaned forward to try and sneak a closer peek. “You make it sound like that booklet is your child.”

The scritching paused, and Astrea’s words were considered. Guilt for leaving it behind in order to live panged into her, and her fingers squeezed the pages. “If it wasn’t before then it certainly is now. This booklet is the closest I’ll likely ever have to a little one of my own.”

“Hey! You have us!” a student chimed in, and the group around the speaker smiled widely as instead of being rebuked as expected… they heard a chortle followed by the pleasant *bumf* of Alexandria running to tackle into Jiivra’s chest at full speed.

“No making mommy sad!”

Jiivra melted from within. She stood corrected, and curled a loving arm around the youngest student of Skyspear; her little librarian. Alexandria giggled as her head was peppered in kisses, trying to weakly push away at the invading face with tiny hands. It tickled!

Laughter broke all around them. It was good to feel like a family again. Yes, they’d lost much. Yet this was worth the world. They lived, they were fine. They were going to make it and get back up on their feet.

One of the students, Dame, cracked her back during a stretch. It made a few eyes look in her direction, and a pink flush coated her cheeks from the attention. Given that she had it, she shyly raised her hand into the air. “Can… I ask a question?”

At a positive response from the people she recognized as instructors, she formed her question. “What do we do now? That part wasn’t in the plan, and there’s a lot of small dots moving down there that are getting closer to the base of the mountain.”

Frowns replaced the nods, and people scrambled to the edge for another look. Sure enough, there was a great amount of motion in the crater down below. Jiivra snapped her booklet shut and got back to her feet, cradling Alexandria while leaning the child on her extended hip.

“Everyone up and at ‘em. Start gathering seeds, roots, and re-plantable stalks from all of our plants and food sources. We are moving the entire operation off the top of the mountain and down to the crater. We’re going to shack up on ground level. Expect a large amount of back and forth trips, especially when we get to taking apart the library and other contents in the special rooms. I’m sad to see them go, but that’s the plan and we’re sticking to it.”

The students each got up, and when their instructor had finished giving orders they got to work. Except for the snoozing air and water students; they were sleeping off their exhaustion. Those young adults would be filled in later. For now, this was fine. She let Alexandria go once the child began to wriggle. “Nobody is doing anything to my library without a proper order of what gets moved when!”

She smiled as she watched the youngling zip off. The child reminded Jiivra of her own younger days, where she too had carried the flag of valiant zealotry. What a young and gullible fool she’d been. She sighed and turned, taking a few steps so she could clasp her fist and bow to Dawn. “My Saintess, may I ask a question?”

Dawn came to a jerky stop. She’d been glancing down at the crater, keeping tabs on her friend and the details of the contract being worked out. It essentially abandoned the region of Skyspear to a faction of Dwarves which comprised a good majority of the Inquisitorial branch of the Church. It also solved several problems they couldn’t have otherwise done anything about. “Just Dawn is fine, Jiivra. Please, no more with the formalities.”

It was a jarring request. A lifetime of having status differences hammered into you tended to do that. “As you wish. I don’t understand why our old man wanted you to remain hidden. That seems entirely counterproductive. Where would you go? You’d be found anywhere in the region if someone did as much as think to look.”

Dawn twisted on her lounging axis, gently descending so the tip of her foot connected with the mountaintop ground. Since she was blocking the path of the sun, a long shadow extended. “A feat accomplished more easily than one might believe. Why? Well, if I knew I was going into a land where a Saint resided, I would need to go fetch another Saint to handle that encounter. Considering we are dealing with a faction our darling long beard is holding at the pointy edged distance of a blade, that’s not a pleasant endeavor.”

Jiivra was incredibly surprised. She, in fact, didn’t believe it. “Our Headmaster adores Dwarves. He went off on a whole half-asleep lecture once on how he can’t get enough of their vivacious energy and rambunctious never-say-never spirit.”

She stopped what might have ended up being a long defense had she not caught the edge of Dawn’s lips move upwards. The Saintess provided a clue. “What has slighted a vengeful human that does not brook harm against who he considers his family?”

Jiivra squeezed her pocketbook as her hand clenched. “The… the Church. Oh no. Tell me he’s not actually setting up something incredibly foolish down there to go to war with the entirety of the Church?”

Dawn chuckled a pleasant giggle before her dainty fingers slid to seal her lips. Her expression amused regardless. “‘Going’ to war implies the beginning of a process. Have you not seen our dearest is already smack dab in the middle of it?”

Astrea decided this was a fantastic moment for keeping her mouth shut, and pretended to nap with Blanket. She tried not to stir while listening in with a sharp ear. Jiivra in the meanwhile was kneading her brows with her thumbs. “Abyss, Artorian. Why?”

Dawn’s finger harmlessly pressed against the celestial cultivator’s skin. Aimed and held at the exact center of her… Center. “You know why.”

The veiled protections even a Mage possessed to shield their cultivation techniques and internal workings were a pittance to an S-ranker, so Dawn could see the cultivation technique as clear as day. She watched the swirl of the miniature, simplified version of a cultivation technique she had helped put together. Jiivra’s standing had risen significantly in Dawn’s eyes from that detail alone. Astrea had it from the daughter title, Alexandria had it for carrying the flame of knowledge, and Jiivra had it from her Core. For never would anyone risk all they were to save the life of another… if that person wasn’t important to them.

Jiivra’s response came as a stifled stutter, but both her hands were taken by the Saintess. “It’s alright. Believe in him. As for how I’ll remain hidden…”

The S-ranker winked, a minor head motion tilting the point of interest to the ground. When Jiivra turned her vision to see, a sprawl of flaming, burning, blinking c’towl eyes filled the entire space of Dawn’s lengthy shadow; spilling out from her foot where she remained connected with the ground. The living flames were being stored in her shadow.

“I once spent a decade in a forest as a candle; I just couldn’t bear to deal with the world. Reforming your shape is something any basic Mage can do with ease, especially with plenty of practice. The body is no longer entrapping the mind, those positions are reversed for a Mage. For a Mage, their mind becomes the limiting factor. If you can conceive of a concept, and how it would function, you can do it.”

Jiivra relaxed when all the burning c’towl eyes closed in unison, reverting the eldritch display back to a common shadow. Dawn’s smile held a hint of laughter. “Much like my personal little army of fang and claw, I’ll be residing in an entirely separate layer of existence. Per the limitations my specific concept allows. Watch…”

The Incarnate of Fire hovered herself over Jiivra’s shadow, and eased herself into it as if it were a portal to another space entirely. When entirely submerged, only Dawn’s eyes remained. She winked, and Jiivra shivered as she felt the interaction, rather than saw it. Another moment, and to the best of anyone’s senses, Dawn was gone.

Astrea had both her hands sealing her mouth as her wide eyes met with Jiivra’s, who was equally as unsettled. The instructor didn't look too good. “I f-f-feel sick.”

“I have no idea where she went.” Astrea pointed at the shadow. It was just a normal shadow. Nothing odd about it. “Is… is she in there?”

A wordlessly mouthed ‘I don’t know’ snapped back at Astrea with barely controlled panic. She took a few more steps, and her shadow crossed with Astrea’s. Neither thought anything of it at the time, but Jiivra went pale when she looked behind her and saw movement.

The combat zealot going pale was enough for Astrea to silence herself, head slowly turning to find a pair of swirling irises in the form of supernovae hovering next to her face. “Boo!”

The ‘Nightmare’ didn’t know where the voice had come from, and didn’t care. Reason left her as she yelped out a scream, running at full tilt away from the scene. The laughter that followed her was something she’d have to deal with later. Dawn’s eyes had gone with Astrea’s run for a few meters until her shadow crossed Jiivra’s again. At which point she managed to stay in place, and reform back out of the shadow she’d originally sunk into.

Jiivra shuddered. “How are you doing that!”

The Fire Soul ran her fingers through her hair once manifested enough to do so. “S-ranked perk… I just reside on a different layer. I’m not gone, and have perfect awareness of my surroundings. It’s like looking through a window, all that changes is which side of that window I’m on. While my bond isn’t with teleportation, the specific higher Essence I get along well with mimics many of its functions. I’m still figuring it out as I go.” Dawn took a deep, cleansing breath.

“For the most part I’ll be staying in Alexandria’s shadow. You two can defend yourselves, but the youngest would benefit from an extra pair of eyes. Plus, I would benefit from reading material. It’s boring in the other layer; there’s a whole lot of nothing.”

Jiivra sighed and nodded. It was good for her little librarian to have extra protection. “So what do we do now?”

Looking over the edge of the mountain, Dawn smirked. “Now, we just wait for the years to pass… all will come in due time.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

“Well aren’t ye a sight for sore eyes!” Hadurin Fellhammer beamed a smile so wide it could have illuminated the entire eastward shrine. Situated in the eastern cardinal direction, the ‘small’ shrine sat on the territory edge of Skyspear’s crater border. Three more similar shrines bordered the lands, each in their appropriate cardinal direction. Yet it was in this one where Hadurin had found the long bearded old man from his early days in the Fringe.

“Look at ye! A spry… celestial pyrite! Yer in the middle of the C-ranks? I saw you a wee few years ago, and ya could barely crawl!” The half-Dwarf’s thick hands shot into the sky, cheerfully swinging around to embrace the old codger.

Artorian laughed and gave the sturdy rock of a man a good squeeze. Not that it did much to him. “Hadurin! My old friend. What took you so long? I’ve been sitting here and watching the regional development for…”

He counted on his hands a moment. “Three whole years already!”

The Grand Inquisitor set his azure jade hammer in the open palm of a nearby statue’s outstretched hand. Artorian raised a brow, and Hadurin had a second look at the statue before hastily removing it and placing it down on the floor instead. “Tha’ coulda been bad.”

Artorian affirmed the words with a nod. “Indeed, it could have, old friend. Laying any item in the hand of Danielle the Detailed is sure to bring ill fortune upon the item, for it will be lost swiftly as it is broken down into its component parts for study.”

The Inquisitor picked it back up and cradled his weapon to his chest like a child. “Not me hamma!”

The old men both saw each other’s half smirk, snickered, and then bent over in mutual laughter as the joke concluded. “It is good to see you, old friend. I was concerned on why there had been no vellum from the Fringe lately. Are my youngsters well?”

Hadurin reached into a spatial pouch and pulled out a stack large enough for the Headmaster to be taken aback. The Dwarven man snickered as he heard his fellow warrior’s words. “What… what’s all this?”

“Ooh. Well. Recall tha’ Lu and Wu had a wee one? Well, she’s as bad as ye are. Wee one ain’t even ten, but she causes trouble for twice that amount. Found your old notes she did, most of these here scribbles are ‘notes for granda’. She might not have yer mind, but celestials above does she have yer nose. Specifically when it comes to gettin’ inta things!”

Artorian rubbed his forehead. He knew about Ra. Lun was going to tear him one. He weakly motioned for the stack of letters. He received the delivery as the first vellum dropped into his hand. No… not vellum. Was this paper? This didn’t feel like paper. It was metallic, and sported a golden trim on the edges. The faint smell of peach and rose hung to the rolled-up scroll, and only then did he see there was a scented wooden log, carefully smoothed on the edges keeping the metal message tightly bound. He stared at it a moment longer in abject confusion. “You got me here. What is this?”

Hadurin reached over and tapped the bottom coronation, popping it inwards like a button. The message went *click* and loosened in his grasp, able to be unfurled. “It’s a summons.”

Suspicious glances darted across the object before they landed on his ‘friend’. “Explain.”

The Grand Inquisitor looked around, seemingly to check if anyone was listening in. “A summons. A ‘request’ for you to show up at a certain place and time. Personally, I’m just glad I got here before the Don did. He’s got one of his own and I wanted to make sure you got mine first. You’re looking at an eventful year my friend. Hope you didn’t get too comfortable cultivatin’! Speaking of, got all yer wee ones?”

Artorian gingerly unfurled the oddly light metal letter and started reading. He half responded while his mind remained elsewhere. Some of the text on this document was less than to his liking. “Two to go, they’re just a little difficult to… this is in a year? I can’t make it all the way to the Seat of Sorrows in a year! They can come get me if they needed me in such a hurry. That’s the opposite side of the abyss-blasted map!”

His friend pursed his lips, silently moving his hands behind his back as his raiment came to bear. Artorian realized that the Dwarf was here on official Church business. This wasn’t a housecall, regardless of how pleasant their meeting had started. “Oh, they’ll be comin’ to get ye alright. Keep readin’.”

Artorian grumbled and moved his finger down the writ as his face turned ever redder as he read the ever more irritating information. “Mages will come get me if I don’t comply? For what?”

Hadurin just looked at the floor and cleared his throat. “Keep readin’.”

The Inquisitor could tell when Artorian had reached the best part, because his jaw dropped. “To bestow the Medal of the Divine Order?”

His long beard *whooshed* and slapped a statue from how quickly his head moved. “I’m not even a part of the Church. Why do they want to give me this? Why the entire list of threats for noncompliance? This isn’t an invitation to attend, this is a death missive!”

Artorian was fuming, finishing up the last few paragraphs before an earlier mention finally clicked. “Wait, Don is coming?”

Hadurin made a holy motion across his body to forgive himself. He sighed heavily and pressed his hand to cover his eyes, hunching forward slightly. “Aye. He’s got… the other one.”

Artorian’s concern was instant. “The other what?”

*Crack*!

Wood burst as the shrine door was kicked squarely off its hinges, the voice of a very upset and familiar Dwarf tearing his way through the front easily heard. Inquisitorial guards had not been able to stop the man, and slowing him down had been equally unfruitful. Hadurin had heard the stomping coming through tremor sense, and merely stood there, not really wanting to deal with this right now.

“The other missive! From the family!” Don Modsognir’s glimmery platinum coat buttons came into view before the rest of him did. An equally metallic missive was in his hand, and a drinking horn in the other which angrily pointed at his Dwarven brother. “An’ the family always. Comes. First!”

He stomped to a halt and deeply inhaled through the nose. “Ya know that! So don’t be sending mah boy here to yer blasted Vicars. Ah don’t trust it, and I knew ya was doing it too! I diverted mah whole caravan and ignored a whole tradin’ route to try and cut ya off, and ah still got here too late somehow. An… Artorian, drop that! Quickly!”

The academic didn’t hesitate, parting his fingers wide and letting the metal message clang and clatter to the ground. Don was nearly in a panic. “Did any o’ yer blood get on it?”

Artorian checked his hands, and then looked down at the message. His hands were fine, but now that he was looking for it… at the bottom where his hands would have gone, he saw the golden edge coating was razor sharp. The back of the message also appeared to be a… was that a contract? “Those sneaky celestial devils!”

His head jerked up to Hadurin, who was still covering his eyes. He’d known and wasn’t able to say. Under his breath he mumbled gruffly at his brother. “Took you long enough. I even sprinkled clues ruttin’ everywhere.”

Artorian was preparing to lambast his Fringe friend, but the dejected tone and word choice made him hold his tongue. If there was a contract on the missive, then it was very likely Hadurin was under one as well, unable to say or do certain things. “Now I can at least tell ‘em that I got here first. That’ll have to be enough. Please hand yer’s over will ya. I really need tah sit. Been getting dragged around by my oath for weeks.”

The Don handed over his message, but the long beard did not unfurl it. It was inspection time first. He carefully handled the prior missive to compare them in structure and hidden message contents. Modsognir went over to his brother and gave him a solid Dwarven hug. Their foreheads knocked against one another in familial greeting; must be a Dwarven thing. Hadurin relaxed shortly after, another heavy sigh of relief escaping him.

“Ah got here in time. That’s wha’s important. Lemme guess. Yer Vics were gonna ‘invite’ the old man over and tear ‘em to pieces?”

Hadurin shrugged. “Ah can’t tell you anything of the sort, but I also can’t tell you it’s not something they’d do. Gimme a bit longer, I feel some oath-chains fadin’.”

He got an understanding nod in return, and Modsognir moved to sit down next to a human that was going through every line in each missive like it contained a cypher. “Find anythin’?”

The Headmaster grumbled, glancing up only for a moment before flipping both missives over, pointing at several ‘off’ geometric lines he didn’t understand. “These are identical, but abyss if I know what they are. It looks like a rune, but I know awful little about those things. Best I could tell, and really only because I overheard you both, even a drop of blood would count as a ‘signature’ which would compel and require me to fulfill the hidden keywords written in fine print. Very clever to hide that text between the sheets of metal. Can’t be seen from the outside unless you’ve got some vision skills or an earth affinity. I bet the Church was counting on my lack of earth channel. Yet, why the summons at all?”

Don pointed at his. “Well, if you sign this one, then you can’t sign that one. The dates and times of where you gotta be then conflict, and since you can’t uphold both there’d be a wee problem. Which is why ya ought ta do it in that order. So ya can go to the Church but not be stuck under whatever scheme this is trying to entrap ya in.”

Artorian lifted the second Missive. “This one says I’m to attend a party? Did I get that right?”

The Dwarves shared a look, and the Don patted his friend’s back. “Never been to a Dwarven hold and family gathering, have ye? The Matron wants to see ya. Some of yer exploits got leaked last year. We’re aware ya probably don’t know. Hadur, can ye fill in yet?”

Hadurin nodded, looking much better. At least his movements no longer appeared stern and rigid like he was a rusty golem. A freedom moved through his limbs, and he stretched them for sheer relief. “Aye. So about a year ago, I get a visit in the Fringe from a person I can’t tell ya about. Save that their rank be higher than mine. They be askin’ how we got the land, why it’s goin against ancient regulations not to build in the Fringe, and why we’re still putting a whole cathedral up regardless. An’ yes. Ya heard that right. Cathedral. In the salt flats, by the way. On the water.”

Some incredulous head shaking followed, and Artorian noted Fellhammer was having some trouble sticking to his normal accent. Some of his speech was slipping in and out of Dwarven drawl. Was his fading vow trying to force him into gabbing with proper eloquence? “So some names get dropped, because there’s a few folks in the Church that make ya unable to omit the truth. Shortly after it gets discovered a Paladin-aspirant that was personally thrown to the curb by a Vicar is not only still alive; she’s doing just fine. The lass lives without help or influence from the Church, and there ain’t nobody that knows how a cultivator survived for years without a Core. There’s talk of miracles.

“Then we’ve got reports of a rumor that a Heavenly was holdin’ her near-dead body and walked up and out of the city at the foot of the Skyspear. So some folks go to investigate, and come to find out there be a raider incursion coming to flatten the place. Not only do the visitin' Inquisitors get a whole lot of good information, but they personally confirm the Paladin-aspirant’s well bein’… as a C-ranker! So not only did she survive, she made it from death back to the C-ranks without dungeon access to boot. All of this in an amount of time that shouldn’t be feasible or viable even by Mage standards.

“So for years the Vicar’s been scheming. On one anvil, they know that if it’s a sign from above, they did wrong by this one. On the other anvil, knowledge of a certain someone’s cultivation creation notes were recovered from the Fringe. They look awfully similar to verbal accounts of what visitin’ Inquisitors saw. So to cover their bases, someone figured… ‘Let’s squeeze all possible sources before we announce divine revelation that didn’t come from us’. Savvy?”

Hadurin hard nudged his head towards their human friend. “They’re in a tizzy from recent events, and the methods be getting more heavy handed. Things be movin in the world. Like somethin’ big is goin’ ta happen soon.”

Modsognir supportively clapped him on the back a few times. “Had the feeling it mighta been something like that. Good call on the not telling the family anything. Especially on the not leavin’ clues. Gran’mama will be pleased ya did well by yer own. Be sounding like the Church ain't what it used to be, and there’s some… questionable events afoot. Especially in the higher echelons.”

Hadurin squeezed his hands together. “It sure ain’t pleasant, and the Kere Nolsen ran off recently. Something about how he got information on his Da, and now the Saint ain’t approachable. The lad may be part o’ the organization still, but the Vicars ain’t got no leash. They don’t like it, but they can’t do nuthin. So that leads us here. What’s Gran’mama want?”

They both glanced at Artorian, who was going through that particular missive for a third, if not fourth time. A small smile graced his lips, and it concerned both the Dwarves present. From the details the old man was reading… they should be nervous. “Modsognir, my friend, can I take it that you did not read this message before delivering it to me?”

The Dwarf pressed his fists to his fine belt. “Ah don’t go through other people’s mail! I ain’t mah mother!”

Artorian nodded, and marked the contract on the back of the missive without further thought. That’s exactly what he was hoping to hear. “Then I will accept this task, for two reasons.”

Lightning cracked the sky outside, and the old man was smiling at both of them. The Dwarves felt unsettled. What had just happened? Modsognir was the first to react. “Long beard… what was in that missive?” What do ya mean… task?”

Artorian exhaled from his nose, thinking of all the time that he had spent cultivating and watching the new city of stone being built in record time. Well, rather than ‘built’, rock was being ‘shaped’ with a function that the academic categorized as ‘convincing’. He likened it to an argument: one side was attempting to convince the other side something was correct. In this case, a hard headed Dwarven earth cultivator against a literal rock. How the Dwarf won those arguments was beyond him.

Rocks and entire patches of ground reshaped into new forms before his eyes, and had for the last few years. Who needs wood when condensed stone worked just as well—apparently better after some Runes got slapped onto it. Sometimes literally slapped! He knew construction workers snapped and scowled at inanimate objects, but this kind of shaping was unreal.

The region had been divided into hexagonal quadrants. A little nod to his honeycomb network, even though it was what was preventing him from gaining extra years of life. Each hexagon was dedicated to something specific above ground. Below the ground was a different story, and he thought it fine to let the Dwarven clan moving in do their thing.

The main pagoda smack in the middle of a lake was already twenty-seven layers tall. More, secret layers, existed under the ground. The building slowly rose as new layers were added below. A few of the architects had taken ‘Skyspear’ as a challenge, so twenty-seven was just the start. That still only took up the middle hexagon. Surrounding hexagons were all dedicated to lake space, for fish. The hexagons next to that were courtyard, and the spaces next to that were housing and essential facilities.

Great swaths of space had been allotted for it all. Not even a single zone had been filled to house all current students, and considerably more were planned for future expansions. Another lake layer bordered housing, followed by another district that was meant to include shops and crafting zones. Bordering that was undesignated, currently set aside for anything growth and production related.

Artorian shook himself and closed the letter with a *snap*. After folding the metal message up, he figured out how to lock it and handed it back to the Don. Modsognir did not like the feeling of Artorian’s hand on his shoulder, and he did not know why until the man spoke, and his stomach crashed through the ground along with Hadurin’s.

“Here are the two reasons. The main one is that this trip will put me within spitting distance of the two children I have yet to save… and the second is that ‘Grandmama’ says to bring her grandsons home. Both of them.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

The Modsognir and Fellhammer clans got along exactly as well as could be expected. Nearly the entire trip had been filled with bickering, the most passive aggressive of quips, and a nightly brawl shortly after the alcohol provisions were passed out. The next morning they were all marching with bruised lips and black eyes as if nothing had happened. Offering to patch that up for them was taken… poorly.

“Ye’ll not be touchin’ me battle trophies!” Don threatened him.

Artorian gesticulated with his hands, upset they weren’t letting him help. “Why not? You look like a fruit that hit every branch on the way down! It’ll feel better and you’ll be fresher for the next brawl, since it appears none of you can live without one.”

The Modsognir Clan Dwarf grasped him by the robe and tugged him down to eye level. “Don’t. Touch. Me. Trophies. It be against tradition, and tradition be more important than rules. Ya break the rules, ya just get castigated. Ya break tradition? Matron be sending diamond-class death squads to hunt ya down and present ye before tribunal. You’d be lucky to retain yer skivvies as yer tried in front of ‘eryone, addin’ massive shame to yer clan and family. There be worse reasons to flee to the depths, but I don’t know of any. Got me?”

Artorian’s hands went up in the air, admitting defeat. The Dwarf let him go, and the academic dropped the entire topic of helping them out. This was not how he was hoping the caravan trip would go. This whole ‘tradition’ business was news to him, but the weight it carried was significant. It likely meant far more than the Dwarf had let on, but he wasn’t going to get anything more out of them. These men and women were immune to his usual wily tactics; he would have more luck getting information by sweet-talking a cliff face.

He plopped himself back into the caravan, hiding away from the ruckus outside. Rubbing at his brows, he sighed as he crossed off yet another idea from his mental list. A whole year of travel, and he’d been none the wiser about their destination and customs than when he’d left. It was frustrating!

A massive hand opened up the caravan flap, and Dimi leaned in. “There y’are! Hey, now… ya look ill. Need a poultice?”

Artorian held both sides of his head and groaned. “If you’ve got anything to fix frustration about tight-lipped Dwarves and not having the slightest clue what I’m walking into… then yes, I want that poultice.”

Dimi-Tree bellowed out a laugh. He didn’t see this as a problem. He had a reputation for being able to fix everything after all. “What’s eating yer gullet?”

Artorian was getting desperate for something to work with, so he decided to open up. “What are these traditions? It sounds like even though I’m the one with the mission, I’m in the dark on the social customs that will actually let me complete it. Don and Hadurin aren’t giving me a speck of their time, and haven’t the whole trip! Did I offend them? How? If I had hair on my head, I’d be pulling it out. My poor beard has been suffering!”

Dimi smiled wide, showing teeth. “I’ve got a poultice that supposedly helps with hair growth, if ya wanna give that a try. Tastes like a boar’s behind, but I won’t stop ya.”

“Taste…? Don’t you rub poultices on?” Given that massive D-ranked boars that were pulling all the caravan sections along, Artorian had gotten his fill of that smell. He just waved it off, because… ew. No. Why would one even make…? Never mind. He didn’t want to know. “Traditions? Anything?”

The soft head shake from the massive man just made the elder drop his head into waiting hands. This was hopeless. Dimi shrugged, “You don’t need to fret about it too much. We’re at the mouth of the Ancestor, so a few more hours and we’re home. Expect to get a lot of scowls; they know there’s a human coming.”

The massive head tugged free of the flap, and Artorian was left alone with his thoughts once again. Abyss! They were specifically telling him nothing… now hold on. Expect to get scowls, because a human is coming? He was the only human on the trip. Would that mean the treatment would be different if his hosts could not discern his race?

His hungry mind grabbed at the concept and shot out ideas like a child made messes. He’d never had much use for this before, but now was different! His Essence reserves were holding strong at the C-rank… reaching into his spatial pouch, he tugged free Dawn’s iridium helmet. It completely obscured his face, and he had a full set of this armor! A couple hours before arrival? He could get full plate on with a couple hours.

The Ancestor’s Mouth was a gap in a waterfall held open by two humongous statues of Dwarven nobility in regal full armor. Each held a shield that was used to part the falling water, while in their main hands they held a hammer and axe, respectively. Even from behind the iridium helmet, Artorian could deduce that it was likely those statues had moved themselves to their current position, which begged the question: how?

A grand hallway awaited the caravan as it crossed over a stone bridge that rose from the river in front of the waterfall. Exquisite, masterful craftsmanship was visible as far as his eyes could see on every square inch of the structures that came into view. Precious metals were inlaid in the walls, and gems twisted in glass containers were giving off an incandescent orange light.

“Aye, I’ve missed the Nixie Tubes.” Artorian tilted his helmet, listening in on the conversation between the caravan drivers. Nixie Tubes? What were those? The captured lights?

A softer, gentler Dwarven voice calmly responded, curious and intrigued rather than excited. “Did ya hear Nix made another thing? Reverse engineered it from some gnomish toy.”

The original, hyped voice gruffly waved that off. “Aye, that too. Why is it always gnomish toys? Didn’ we get a whole stargazer from the place we just got back from?”

The caravan shook from how heavily the second Dwarf nodded. “Take two guesses who’ll have yer head if ye try and take that apart without the prospectors getting a few years with it first. Even though we got all the doors open, I didn’t understand half of the stuff we found. Even those notes didn’t make no sense. What in pyrite is a ‘solar sailer’? Ain’t touching it with a ten-foot axe. So yeah, toys, because that’s as far as we got with understanding. Even then… even then! A gnomish toy be more sophisticated than our best technology. If Nixie says he needs more time, I’m giving the lad more time.”

The academic remained quiet, pulling his frame back to be out of sight of the conversation. He was too in-view, and wanted to keep his appearance a surprise as they went through what he understood to be a checkpoint. He sat with his back against the caravan wall, and sat nice and still to mimic an empty suit of armor.

The inspector that glanced into the back of the cart didn’t see him at all, and gruffly grumbled a ‘go on’ before the caravan shook into movement. That was… surprisingly easy. He shifted on his armored butt to the back flap, and looked through it. Dozens of organized, armed to the teeth Dwarven defenders were prepped and ready at the gate they just passed. From what he could tell… they were looking for something?

A little worried voice told him that they were looking for him. They all looked ready to intimidate. Must be one of those traditional things? Strange. Why? Why was it so important to keep him in the dark and prepare troops to give him a particular social image? Was he wrong about this? …maybe. He shook it off; he would trust the words of Roberts the Ruminating, for his wisdom was vast. “If there is doubt, then there is no doubt.”

When the caravan came to a halt, Artorian peeked from the rear flap. Natural light came down from above, so he wasn’t underground. Good! From the look of it, they were surrounded by a molded mountain range. One that had been altered to make this perfect oval of a greeting area? Many other grand hall shaped openings dotted the oval wall, likely leading to other important sections inside of the mountain.

Again he saw Dwarves impatiently waiting on something. Except… what’s this? Sliding from the back of the caravan, he tested actually moving around in the iridium suit that covered every inch of him. His ability to see was awful, and he grumbled it out loud. “Hmph. Wish I could see better.”

He stopped moving at the drop of a copper as panic gripped his heart. The slits providing visibility on his helmet sealed shut, and Essence was pulled out of his Aura. Artorian couldn’t prevent the expense, but then again Dawn had warned him that the sizing function of the armor couldn’t be stopped. It just did its own thing. Had… had he forgotten to ask what else the armor did? Abyss, he had!

Darkness and silence sealed away his senses. How was he going to breathe if… colors and shapes flickered into place in front of his vision. What? The landscape he’d previously only just barely seen came into focus before him, and without the slit limitation he’d previously been dealing with. On the outside of the armor, four silver lines seared into activity on the now seamless faceplate, and they moved along with his vision as Runes activated according to his need.

Air Essence cycled bad air out of the suit, and replenished it with a fresh supply without ever needing to create a cavity in the airtight nature of the suit. What he was seeing wasn’t an exact copy of what his actual eyes saw, but it was good enough to properly take stock of everything that was around him. “Dawn… what in the Abyss did you give me?”

It took him a moment to recall that her ancestors had fought on the moon; a place where there was no breathable air. Armor like this must have been commonplace back then. He bet he could even go beneath the water with this suit and not drown. It wasn’t a big leap for equipment that freely reshaped itself to fit the user. Okay, so it cost him half of a cultivation rank. Worth!

He flexed his hands and smiled widely. No issues! Oh, why had he never tried putting the entire set on before? This was amazing! He cursed himself from having close to no knowledge on Runes. His time was precious, and techniques had taken priority while he worked to gather as much Essence as possible to hit the zenith of the C-ranks. Which he’d not remotely managed to accomplish. Most of his plans, going forward, seemed like they needed a body that could handle the strain he was going to put it under.

“Ohohoho I could get used to this!” He paused; his voice was different! It was similar to the gruff, growly tone that Dawn had those first few days in the grove. So the depth of the voice had something to do with speaking from inside of the suit, and it… helping? He didn’t know what any of this Ancient Elven craft did, but there was no time like the present to find out!

Walking. No problem? General flexibility? Fantastic. Strength… not the right time for this. Couldn’t let enthusiasm take away from the main reason he put this jester suit on in the first place. Looking around again, it didn’t seem like Dwarves were giving him a second glance aside from ‘is warrior’. Artorian strolled to the front of the caravan, the hooded cart he previously occupied was roughly fourth of fifth from the back.

Arrival was… interesting. Diverting to where a few merchant stands had been erected to sell food to incoming groups, he spun up a conversation. The nearby Dwarf daintily held a fine teacup in hand, his three-headed hound resting nearby as he read something from a tablet. Fine reading glasses perched upon the end of his nose, and he seemed comfortable in his padded stone-shaped chair. “Wonderful creature! Does he… they? Bite?”

The Dwarf looked up, smiled, and reached down to gruffly love on his mutt. “Oh, Fufu here be a downright harmless ball-chasin’ fluffball. Don’t be put off by the three heads, it was a compromise for the missus. I wanted three dogs; the missus only agreed to one. In a way, we both got what we wanted! Fufu is the creature’s name, but each head has their own name, this one here is-”

“Hold up… is that the one with the human on it?” The pleasant Dwarf stopped sipping tea from his glass and squinted at the caravan. Artorian chose not to reply verbally and just nodded, the hasty response he saw from the Dwarf filled in a lot of details. “They’re early! Blessed pyrite!”

The tea was quickly slotted into the cabinet next to his work stand, and the glasses were stored. The merchant Dwarf pulled free a bearded axe and a sharpening stone. Slowly, his face melted into a scowl that the man looked like he could hold for days. He gave his axe a practice sharpen, and tried to appear threatening. “Fufu, puff up and snarl.”

The three-headed hound bristled. Its eyes reddened and muscles bulked unnaturally. One of the three heads didn’t get the message, remaining a tongue-lolling derpy little bundle of happiness whilst the other two turned downright hostile. When snapped at, the third head followed suit. “Good boy, Moon Moon. Faster next time. You! How’s me scowl?”

Artorian wiggled his hand back and forth. “I’d half close one eye to really sell it.”

The merchant did so, and thought it satisfactory. “Aye, this’ll do. Come back and play with Fufu when the hubbub dies down.”

The suit of armor nodded and returned the way it came. ‘Tradition’ was interesting indeed, and Artorian fought against his usual bodily behaviors. He copied how Dwarves held themselves. Where they kept their hands, what gait they strolled with. How did they not notice he was taller than an average Dwarf? On second thought… never mention that. Ever.

It was a great way to get kneecapped.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

“Where’d long beard go?” Don Modsognir was looking around after an aide informed him the man was no longer in the back of the fourth caravan. Hearing ‘I don’t know’ had not been the answer he wanted. They couldn’t let a non-Dwarf roam around the hold. There were rules! At least he’d be easy to spot.

“Lanky man, look for fluttery robes and a beard as long as I am tall. Bald, so ya might be able to pinpoint the lad from reflection alone.” Some laughter went around at Artorian’s expense, but it didn’t help them locate the old fox. He couldn’t have just slipped away. He was an obvious standout amongst Dwarves, and the Inquisition had no knowledge of the old man having any tricks that let him hide or disappear… so where was he?

Artorian stood in the middle of the caravan with his arms crossed, more confused than ever. In a full iridium suit, he was a shiny man. A tall shiny man. Why wasn’t a single Dwarf giving him a second glance? Sure, they saw him, but it was like they saw him and he was someone else’s problem. Even the merchant he’d spoken to hadn’t noticed.

He took steps to be out of people’s marching path, but they didn’t do as much as acknowledge him. He wasn’t in their way; he wasn’t their problem. Was this the suit’s doing? This was… the best! He’d never been good at sneaking about, but if he could just walk wherever and not be given a second thought, he could-

“There y’are!” Crackers and toast. The plan sunk like a boat full of holes as Hadurin Fellhammer marched right up on the iridium suit. “What’s this chicken fence you’ve covered yerself with? Whole caravan be looking for ya. I had to cycle me Essence just to find ya, and I really had to want to find ya. We’ll talk about that later. Can ya end that effect? I’d prefer to sort this before a centurion shows up.”

Artorian sighed. “Well I’d love to not be ignored by everyone, but…”

He didn’t have time to end the sentence as the ‘someone else’s problem’ effect lifted, and only then did the cultivator realize a Rune had been siphoning away his Essence. It was so minor that he hadn’t noticed, and right away did he grasp the value of a well-crafted Rune. While a good technique might recoup Essence used, this Rune stuff streamlined their use and discounted the cost. The Rune must be a technique in its own right, but finished and heavily optimized to really cut down on the Essence draw while accomplishing the same effect.

Had he tried that without the Rune’s help, Artorian would have been back in the D-ranks already. A marvel! What wasn’t a marvel was the sudden silence that fell over the oval region. Every Dwarf that hadn’t given him a second glance became very aware that the human was in their midst, and tradition must not be crossed.

Tea brewing stands closed up instantly and almost threw mugs of ale onto a rough wooden slab for people to take instead. Those who had been imbibing the hot leaf juice spurted it out in a misty cloud and snatched up a flagon to down in a single go. A few Inquisitors that had been spending time gossiping and working on crocheted baby booties threw their work into a box and pulled free weapons. They scowled at one another as pleasant banter turned to threatening tones and snarled half-insults.

Gardeners stomped their feet, causing entire flower gardens to descend a foot downwards into a pit as they called for their pickaxes and blamed everyone who was around for taking them. There was mining to do! Those who were knitting did much the same as the crocheters, dropping their tasks just to jump on another Dwarf, scream, and begin a brawl that half of everyone in the oval decided to join without a second thought.

Hadurin held his face with an embarrassed hand, hiding his eyes. He didn’t want to accept what had just happened. The Grand Inquisitor suddenly became incredibly polite, dropping his Dwarven drawl. “Please don’t tell the Matron.”

Taking his helmet off just to make sure he was seeing what he was actually seeing, Artorian’s long beard spilled free. When Hadurin peeked between his fingers, the old man was flashing him the widest smile. “Oh, pyrite… no…”

Artorian decided to give his friend some leeway. “Hadurin. You know I can’t see so well. What’s this ruckus I hear all of a sudden? What’s going on? Is Tibbins around? I’ve come to sneak a meal without Yvessa knowing so I can try and get a double portion. Where are we? It’s all so blurry!”

The Grand Inquisitor cleared his throat and quickly waved everyone away before a centurion showed up. The order helped significantly, and all the Dwarves who heard it made themselves scarce. Maybe a minute later, Artorian stood in a far less populated oval entry area. “So... Gonna tell me what I just definitely didn’t see?”

Hadurin squeezed the haft of his hammer. “No.”

Even with the armor on, Artorian felt Dimi’s hand on his shoulder. The pressure was firm and strong. While he didn’t feel the squeeze the large half-Dwarf was trying to add, a smiling Artorian turned to pleasantly greet the poultice-carrier. “Hello again, lad. I sorted my headache situation…”

The stern scowl on the mountain of a Dwarf dropped to an expression that bordered on panic, and his eyes flashed over to Hadurin, who pointed at Don Modsognir hastily running over; he’d been all the way at the end of the caravan looking for their charge. Even though they were both technically his charge according to the contract.

Don grumbled at the old man when in complaint range. “Don’t you start bein’ Oak now.”

Artorian feigned innocence. “Whatever do you mean, my friend? I’m harmless. Why, in fact, I wasn't even told there might be a problem on arrival. People I thought were going to inform me kept their distance. Here I am doing my best to blend in, and now you’re all sour about something. Who knows what? Anywho, I still feel the pressure from the contract spurring me on. Shall we?”

Dimi said nothing as the Fellhammer and Modsognir leaders had a quick huddle. They occasionally stopped whispering, poking their heads out from the pile to sharply look at Artorian before ducking back down to continue. The words seemed… garbled? Or it was in a language he didn’t speak? Either way, Artorian didn’t get the chance to understand what they were quibbling about.

With the majority of his superiors distracted. Dimi leaned down, speaking in barely a whisper. Still, the C-ranked cultivator heard him loud and clear. “How’d you do it?”

The iridium armor-clad man tightened the grip on his helmet, whispering back at similar strength and cadence. “Do what?”

He could tell the large Dwarf was trying to squeeze him, but it was doing all sorts of nothing to the shoulder of the armor. “Vanish. We were looking for you and suddenly, *pop*. There you are in the middle of the caravan; in a spot we couldn’t have possibly missed you.”

The old man shrugged, voice just a hint shy of snide. “Try that poultice for hair growth. It might give you the answers you’re looking for.”

The massive Dwarf rumbled in the back of his throat. It was like a great beast snoring, just more upset and not as asleep. “Don’t you be clever with me. I saved your hind in the grove. Give me this.”

Artorian’s eyebrow raised. “This is where you want to cash in? Very well. I owe you that much. Can you even tell I’m wearing armor? Nobody seems to notice.”

He got a stark nod from his ‘holder’. “Aye, nothing special though. Any Dwarf can have his own customized set, and most all of ‘em do. Yer getup is about as standout as a filled flagon of ale in an all-Dwarves-drink-free buffet bar lineup.”

A wordless ‘ah’ left the detainee Dimi had his hand on. “Truth is simple, my boy, I don’t know. I planned to use the armor just to try and get informed, since you’ve all been beating around the bush. I thought the change in appearance might be sufficient for a few minutes. These extra features are lost on me. It seems to be able to do a few things, but none that I understand or would know how to put together. Much less take apart. I could try vanishing again?”

The grunt that came from the mountain answered a definite ‘no’. Artorian was pleased with what he’d learned, and didn’t press the situation as the huddle nearby dispersed. It wasn’t enough, but a start was still a start.

“Artorian.” He perked up as Modsognir stepped back into talking range. The rest of the huddle was hurrying off elsewhere. He could smell the words ‘damage control’ but said nothing. “We’re going to set you up in yer room. Then we’re having the big moot. Try not to tick anyone off, we’re in enough hot lava as is. I know we’ve been givin’ ya the silent treatment, and I’m sorry. I just can’t tell ya anythin’ at this point. Knowledge of, and about, Dwarven holds ain’t shared freely. You ain’t got the permission. I know where you’re from information is shared freely, but that ain’t the case here. Please, for the love of pyrite…”

The Dwarf poked his stubby finger hard into Artorian’s armor. It wasn’t even important anymore why the man was wearing it; there were far more serious and pressing concerns. “Don’t mention or say anything about cultivation. Yer school may be yer region, and yer free to share. Here though, knowledge is precious and hoarded, and ye’d be startin’ a war if ya shared anything that didn’t go through proper channels. I don’t even know if it’d be with the Church or the clans. I don’t think you’d live long enough to find out. We’ve put a lot of effort into keeping all our heads attached. Gran’mama is furious, so don’t. Do. Anything. Stupid.”

The spent Dwarven man exhaled through his nose like they were heated smithy fumes. “Now come along, and don’t you disappear on us. Still talking to you about that later, but we can’t let the elders wait any more than they have.”

Artorian followed along with Modsognir and a few members of his clan. “I thought you were your clan head, and in charge?”

Don nodded; such information was true. “Oh, aye, but I’ve got folk I don’t dare cross. A good number of them we’re going ta see shortly. You’re probably thinking Mages, but no. Worse, far worse. Ain’t got nothing to do with cultivation. I know some Saints that will shut their trap in front of the folk you’re about to encounter. Don’t fret, it ain't royalty. Far worse.”

The intrigue mounted. Trying to puzzle out the information, he followed the party through the sculpted hallway numbered ‘VII’. Must be some kind of counting system. Nixie Tube lights increased in number as they passed into the actual mountain, and still the architecture was so noteworthy that more than a few times he wanted to stop and just stare; if only to take in the artworks forged with intricacy into the overall design.

The hall was massive, and he barely noticed the direction the floor dipped. When the path curved, Artorian couldn’t quite believe his eyes. They were in a sprawling, city-sized underground cathedral. Yet it was so bright he was under the impression that it was a sunny day, just tinged with a hint of orange. As they passed from Fellhammer section into the Modsognir Clan section, the architecture altered into the form of an exquisite grand mansion.

“The Don is back!” Cheering erupted, and whole families poured from their intricate homes to welcome the returned merchant party. It was always good for them to see family return home alive. Don was cordial where he could be, but hushed whispers replaced the mirth as he reminded his clan that they had company.

The instant difference was night and day. The people of Modsognir left, only to reappear in snazzy… what was that wearable contraption? He was going to call it a suit, as it went over a crimson vest that connected in the middle with metal buttons that the black cloth suit covered. A matching crimson handkerchief stuffed their front left pocket, the Modsognir insignia clearly displayed upon it.

The behavior shifted with drastic effect. A happy, fun-loving people with a penchant for partying and a great love of community were now a well-organized, stoic and silent mob. Gender didn’t appear to matter; the Modsognirs wore suits, and kept one hand over the other in front of them, speaking volumes of respect with their eyes and gazes.

“Mah clan is one of staunch virtues. We stand as one, so we dress as one. Check hands if you need to determine status. Number of rings, the type and quality of precious gems upon them, is how we differentiate rank. Try not to speak with anyone wearing more than three diamonds. It’s that problem I mentioned before, ask someone with less power to speak to them, and it’ll go up the chain.”

Artorian assented with a nod, and Nixie Tubes flared to life on a wall before the twelve-foot-high door creeped open with well-oiled precision. Dwarven engineering didn’t allow for something even bordering the realm of ‘rusty squeaks’. Don motioned. “Yer housing be this way. Please stay put till someone comes to get ya?”

Artorian again sighed and assented. He’d had it up to his nose with these mystery rules, but he’d signed the contract and had to make sure it was fulfilled. Otherwise the Church would likely come hunting for his head. Here, the rule of the Dwarven clan was held in higher regard than the status of the Church. That was likely one of the few things keeping his head attached. He might as well figure out the rules and play by them for now.

The housing district was far less glamorous than the magnum opus cathedrals connecting to even more cathedrals. They were… pleasant. Cozy. Warm. That last one was of specific value, as he'd worried it would be cold underground, and memories of being stuck under the dirt with Blighty weren’t doing him any favors. He sat his armored rump down onto a springy bed while the Modsognirs waited at the door.

“We’ll be bringing ya something proper ta wear. We need to get changed before we’re caught in work attire. Don’t run off now. Not unless someone says ya can.” Don closed the door with a clang, and Artorian was left to his own devices in the resting room. That was clearly a very safe thing to do. Nothing could go wrong following instructions.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Artorian compiled mental notes. The Modsognir area was laid out like a sprawling network, while the Inquisitorial clan likely owned the more religious designs they’d passed though. It must have been a shortcut to get here… wait. From the sound of it, they were avoiding someone; a person likely residing in the Don’s clan area. So coming in from the side was important. They didn’t want to get caught.

Caught by whom? Artorian took the time to take the iridium armor off. He’d need to test hidden functions when in more… favorable circumstances. It did so, so much more than he thought it did, and that had completely thrown off what should have been a simple test run. Granted, it had gotten him some of the information he was after. There was some kind of rule in place under the guise of ‘tradition’ that either encouraged, or forced, everyone here to conform to a certain ideal so that outsiders saw only a certain aspect of their society and nothing else.

He made sure to tightly seal his passive cultivation; there was nothing but corruption down here for him. Stowing the helmet into the spatial bag with the rest of the set, he flopped down and held his own hands. Now, what to do? Sneak out? Likely guards at the door. Cultivation was a flat no. Check for hidden passageways? That would look suspicious.

Artorian was still pondering as the front door parted. An older Dwarven woman with grey hair carried linens at a speed that said ‘I am busy and don’t want to be bothered’. Dressed in slippers and a fluffy bathrobe, her topaz eyes snapped to the half-slumped human on the bed, and she cleared her throat at him. Glancing at the bed, he realized the linens he sat on were dirty.

“Oh, my apologies.” He got up in a hurry as the scowling, curlers-in-her-hair Dwarf zipped by him. Artorian didn’t want to get in the way of the help. He guessed since everyone was so familial and community oriented here, the elderly saw to the household chores. Based on how swiftly the woman went at her task, he thought it best to keep out of the way. Still, an idea struck: this could be the right person to sneak a question.

Keeping to himself until she was at the pillows, he gently raised his hand up from the table he’d taken a seat at. “Erm… excuse me, young lady. Could I ask a question? I have a terrible concern.”

The elderly Dwarf stopped her movement in a heartbeat, blinking to process what she’d just been called. She hadn’t been called ‘young lady’ with such innocence in well over a hundred years. Why, it was downright adorable. She finished pillow casing and raised an eyebrow to regard the human, having a good second look at him. She’d been in a hurry upon first glance, but being addressed by a person who honestly didn’t know any better was… charming.

Her voice cracked, but sweet care rolled from her tongue with practiced ease. “What’s bothering you, dear?”

Artorian released a heavy-hearted sigh, and the woman was swiftly seated with him at the table. Heavy sighs were universal in meaning, and she flipped open the lid of a small ornate box on the table to reveal some hard-tack cookies. One was between her fingers in a heartbeat, then pressed into the old man’s hand. She firmly closed his grip around it; there was no rejecting a grandmother’s confection. “Eat, you’re bony. Well? Speak, lad.”

The corners of his mouth crept up into a smile. Her word choice was harsh, but she was just tugging him along. ‘Lad’. Ha! “I’m just burdened with worry that I’m going to upset someone, because I don’t know how the rules work. None are willing to tell me what proper social convention is. How do I greet someone? Is there a proper method to say hello without offense? Should I even greet people, or will I break this ‘tradition’ thing by even attempting? I’m told I’m going into a big meeting with lots of majestic, important individuals. I’m just an old man worrying his head off, and it’s eating at me. I’ve been dragged into someone’s home, and don’t even know if it’s polite to wipe my shoes.”

The aged Dwarf patiently nodded while keeping her bony hand on the back of his hand, lifting it up and moving it to his mouth so he would take a bite. He did as he was directed, and she beamed a bright smile at him. Oh, good, a smile!

“Where did you hear that tradition was important, dearie?” Her smile didn’t fade in the slightest. It comforted Artorian, so he gladly continued. He wasn’t going to namedrop, but some generalized details wouldn’t hurt.

“Overheard it while I was on the caravan that brought me here. I signed that metal-contract missive to get the boys here, but I’ve just been in the dark and trying to keep my ears open. I dislike offending people that don’t deserve it, and I still have grandchildren to free from unpleasant claws. Making it home in one piece is important, I worry for them.”

Her mouth formed an ‘O’ as her eyebrows went up, having been told something very interesting indeed. There was only one caravan that arrived recently, and it was no secret who came along with it. She believed the old human next to her knew a lot less than needed. “Oh, well, you don’t need to worry about that, sugar. You just stick with me and I’ll walk you to where you need to be. Don’t you worry about offending anyone, alright? You have another cookie, and I’ll go fetch something for you to wear that will help set you at ease.”

He graciously nodded with relief, having another hard tack. This one was more of a biscuit rather than a cookie, but he wasn’t going to not eat it while her gaze was on him. Success! Artorian was eight biscuits deep by the time the door opened again, the same elderly Dwarf strolling in with a spare Modsognir suit. The deep crimson vest lay atop a black suit, and the shining buttons instantly caught his eye.

“Try this on, dearie. Don’t worry about the handkerchief, those are for family. You’re fine without. Now up! Show me the fit. I have places to be!” Cloth was hastily accepted as a few deft steps placed him behind the table for… decency reasons. He weakly flashed another smile at the woman, and half-caught she was no longer in a cozy bathrobe. Her hair was up and braided, and she wore an outfit that seemed simple in design, yet it was made of something he didn’t recognize. Thoughts for another time!

Most of the outfit slid on without issue. It was still too big for him, but they didn’t have time to tailor. Still, he looked snazzy! Since he had the extra room, he posed while throwing out a giant smile. “How do I look?”

*Mmm*. Turning her nose up, her hands were on his outfit and adjusting things against his will to fix some minor details. A button was out of place, and that wasn’t acceptable. She sorted it and looked him up and down. “It will do. Now come, we are late.”

Artorian hurried along, not knowing if they were actually late at all. Once at the door, he opened it for her since that seemed to be the polite thing to do, and she waltzed through it. Following her into the vast hallway of exquisite craftsmanship, he did his best not to be distracted as he saw the woman hold her hand up, palm open. Without a second thought, he slid his hand beneath the waiting palm to provide support.

Clueless to where they were going, he couldn’t lead the walk. The lady seemed more than content to tug him along without a second thought. They strolled through the under mountain Modsognir mansion, encountering few people even though they took—as far as he could tell—major routes for traffic.

When they arrived at the bottom of an immense staircase that led to what the sign indicated as ‘The Tribunal’, he paused. He knew the stairway must lead straight into the middle of it, while split, fancier stairs veered off towards the side. He gulped and tried to quickly think of something to take his mind off the matter, this was likely where his guide was parting from him. Turning to the lady that had gotten him this far, he slightly bowed.

“Could I please have the honor to escort the wisest beauty in the hold?” It was a bit of a gamble, but entering alone left him vulnerable to mistakes. His worry was misplaced, as she smiled at him and tapped him on the hand.

“Of course, dear. You stay right by me. Alright?” Her smile once again put him at ease, and she ascended a few steps so he could properly offer his arm. She didn’t need his help, but the offer was just so charming. It was rare anyone let her feel young again, or attempted anything in the realm of romance. The human was adorable, even if he could mean nothing by it.

The stairs were made of lustrous geodes. A thousand rocks were cracked and turned inside out, followed by a thousand more to form each step as they ascended the glowing pathway. The stairs lit up as pressure pressed down upon them, illuminating a piece of Dwarven history carved into the walls with the addition of their shine.

Stone plate guards waited at the top. These men were retired, stationed at a cushy low-risk task after a lifetime of service. These grizzled veterans could stare down a great worm and not blink an eye. When they saw the human come into view, they contained their amusement and calmly stood to attention. Uphold the rule of- oh, pyrite!

When the person Artorian was with came into view, they felt their rears clench hard enough to form diamonds. Sharing a quick glance, the halfhearted ‘attention’ stance sprung to full as they rushed to open the doors. They’d planned to let the human stand in front of it awhile. For fun… but fun was tossed into the pit as the solid gold, engraved tribunal doors parted outwards.

Artorian slowed, needing to adjust his support to adapt for the height change when they ran out of stairs. A strong light poured from the opened pathway, and he had to squint to see rows upon rows of Dwarves seated deep within. Passing the threshold, they passed guard after guard that stood against the wall in a long, well-lit tunnel. This path was nearly a hundred feet all by itself, how deep was this tribunal room?

He squinted when they exited the tunnel, and his jaw dropped as he saw they were in a massive… coliseum? Arena? The words felt inadequate on his mental tongue as the area was just so much more. Multiple thousands of Dwarves, separated cleanly by outfit and clan, sat in designated quadrants. From the recognizable suits immediately in their vicinity, they’d entered at the Modsognir entrance. Not a soul turned their heads to look at them.

Silence resounded as the human entered. Oh, he felt so bad; this was so embarrassing. Artorian glanced to his right, there were some empty seats in the back row of the Modsognir section. He wasn’t particularly important, and should stay out of the way. The back is where he bel…

The lady grasped his wrist and tugged him along. There was no argument even as his discomfort rose with every step. Maybe the middle? Maybe she wanted him to sit in the middle. Sure, that was still out of the way. He nearly paused when they reached a row that had some empty seats, but her Dwarven stride neither stopped nor slowed down. They were going at her speed and her speed alone. Silence had fallen so completely upon the Tribunal that her shoes were the only noise in the space, with every *click* of them echoing through the area.

Reaching the front, Artorian solidly needed to control his breathing. He saw Hadurin Fellhammer between the middle and the front row to his left trying to blend in. He said nothing as they approached the geode thrones. Inlaid with precious metals, the imposing seats of power were arranged in a ring around the middle of the arena. A dais in the middle caught his eye, but he just barely broke his eyes from the sight to look at the single empty seat available in the front row.

Ah! That’s where he…! The next steps dropped his heart into his stomach. Why were they still walking? Why was he in the throne ring? This was not the place he should be, but the woman dragging him along was undaunted. Not a single person stopped her. He didn’t dare say a thing as she motioned for an aide to bring something over. The young Dwarf, full of worry, frowned towards his direct superior that was already motioning for him to get a move on. The young Dwarf scampered from his position and fetched an old wooden chair. With some direction, it was placed next to one of the geode thrones.

Artorian gazed at the seat like a death sentence. With eyebrows raised, he silently looked at the lady with topaz eyes, and her flat expression squeezed into a smile as she motioned towards it. “Sit. Stay. We’re having a conversation.”

The academic’s eyebrows felt like they were about to touch the roof. For most of the walk they hadn’t spoken a word. Her saying that they were in the middle of something, and that he was certainly included, made him defeatedly fall into the seat. The tactical section of his mind was blowing the whistle and waving white flags.

The Dwarf who could only be the Grand Matron slowly inhaled a breath, her back turned to the passage they had come from. “Don. Dimi. Front seats.”

Artorian had to look over his shoulder to see two Dwarves doing their utmost to sneak into the back of the Modsognir row. Dimi was taking big long steps on his tip-toes to try and squeeze into a seat out of view. The largest Dwarf in the hold wasn’t great at being stealthy, and Don had already squeezed his eyes shut; face scrunched as he was following right behind his less than stealthy friend.

Guards winced at the mention of both of them being called out. Dimi mumbled under his breath, completely frozen in place. “How bad is it?”

Don grit his teeth, stuck equally motionless in place. “Matron is smiling. She never smiles. Gran’mama is beyond furious.”

A squeaky, chipmunk-like *ah* left Dimi, his voice holding to that peeping whisper. “Great.”

The Grand Matron didn’t take a seat, and Artorian felt like a slow runner at the track. The lack of being deterred at leaving his chamber. The outfit. The lack of commentary. The silence. He closed his eyes, deciding to keep out of this as the Grand Matron drew another deep, angry breath.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Gran’mama exploded. She was furious, and her voice thundered through the area. “Don Dremurus Mordran Modsognir! You are late!”

Don was in the middle, walking up the main aisle as the Mana pouring off his Gran’mama slammed his feet to the ground. His voice hitched; words trapped in his throat as his hands went up defensively. He was going to explain, but already knew the Matron wasn’t going to have any of it. Don glanced at a very pale Dimi for help, but he was equally trapped in the sinking boat.

“Dimi-Tree Giant-Blood Wolfram Modsognir. You are also late, but I know that wasn’t your fault. You may sit.” Don pleaded with his eyes for Dimi not to abandon him in the middle of the aisle, but the giant Dwarf ever so slightly shook his head. He was always there for his blood brother who had adopted him into the Modsognir family. Brotherly bonds, unfortunately, did not beat out direct commands from the Grand Matron. Don stared daggers as the massive Dwarf who shuffled forward, whispering ‘sorry, sorry’ before sitting in a quickly vacated seat.

“Why are you late, grandson?” Gran’mama still hadn’t turned to regard him, and Don mumbled out excuses.

“Erm. We uhh. Came. We hurried, and even, ueh. Followed along with the mandate our friend signed and, so, we brought him over, and…”

“Did it have anything to do… with breaking the rules?” Don turned blue at the Grand Matron’s words. ‘Pale’ was too gentle of a reaction for the blood that drained from his face. He stuttered out his response as he saw Gran’mama fiddle with a slipper between her hands. Pyrite! Not the slipper! “Ah broke no rules, Gran’mama!”

“Are. You. Sure?” Everyone in the audience winced, and Don peeped out his reply in the same chipmunk squeak his brother had before.

“…Yes?” The piercing moment of silence stretched.

“Then you may sit.” Don Modsognir felt his spirit leave him for a moment as the pressure keeping him pinned lifted. He could properly breathe once again. He didn’t think twice, and hurried to sit next to Dimi, their rigid composures a matching shade of tepid pale. Neither of them said anything further.

“Hadurin Azure Eruna Fellhammer.” All Dwarves around Hadurin slid from the pew, and before he could blink the Grand Inquisitor was seated in a gaping empty space roughly seven feet in every direction. Dwarves crawled over both pews and their brethren to evacuate the danger zone.

He stood slowly, having been addressed. “Matron.”

Gran’mama turned, and impatiently slapped her slipper into her waiting, open hand. Tiny explosions occurred with each impact. “Hadurin, my boy. You wouldn’t know of any tradition transgressions having happened in the last… day? Would you?”

Pyrite. Did the old man blab? He was hosed. His only way out was to tell the truth as best he could. He may be the head of the Inquisition, but Gran’mama had the kind of mind that ran circles around Artorian’s. No way in the abyss that she didn’t already know. “We may have… accidentally lost track of the human for a short duration when we were in the oval.”

“Oh… accidentally lost… track.” The Grand Matron parroted his words. Her tone was calm. Sweet even. It frightened Hadurin to no end. Gran’mama did not smile. “Is that… all?”

The Grand Inquisitor swallowed. “I think so, Gran’mama.”

The Grand Matron’s slipper hurled away from her. Artorian winced and blocked with his arms to shield himself from the sound and shockwave, but there was no need as it never reached him. The slipper *whizzed* through the air and detonated upon impact. *Boom*!

Artorian blinked. She had explosion Mana!

“You think so?” The slipper *whizzed* back into her hand from the point of impact. Hadurin had jumped out of the way, and was preparing to do so again. Trying to shield himself, he dove into the crowd to his immediate left. With Gran’mama raising her arm to prepare another throw, Dwarves spilled like water in a stream away from him.

“Do you have any idea what I found? An entire Fringe region that you’re keeping to yourself for hidden projects, making your brother Don sneak about for shady business so you can get supplies out to the middle of nowhere! I’ve got friars from the Church knocking on my hall doors because their self-entitled Vicars are demanding land from my clans. They’re thinking their organization should be above family and tradition, and they demand recompense for the clans not conforming to their beliefs!”

Her thundering voice was accompanied by successive explosions as her slipper flew again and again. Pews turned to shrapnel. Floor chunks becoming rubble. “Why do I have the Church muscling in on family territory, Hadurin? Why is there a massive unsanctioned building project in a crater that your brother Kiwi secured? I received a piece of vellum with a Mana signature that didn’t work. Then when I tracked down what has been going on, I find that the same human is involved with both recently acquired regions. Neither of which are by the books, or by the rules!”

Artorian squeezed his lips together, trying to become one with his chair as he sank into it; saying nothing. He watched many a Dwarf copy his exact behavior. Or he was copying theirs, hard to tell. Nobody was getting in between Gran’mama and her doom-slipper. “So I asked you to come home, and you ignore me. Then I ordered you to come home, and you both ignore me. Then I sent messengers to make you come home, and neither of you show up!”

She accusingly pointed her slipper at Don, but didn’t launch. “I find out one of my grandsons is spending time with a girl he fancies in a Wood Elf grove, and I’m happy for that. About time the Modsognirs did something other than endlessly trade, and I’m thankful for the endless influx of high-quality wood.”

Her slipper nudged half an inch. “Dimi, sweetie, I’m not mad at you. You’ve done nothing wrong. I know you got strung along.”

The point of her Mana-imbued explosive slipper switched to Hadurin’s current position as the Grand Matron spun on her heel. Dwarves protected themselves with Essence techniques even as they dove from the place they’d just been, with Fellhammer still running.

“Then I get a letter from O’Nalla that one of my boys is under a Church contract preventing him from doing what he should be! They treat the Grand Inquisitor of the clans like a messenger, making him deliver a document that will wrest the new land acquisition right out of our grasp, along with the human I want to talk to. So I send Don with a contract of my own after I’ve got all the details. Then, finally, you come home when I’ve given the lynchpin of your little plan a reason to bring you both here.”

Her hand gently came to rest on Artorian’s shoulder, and her booming voice was again tender and soft. “I’m not upset at you sweetie; you’ve also done nothing wrong.”

Artorian nodded wordlessly, providing a soft smile that appeased her. The Grand Matron turned her head, slipper stabbing in the direction of her troublemaking grandson. “So, my boys arrive home, and I find out within minutes that the human they brought with them is loose, nowhere to be found even with well over a hundred of my clan looking. The lad finds out about the traditions that safeguard the sanctity and security of every Dwarf that ever lived! Your ancestors scowl upon you, Hadurin!”

The Grand Matron caught her returning slipper and exhaled steam so hot it could boil eggs. “If I hadn’t quickly declared and put down in writing that this lad was allowed to know, we’d be having a full tribunal right now. I don’t want to hear a word about the lad sneaking away, you had two clans worth of eyes on him, and I blame you entirely for losing track of a single non-Mage human. Now sit down in the front pew.”

She stowed her slipper. A significantly singed and discombobulated Hadurin groaned out a pained response. His stubby fingers extinguished the fire burning on the end of his mustache. “Yes, Matron.”

Gran’mama slid into the geode throne seat, calmly placing her hands into her lap as she watched the Tribunal right itself. New pews were brought in, and the destroyed floor was swiftly mended as clans organized themselves back into proper place. “Now, what is your name, dear?”

The nervous philosopher cleared his throat. “Artorian, Matron. A pleasure to meet you.”

She smiled back at him. “I am Ephira Mayev Stonequeen, Grand Matron of all the centralized Dwarven clans. I go by Matron, or Gran’mama. I don’t hold the title of royalty, though they’ll listen to me all the same. You can call me Ephira.”

Not knowing how to respond, he leaned forward in his chair to make a minor bow.

“A delight, Ephira. My apologies if I’ve offended in my ignorance.” The deference this human offered the Grand Matron pleased the great majority of the crowd. Order was important, and his willingness to fall in line sat well with many a Dwarf.

“It’s fine, sweetie. Did you like my biscuits?”

“Oh, I adored them, I think I absconded with eight before realizing it.” Artorian perked up and winked, a little drama in his voice as it dipped to a whisper. “I may have nicked a few.”

His hand patted his left chest pocket, which did seem a little bulkier than it should have been without a handkerchief in it. A chuckle passed around the crowd, but the Matron got right to the point. “I’m glad. Since I don’t want this to come up again, you’re allowed to hear privileged information without anyone getting in trouble for it. I really do need to ask a few things. To clarify, a Matron is the female head of a Dwarven clan. While the Grand Matron is the head of all the Matrons. Being Grand Matron means I hold all the land-ownership contracts, and the power that comes with that. Why do neither of the contracts you’ve been involved with work?”

All eyes bore down on the snazzily-dressed human, and he crossed a leg over the other while lacing his hands together. Ephira was a verbal warrior that knew her way around words, so Artorian chose his carefully. “Well, someone needs to be a landowner for signatures to work. It’s a little extra wonky in the Fringe. That place has its own rules. Since I am the landowner of neither…”

He raised his hands to the air. Making the ‘I don’t know’ motion, while his face conveyed the same message. Kiwi and O’Nalla Fellhammer didn’t feel so good. Both stared at one another from their respective seats. They hadn’t known about that particular detail until just now. Luckily for them, the Matron was aware. No explosion slippers for them today. Blessed pyrite.

Ephira easily deduced why her land contracts didn’t work with that bit of information. “Why are the Vicars after you?”

Artorian squeezed his beard, pulling down to let the braid brush along the inside of his palm. “Well… I may have upset the Church once or twice. There’s also the distinct possibility that your next question of ‘why did I sign land ownership contracts when I am not one’ might have to do with that.”

The Matron leaned down and crossed her arms on the armrest of her throne. “Why, pray tell, did you brand yourself as an enemy to an organization as vast and powerful as the Church?”

Artorian looked up at her with gentle fondness. “I firmly believe it is better to be a friend to Dwarves, rather than be a tolerated non-believer. Which is why—even though the contracts are a little skewed—it is the clans that will receive the Skyspear region. Not the Church, which might make them mightily miffed.”

He motioned at the front row. “During my times of need, Hadurin was there for me like a brother when I thought he might barely call me friend. Dimi saved my life in the forest, and while that debt is paid, I would trust him to do so again if needed. Don has a soul so glittering with gold that no amount of coin in the world could amount to his true value. He saw me as a nobody, and yet treated me with love and care. It’s only through their kindness that I had the tools to sit in this Tribunal today.”

Ephira was taken aback. She didn’t realize that the old man could wield words like her smiths wrought works with their hammers. Her hand gently pressed to her chest, eyebrows high. “High praise for my grandchildren.”

The old man sat up in his seat, back straightened. “Respect where respect is properly due, Matron. Your sons are responsible for giving me the chance to rescue mine. May their honor light the depths.”

A moment of silence hung over the Tribunal; none would speak while Gran’mama was in conversation. “Can you guarantee the clans’ acquisition of the Skyspear region?”

Artorian sharply nodded. “I can.”

Ephira nodded, pleased with the truth in his voice. Had the old man lied before her, she would have known. “Then I’m going to look the other way on certain problems, and construction can continue as a properly sanctioned project. Though I will need a proper contract for it. Can you Introduce one of my sons to the true landowner?”

The human was hesitant, and that didn’t go unnoticed. “I… can. I have a suggestion, but have neither the courage nor the position to voice it.”

The Matron narrowed her eyes at him. “Tell me why.”

Artorian fidgeted, “Could… could I please whisper it to you? It’s a… sensitive topic. The landowner is peculiar and she doesn't like… certain things.”

Ephira made the hand motion for him to approach, and lent her ear. The aged human shuffled up, cupped his hand next to his mouth, and whispered, “The true landowner of the Skyspear is named Dawn, and she is the S-ranked Incarnation of Fire.”

“Ah.” She dismissed him with a hand motion, and he sat back down as Ephira leaned into her throne. Ponderously, she squeezed her bony hands together while deep in thought. She noted some foul looks angled Artorian’s way, and dismissed them. “I’ll not accept scowling; the human was right to treat what he just told me with caution.”

The admonishment faded. If the human was under the Matron’s wing of favor, making a foe out of the man was a poor life decision. Not that many wanted to. Instead of punishment and lambasted castigation, he’d lauded praise and brought honor to their clans. Don, Dimi, and Hadurin all breathed easier.

The Matron made her decision. “I will go myself.”

Chapter Thirty

The room erupted with gossip. Complaints were loudly voiced at the prospect of the Grand Matron leaving the ancestral halls. Clans bickered at one another about topics of defense, structure, and safe voyage while others shot down the idea that the Matron was serious—surely she would send a son.

“Enough!” Silence fell over the tribunal. “There are many thrones, and many Dwarves who can steward my position while I embark upon this task. I have made my decision. Matron’s will be done.”

The entire Dwarven gathering stood and slammed a fist onto their chest. “Matron’s will be done!”

There was no further argument, and Ephira sat down after her quick rise to snap away the chatter. She was going to continue the chat, but her attention was drawn to a heaving messenger that the guards let through. “My… my Tribunal! Em… emergency message!”

The messenger was provided water and pats on the back, encouraging words were whispered for the message to be given when able. When Artorian glanced at the throne, Ephira wasn’t on it. He blinked and scanned the room, but found her in front of the messenger girl, holding her up and adding soothing words of support. Matron or no, she was still Gran’mama.

Artorian got off his chair and tried to get close, but a horde of Dwarves blocked him. He didn’t hear what the messenger was telling them. While he could see the messenger’s mouth move, his vision obscured too much to read any sort of intent. Drat!

“Artorian.” He froze as his name was spoken, and a path of empty space parted in a direct line from the Matron to his current position. He didn’t know Dwarves could move like frictionless sand. He was addressed again. “There are Choir Mages in one of our ovals demanding we hand you over, saying you’re in violation of a contract. They’re here to take you. Is this true?”

Artorian staunchly stood and crossed his arms. “It is not! I signed only the missive of the clans, and returned the other to Hadurin.”

The Grand Inquisitor chimed in, having dug the object from his spatial pouch. “I have it here! He speaks true! Your plan was a success Grand’mama, the Church has no rightful claim.”

She nodded at her boy, extending her hand for the object. Through a sea of Dwarves, the missive made it to her, and she clicked the object open and read it aloud. The contents quickly brought to anger everyone that heard it. This writ was an insult. A demand. A ‘you will do this or die’. The clans didn’t like people strong-arming their way into their traditions and lifestyle, and this blatant offense sealed it. Tiny explosions popped between the Matron’s fingers.

“Hadurin.”

The Grand Inquisitor stepped forward. “Yes Gran’mama?”

Ephira crushed the metal document in her hand, and the delicate contraptions *poigned* upon breaking. Sputters of larger explosions between her fingers sent screws and sprockets to the floor. “I am done placating the Church. I have had it. While the Inquisitor profession is one your clan is indeed good at, I no longer assent to Church ties. The central clans are done. I will not accept an organization believing themselves so superior to our family coexisting with us in our lands and homes. Especially if these are the kind of actions they take against us. Clan heads! Speak your verdict.”

They were all so angry that rounds of ‘aye’ went around like wildfire. Until finally the eyes and ears settled on a very silent Hadurin. “Ma… ye be askin’ for half me life… Ye making me choose between me beliefs and me family…”

Ephira understood that this was difficult for her grandson. Still, she needed an answer. Hadurin closed his eyes, and squeezed the insignia on his chest. He thought over his life, and made his irrevocable choice. Ripping the Church insignia from his chest, he crushed it in his hand. “Abyss me beliefs. I stand with me family.”

A roar of unity rumbled around the tribunal. Hadurin didn’t participate, and regretfully looked over to his clan. He’d just ripped half of their purpose away from them. He watched Kiwi stand, rip the insignia from his chest, and throw it to the ground. He was with him. O’Nalla stood, ripped the symbol from her chest, and threw it down. She was with him, and so was the rest of his clan.

A ghost of a smile proudly twitched on his mouth as he bit back tears. What had he done to his family…? He could not express the pride he felt that even in this sudden upheaval, they stood as one. His fist punched the air and his war howl joined the others. His family punched the air with him, following him as the mountain shook.

The clans and the Church no longer walked as one.

* * *

Friars Fiona, Azral, and Pjotter impatiently waited alone in the middle of one of the large entryway ovals. Being Mages of the Choir, flight was something they’d accomplished ages ago, so accessing the Dwarven lands from above turned the majority of their defenses laughable.

Fiona threw her hands up when an armored party of Inquisitors spilled from the gate to greet them. “Finally! Heavens blessed, you kept us waiting!”

Hadurin squeezed his grip on the warhammer, shield firmly in the other hand as he rolled shoulders in fitted ancestral runic armor. He marched with a good portion of his clan towards the trio. This was their problem to tackle. “Greetin’s, Friars! What brings ya?”

Pjotter lazily flopped his hand towards the group. “What is with that gaudy outfit? It’s so droll. We are here to pick up the prisoner. Artorian, Headmaster of the Skyspear. He has broken a contract and claimed to own lands rightly belonging to the Church.”

Hadurin’s helmet bobbed. “So ya say… prove it.”

Pjotter blinked as his face squeezed to pure incredulity. “Prove…? Prove what? I am a Friar! I am not questioned! I am obeyed! Bring out the prisoner, or we shall go acquire him, and we do not care what we break in the process, Short-quisitor.”

Fellhamer’s men looked at their leader for guidance, who tapped the business end of his hammer against the armored tip of his chin. “Nah.”

Hadurin’s shield buckled under the impact as Azral was spurred into action. The quiet Mage wasn’t having any of this insubordination against the Church. The Runes on the shield triggered, but Hadurin was still launched all the way back to the door they’d walked out of a few minutes before. His shield was a bent ruin, and his arms were strained to breaking. One punch from a Mage was deadly for a C-ranker, and they all knew it.

Still. Be careful what you hit.

“Celestial feces!” The previously silent Friar held his arm and cried out. His fist and fingers were mangled, misshapen. Sure, C-rankers aren’t a threat, but equipment powered with Mana fueled runic effects sure were.

The Friars wasted no time launching their assault. If they could be harmed, this was a different story entirely! The Fellhammer Clan roared rebellion into the sky and charged their new foes. Hammers descended as rocks jettisoned them from the ground into a flying leap. Their armor could only take maybe a single hit, but the runic feedback mechanism was going to ‘counter’ the energy with an equally unpleasant blast. Sure it expended the Rune, but once was enough when they were many and the Mages were few.

Runes blazed with azure light on Dwarven weapons, and the Friars were forced on the defensive. A strike from a C-ranker, even with a potent technique, was laughable. A C-ranker striking with a Mana-infused weapon stopped all humor. It was a measure of countering category with category, and what the Dwarves lacked in cultivation they made up for with fiery spirit, raging temperament, and unbreakable loyal bonds.

* * *

“Get on!” Don called out orders in a rush. Dimi hoisted the running old man from the ground and heaved him into the cart as the massive Dwarf jumped into the back himself.

*Hiyaa*!

The boars tugging the caravan cart snarled and pulled the vehicle into a steady trot. With additional encouragement, they got up to a more decent speed. Artorian’s head popped up from the hay Dimi had hurled him into, and he glared at the Dwarves. The entire trip from Tribunal to cart he’d been tossed about like a piece of luggage. He couldn’t keep it up, too excited by recent events. “Whoo! That was thrilling. Where are we headed?”

Dimi pushed his head under the hay, and picked some up to throw over him. Snazzy suit be burned, there were survival priorities. “Shush! Talk later. Flee now.”

He didn’t want to mention that he hadn’t the foggiest clue. Don was the man with the plan, and the plan was currently… tenuous. ‘Don’t let the Church have the human’ was a fairly broad firing range with lots of room for interpretation. Don, Big Mo now that they were back on the road, filled in as his caravan left from a direction well away from the brawl the Fellhammers were engaged in.

“Can’t take ya home. Hadurin breakin’ that insignia broke his oath to the Church. Ain’t no way they don’t know Dwarven clans as a whole didn’t just throw them under the cart. There be a storm comin’. So there’s likely a Mage headin’ to yer Skyspear, and we don’t want to be there given the numbers they’re going to send. We can’t risk gettin’ intercepted.”

“Hiyaa! C’mon now!” Hadurin wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his black vest. Their combat gear was in the caravan following close behind them, as the Modsognir Clan of merchants moved into action. Other clans each had their own means and methods to deal with the problem they’d just created. Regardless of how it was going to go, this spelled messiness.

“Gran’mama is headed to yer home, so don’t worry bout yer wee ones. Mages that show up are gonna get a face full o’ exploding slipper. They’ll be fine. We can’t go anywhere we can’t lay low, so the grove is a no-no. Meaning there’s only two civilized places we can go, and I like neither of em!”

“Where’s that?” the old man questioned, muffled under the hay.

Big Mo scowled and grumbled under his breath. “The Ziggurat where the big raider city is currently building up. Endless refugees, easy to hide in the crowd. Downside, it’s the raider society. They’re not going to look kindly on our trying to leave with our goods.”

He spat before mentioning the alternative. “Or, and I really don’t like this option, Chasuble. The seat of the Church and the Paladin’s order. It’s capital sized, and we’re merchants. It’s massive and has plenty of people, so we can stay in any old inn and not be found so long as we keep our heads down, while right beneath Vicar noses.”

Dimi agreed that both were terrible. “Aren’t both of those in the same direction?”

Don Modsognir grumbled louder, doubly displeased. “Aye! They be. Current thought is both the cities are keeping one another in check, and the Church ain’t happy about it since the Ziggurat be getting the grand majority of refugees. If the Church attacks proper, they lose all the goodwill of the millions of folk there. Can’t afford it. Meanwhile the Ziggurarians don’t attack the Church. Vicars are holed up there and they don’t want to give those pain-in-the-butts the justification for a defensive war. Politically terrible for ‘em!”

Artorian puzzled though it, and a Nixie Tube popped alight above his head. “Why not both?”

“What?” Don and Dimi snapped at him in unison.

The academic popped his head back out from the hay, sending stray stems of it flying through the interior of the hooded cart. “Hear me out. The assumption, if I was looking for me and didn’t know my personality, is that I’d hole up in the safest place I could find. That’s the mountain I’m already in. Entire clans of Dwarves that don’t want to give me up? Safe bet. Medium assumption, I’d go home. The safety and security of home terrain means a lot, so retreating to the Skyspear is something I’d send people to try and secure.”

Artorian stole a breath before rambling on. “Weak assumption, go to a place with a great amount of traffic, and hide in the crowd like you said. That’s the raiders. Unlikely assumption, going on a straight-shot trip to the capital of the people looking for you. Nobody expects that, but they might… if they find us nowhere else. So if we shack up in the capital first, we’re essentially hidden.”

“Then, when they’ve stopped looking at other sources, we head out to go hide in the crowd unless a better option shows up. There’s no better place to get information than literally from inside of their own house. I could easily blend in and walk around and not be noticed in a big city. Especially since only a very specific set of people have clues as to who they’re looking for.”

Big Mo scowled. “I don’t like the plan, but I ain't got a better one. It’s going to take us a month to get there. Get comfortable, we’re going to change up our caravan’s look at the first rest spot that’s safe enough. We’re not going to get into Chasuble—the Paladin Capital—with our current colors. Lucky for you, the Modsognirs know how to do things under the table.”

He flashed Artorian a toothy grin. “Thank ye, for your words of honor in the Tribunal. Hadurin and I would have gotten one deadly punishment if you hadn’t stuck up for us. Though I don’t know what be the tools I gave ye that ye mentioned.”

Laughter erupted from beneath the restacked hay bales. “The sunglasses!”

Chapter Thirty-One

The lack of road security caused some issues on the journey. Issues in the form of amethyst direwolves, poison sloths, a rock bear, a silk pheasant, and an invisible blast leopard. None of those were ready for a caravan of grumpy Dwarves. Especially inconvenienced Modsognir Dwarves that were already bitter about the entire deviation from the ordinary.

Scowling constantly, the clan snapped at one another for the slightest transgression, and tempers ran hot. They hadn’t wanted to break from their trade route. They hadn't wanted to rush home, and they certainly hadn’t wanted to run away from it. Yet here they were, being delayed by regional annoyances. At least they had something to take their frustrations out on.

Turns out, almost every Dwarf had both an earth and fire affinity channel. Those who went into the Fellhammer clan, or came from it, also had a great tendency to have a celestial channel, with all the corruption that came with it. Fire corruption? Anger. That didn’t sit well with earth corruption’s lethargy. Both combined translated to significant grumpiness.

Artorian kept his head down on the long trip. Hiding under the hay accomplished a whole lot of nothing, and the attempt was abandoned. At this point, anything that found them would either be individuals that would serve as Dwarven anger management dummies or would be a Mage they couldn’t handle. Neither was a circumstance where hay helped, but keeping to oneself certainly prevented your hosts from diverting their dissatisfaction to you.

“Do we have any electrum coin?” The conversation on the other side of the cloth of the hooded cart made the human perk an ear up. Electrum, why would they need that? It seemed he wasn’t the only one with the question.

“Why in the ruttin’ pyrite would we need electrum, ya daft geode?” The sound of someone being hit upside the head followed.

The slapper soon became the slappee, with far greater enthusiasm and intensity. “I be older than ye, ya pebble! Ya ain’t never been to Chasuble before, have ye? They use their own currency, and don’t accept the simple copper, silver, gold standard. Each o’ their coins be electrum, with some Essence markin’s or another that validates ‘em. I’d have smelted a sack of coin if all I needed was some ruttin’ electrum!”

Slapping contests came to a halt as a third Dwarf stopped the chicken wing fight. “Break it up, break it up! Don’s got a chest o’ divines, and we’ll be sortin that in a bit. Caravan is about to stop before we head up an’ over the hill. Now shoo! I need the human; we can’t be seen entering Chasuble together. Too suspicious.”

Grumbling, the duo walked away from the hooded cart, a few slaps resounding as they did, the fight continuing regardless. The caravan flap flung open as a thin man squeezed himself up and into the opening. Artorian frowned at the sight, the snazzy black suit had been replaced by… initiate’s robes? He recognized these from the Fringe. “Hello there, what’s with the threads?”

Getting to his feet, the Dwarf brushed himself off. He beat his thick mustache to get hay that stuck to his face away. The man didn’t have much interest in small talk, handing over drab brown robes and a leather pouch. “Yer gonna find yourself in a similar set. ‘Ere, put these on, and take this satchel.”

Taking the delivery, he prodded a digit into the satchel, hearing coinage. “That be a few divines, currency for Chasuble. All in all, you’ve got about four to five gold’s worth, so don’t go wastin’ it. That’s a year of wage for yer average Chasuble citizen. We’re going in as northern Dwarven clan traders. Still practicing accents from the mine of ‘sota.”

“Try not to laugh too hard.” He cleared his throat, providing an example so the human could get it out of his system early. “It’s a lot of money, don’tcha know?”

The old man did a double take upon hearing the total twist around in accent. He’d been distracted by going through the clothes he’d been handed, but his eyes were wide at what he’d just heard. Laugh? He was speechless.

“What? Was on the spot wasn’ it? Bah! Ye got no sense of’ appreciation for the culture. Strap yerself into yer new robe when we get to the hill. Yer gonna have to walk over yerself since you can get through the trade as a pilgrim. Divines are for greasin’ palms. We’re a bit early for pilgrimage, but it’s well known they all go to the big temple in the center of the capital. So if you get stuck, just start blabbing about that.”

Dissatisfied, the Dwarf slipped from the cart as quickly as he’d come, and a still silent Artorian just blinked. That was… alright then. Before getting changed, he flicked his sunglasses out and smoothly lay them on his nose. Picking up one of the spit-shined shields, he checked his reflection after mounting it. Stylish indeed! Just for funsies, he performed a few poses, just to see which could be more entertaining or intimidating.

Shoulders squared, leaning back, hands held in front of him was a popular choice when including a minor head tilt. Ah, to indulge in feeling young. He ceased his silly antics and changed into the considerably less snazzy robes. Pilgrim indeed, this was some shoddy rag work in comparison. Still. Covered was covered, and he got it on before checking himself. Yup, Fringe Initiate using auxiliary supplies; likely where this robe was nicked from.

When the caravan fully squeaked to a halt, he popped out and picked up a stick from the ground. Impromptu walking implement to help sell the blind old man look. Don was waiting for him at the front of the line.

“Ah! Artorian, good timing. Got yer divines?” The trekking human held up the satchel, and a grunt of approval shot back at him.

“Good. Ye be goin’ first. Soon as we go over that hill, we’re gonna be under scrutiny if news travels as fast as I wish it didn’t. Ya look solid. Drab, brown, downtrodden. Pilgrim! Excellent. When yer inside, find anywhere to stay that’ll take ya. Don’t worry about findin’ us. We’ll easily find you. We know what we’re lookin’ for. Now, off with ya.”

That wasn’t a great amount of instruction, but it was better than nothing. He’d been the reason for this absurd plan after all. Artorian sighed and scratched at his chin. “Very well then, I wish you the best, my friend.”

Don slapped the old man on the rear, causing him to jump half a foot into the air and get a move on, before needing to rub the injury as he leered over his shoulder. “Don’t be sappy, we’ll see ya soon enough. On with ya!”

Artorian was going to comment, but could see the burly man squeezing his mouth shut. He was just about biting his lip. Oh. He didn’t want to show emotion, nor give away the fact that sending the human out was something he felt bad about. Odd, Artorian didn’t recall what would make the Don care for him so. He gave a wave and trekked over the hill. No reason to let his friend get a stomachache from worry.

The sound of a stream struck his ears first, and his path swiftly led him next to it. Humans coated in dirt passed him as he traveled up the road. He had to get out of the way of a large oxen cart holding a grain of some kind; he’d never seen yellow grain before! It was raindrop shaped? How strange!

The other travelers ignored him after a mere glance at how he was dressed. The rough farmers didn’t deem him worthy of so much as a greeting, so he didn’t press them. A quick and easy to notice similarity was that all the farmers wore the same chasuble, a kind of scarf over their clothing. Interesting, so it was more than just a city name? They were all made of poor material, and had no particularly interesting markings.

A good hour of walking brought him in clear view of what must have been a very strange outer wall, separating city from farmland. The Oddwalls? A good enough temporary name. There was a distinct lack of bannermen walking the wall once he got close enough to check. Flags proudly hung and flew in the wind, but no guards? Another point for Oddwalls. Why was this discrepancy messing with him? He shook it off and got in line for the front gate.

Some merchants and a group of Acolytes lined up before him. Interesting, all of them had chasubles as well. He did not possess one, and that was starting to look like a problem. The merchants wore some with cloth of finer material, and a circle appeared to be embroidered upon the ends. He checked the Acolytes. Two horizontal stripes forming an ‘equals’ symbol.

“Hmmm.” One stripe per rank? Likely. Artorian watched the interactions with the bannermen carefully. No Acolytes seemed to give the gatehouse guards coin, but there was a peculiar hand movement they all copied before passing through. Without hand motions, the merchants handed over electrum without complaint. There was laughter, and there it was again! The hand movement! He watched each occurrence, and thought he had it down by the time it was his turn.

“Hello there. Just me, I’m afraid.” Two humans in their early forties tried not to snicker. The guard addressing him nudged his robes with the bottom of his spear, dismissively rebuking him with a half-laugh, as if he was surprised.

“No beggars in the city, old man.” Artorian was forced to take a step back. That spear butt wasn’t going to do anything to him, but he had to keep up appearances. He caught the smell of hyacinth flowers and his nose flared. Artorian straightened up, leaning on the scavenged stick.

“Young man I am no beggar! I am a pilgrim from the far reaches of the west, and I have come a long way on my very first pilgrimage for the temple. If there is an entrance fee, merely tell me. There’s no need to speak such foul words.”

The guard broke out into a wide smile, and the expected greed twinkled in his yellowing teeth. One of them was fake, replaced by a sizable golden nugget. “We don’t accept silver here, you’d need to fork over a divine, and I don’t see a-”

The man was silenced as a coin danced between Artorian’s knuckles, finding its way between his fingers and onto his thumb. Flicking it sharply, the coin *tinked* into the air, and the old man trudged forward as the guard dropped his spear, scrambling from his position to try and catch the coin on the way down. Seemed like corruption would have an easy hold over this locale if the guards were that hungry for a coin. “We’re not off to a great start here.”

The second guard still held his hand up. “While you’ve paid the toll, I can’t let you pass-”

Artorian wasted no time, performing the requisite hand movement that he’d seen all the other Church members do. His copy wasn’t perfect, but it shut the bannerman up right quick. Something changed in the guard’s behavior, and he moved out of the way swiftly. “Have a nice day, sir Acolyte.”

Acolyte? Oh, well, he had copied their symbol. Looking over his shoulder, he stopped moving altogether. Where was the wall? He could see the stone gatehouse, yet the wall was nowhere to be seen from the inside. He quickly snapped a glance back at the guards, but they were handling the people that had come up behind him. An illusion? Should he risk going to touch it? His hand wavered, but his fist squeezed itself. No! Curiosity would not kill the c’towl this day.

Wresting himself away, he meandered stick first through a poverty-stricken district. Ah. So this is what the Dwarves had meant by just finding a place. That might be difficult if the locals were unfriendly, and explained the pouch of electrum. Money greased the rough wills of the needy into being cooperative. Even the poor had chasubles, and a great amount of them lived within the odd walls. He couldn’t get over the strange layout. No merchant district right next to the gatehouse? How were these people handling their trash and their sewage?

Artorian didn’t smell anything off, though the stream very likely helped with that. Better safe than sorry! He flooded his Presence with starlight Aura, and kept it tightly bound at skin level without any light emanation. Fighting off disease was top priority while he worked his way to the inner wall. Nothing but housing between the outer and inner wall? Maybe there would be a reason for this. The inner wall at least looked normal. He got in line for the gatehouse, behind the same merchants and Acolytes no less! Well, wasn’t that just convenient.

“Let’s see if anything changes.”

Chapter Thirty-Two

The Acolytes did nothing different beyond sounding tired. The young Clerics spoke with groans as they complained of sore feet. No electrum changed hands, just the hand pattern. However, the merchants pulled out their money pouches, and every last one of them forked over ten electrum. What? Ten! That was half a gold coin! This was straight robbery.

Artorian was stopped just as before. The guards this time looked him up and down first, wondering how a beggar had gotten this far. “What’s with the outdated robes? Did you lose your chasuble? We can’t let you in without one.”

The guards gathered closely together, so close that one more step would make it a battle formation. Artorian composed himself, wistfully speaking. “As I told your counterparts earlier, I’m a pilgrim from the far west. I’m here for the temple. It’s my first time, and yes, I brought my fee.”

One of the guards muscled his way to the front with an outstretched hand. Rather than give him the money right away, Artorian instead performed the copied Acolyte hand motion. The guard’s smile fell, stopping in his tracks as his eyes met with the geezer’s. The academic could see little rusty gears of a practically unused mind twist to life behind the scrutinizing hazel eyes. Something didn’t add up, and the guard didn’t know what.

The metal *tink* of electrum came from Artorian’s hands. Ten pieces worth of coin showing. Rather than handing it over, he stared the bannerman down over his strange sunglasses. The old man clearly wasn’t blind, so why…? A thought occurred to the guard, who had so far refused to take another step, his discomfort steadily building.

Another guard nearby had the same thought. She jerked back, and sprung to action. A thirty-something woman lurched to snatch her fellow guard by the collar. Pulling him back and quickly whispering into his ear. “Isn’t it too early for pilgrims?”

The electrum loving guard that had strode forth quickly stepped aside and saluted. He snapped to attention, little gears locking in place and arriving at a conclusion. “Sir Acolyte.”

Interesting. Again with the honorific? Artorian could afford to press his luck a little here as the remaining seven bannermen fell in line, each holding the salute. Artorian dropped the question with heavy emphasis on certain words. “Are you certain, you don’t want a pilgrim’s ten electrum?”

“Sir, Acolytes pay no gate fees, sir.” The guard swallowed, not dropping his salute. The academic paused, not prepared for the guard to ask a question in return. “Is… is this an inspection, sir? I assure you that we of the western way gate have everything in order.”

The academic nonchalantly looked away for a moment. More to hide his face so as to keep up this ruse he had just stumbled his way into. Composing himself, he made the coins disappear into his pouch. His tone dropped, and he planned his words so that he could ask leading questions while stepping past the electrum lover; pausing next to the woman who’d whispered. It was easy to add fear to those already believing there was a conspiracy.

“An inspection? I have no idea what you’re talking about. Just as I have no idea where one gets a chasuble. What does the eastern way gate say to a person who asks where to get one?”

The bannermen were nervous. This was a trap. This was clearly a ploy by either the Inquisition or The Order to check on their work without notice. A pilgrim wouldn’t know an Acolyte hand sigil; those were learned in utmost secrecy. The man had mentioned it was his first time here, but something felt wrong when he also immediately said he’d brought the fee.

If it was truly the first time here, how did he know there was a fee? How did he know it was exactly ten electrum? Had the old man talked to anyone, he would have known to secure a chasuble first, and to show up in something that didn’t make him look like a beggar. This was all far too suspicious, and the outfit was just… too obvious. It was like he wanted them to know he was out of place.

Artorian was scouring his mind for details, and his thoughts landed on the Head Cleric’s behavior in the Fringe. He adapted his stance to how Tarrean used to trudge around, and that minor detail was caught by eight pairs of eyes. Deagle the bannerwoman snapped to a salute for one of higher station, which informed her fellow guard that they were in deep feces if they played this wrong.

Their suspicions were true! She answered swiftly and with verbal force. “Master Cleric, it is the order of the faith that we direct those who wish to acquire a chasuble in the direction of the courier service. They are to add a writ of intent, and have it delivered with a single divine to pay the processing fee. If the faith finds this writ to be persuasive, and discovers the requestor to be in good standing, they will be hand delivered a chasuble and allowed entry into the sanctuary. There is to be no entry without a chasuble.”

The bannermen shifted their stances and salutes, snapping to attention to a person of higher station. Deagle had the sharpest eyes in their little platoon. They had doubted, but if she saw something… it was usually right on the money. In Chasuble, everything lately was about money. The improvising ‘Head Cleric’ nodded, seemingly in approval, and took a step forward to ask something of the next person in line. This was absolutely an inspection! Bones!

“What does western way gate say to a person who asks where to acquire better robes?”

Chiffon, the bannerman teen that Artorian now spoke with, did his best to spill forth his answer. His painful attempt to remember made the platoon around him squeeze their eyes shut, stopping themselves from cringing. “We, ueh. The… robes. The robes are… robes! Raiment’s are acquired… through the temple! Or bought… at… the temple?”

Chiffon cringed as the person he believed to be a Head Cleric rubbed his forehead with a disappointed palm. Artorian exhaled out a defeated sigh, not looking at the lad as he did. “Someone… help him.”

Finding an excellent opportunity to smooth this inspection, Deagle cleared her throat. “A faithful may requisition attire at any provisionary, and they will be provided for according to their rank. A visitor may purchase attire with the permission of a witnessing Ecclesiarch, who is one rank higher than the attire being purchased.”

Artorian took a sturdy step backwards, placing him back in line with Deagle, who was regretting her life choices. The old man didn’t look at her, he just asked a question that was as simple as it was painful. “Then what’s this I hear about visitors purchasing attire without a witnessing Ecclesiarch present? Quickly now, we’ve people approaching.”

Deagle swallowed hard, some sweat forming on her forehead while the rest of her squad remained still as water. They weren’t lifting a finger to pull her out of this fire. Abyss! She wasn’t going to take the fall for this! “We could speak inside the gatehouse, in more detail, sir.”

The old man peeked over his shoulder. More merchants approaching from the look of it. He could use that. “Just you. The rest of your… hard working fellows have merchants to see. I’m absolutely certain the entire group’s reputation lies in your hands. Let’s speak further inside.”

Deagle turned and marched inside with a self-satisfied grin plastered on her face. The rest of her squad had neglected to help her, and the Head Cleric’s wording did not set them at ease. Now it was them who were abyssed if she messed up!

Artorian set his stick against the shoddy wooden table as Deagle closed the studded door behind him. She pulled out a chair for him, and he cautiously did little before seating. Giving her ample opportunity to over compensate for the situation. It made him seem entitled, but that was a positive for the moment. “It doesn’t look very… good, so far.”

Deagle dabbed her forehead with a piece of spare cloth. “The status of the west…”

She stopped abruptly when his hand shot up, his piercing stare giving her chills. He spoke swiftly, and Deagle tried to keep her composure at the speck of good news. “I have a problem you can help me with, and if you do, I will pretend I was never here.”

Sliding in the chair opposite to him, she sat upright and at attention. If there was anything she could get to give her an edge, she’d take it. “Sir!”

Artorian rubbed at his eyebrows, trying to pick his words carefully. “I’m going to let you in on a little secret. You’re the only one I’ll tell, so if it gets out, I’ll know where to look. An Initiate royally failed at my requisition order. Now they lost my shipment, and the Initiate has mysteriously gone missing.”

“I was informed that the… western direction, was a place things could get done. I don’t take kindly to my raiment and chasuble being denied to me, and I’d look a complete fool telling anyone it was… misplaced. How many divines is it going to take for me to get a new set without anyone knowing?”

His finger tapped onto the table, and the C-ranker left deep dimples in the wood. It helped sell the illusion that his rank and power were aligned, even if he was absolutely bluffing. Artorian attempted to scowl like a Dwarf; they were fabulous at looking irritated, and he had recent examples to play from.

Deagle didn’t flinch. “That is going to be incredibly costly.”

If she had more to say, Artorian didn’t let her. He snatched his coin purse from the table and threw it down. Several pieces of electrum spilled free, only to spin and reach standstill upright on their edges. All of them. Sitting back to seemingly calm his anger, he returned to rubbing his eyebrows, covering up most of his face with his hand. “Make it work.”

Gathering up all the electrum, she counted it out and added it back into the pouch. “It will work, Your Grace. You have far more here than needed, is there anything else you might… want…?

Artorian copied Tarrean’s grumble, and waved the request off. “Get me my needs before the end of the day, and you can have whatever remains.”

He didn’t even look up in time to hear the door close. Deagle had raced out, snatched two more of her bannermen, and gotten a move on. She explained things on the way, and upon hearing just how much electrum they were talking about, quickly found incredible motivation.

The door creaked, and a teenager managed to walk in a few paces before being overcome with shock. He had completely forgotten people had a meeting here, and since he’d seen Deagle leave, had figured it was empty. “S… sorry, sir! I’ll leave!”

“It’s fine. Perhaps you can help me.” Artorian couldn’t believe it when the same tainted greed corrupted tone of the guards met him.

“I would be delighted. I’m Chiffon, just so Your Grace knows.”

He’d expected it from the forty-ish-year-olds, but the teen? That was… disheartening. Artorian could have misheard, or it could be an enthusiastic attempt to dig his way out of the abysmal showing that had occurred outside.

Artorian was getting too stressed to tell, and he needed space from the ruse. “The details are known to those who ran off. Until they’re back, I desire some shut-eye, preferably without being seen.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Chiffon opened the door that led deeper within the inside of the interior wall. It led to a sort of makeshift canteen, and was that the corner of a bed he saw in faint candle light? “We have cots for when everyone needs to be here, but currently it’s just been a skeleton crew.”

Pushing himself from the table, Artorian angrily snatched his wooden flotsam stick from the side of the table. “It will do, wake me when they’re back. I wish to be here no longer than needed.”

Chiffon was of the exact same opinion. This old man being here interfered with… business. He closed the door after the Master Cleric entered, and hoped never to encounter the man again. His direct superior could deal with the fallout of waking a Head Cleric; he wanted as little attention on him as possible since this hadn’t gone favorably.

Artorian flicked into Essence sight when the door closed. The light went with it, and a single miniature candle wasn’t going to cut it. He was essentially trapped here for the duration of the ruse, but he’d correctly guessed that money greases palms. The corruption was categories higher than his initial assumptions and that was going to be… difficult. He was out of coin to sell this bluff. The bannermen had said something about Clerics being ‘provided’ for and he’d have to bank on that.

Since he was here, and not at all tired… might as well rifle through everything he could find and read any material he could get his hands on. He had some time to kill, and only now realized that he didn’t know the Head Cleric hand sigil. They weren’t going to bring him Acolyte raiment’s, but Head Cleric ones! No wonder she’d said it was going to be costly.

He slapped himself on the forehead as that thought hit him. “Crackers and toast!”

Chapter Thirty-Three

The bannermen were happy to see the Head Cleric leave; a four-striped chasuble was not easy to acquire. Deagle had swindled some profit out of it, but the deal had taken far more than she expected. Artorian wasn’t interested in the details after they’d forked over the raiment and chasuble.

He’d washed up in the miniature dorm, and combed the living daylights out of his beard to make it match the requirements of the ‘Cleric Handbook’ he’d found in Chiffon’s belongings. He’d snuck the book back in after a read, no need to make it obvious he’d snooped.

Cedar, pine, and cypress structures dotted the land. They were two stories tall, and Artorian had to dodge pails of dirty water being emptied on the way through the cobblestone pathways. The flat roof each structure had added a bonus third floor, but from what he could tell it was mostly clothes drying territory. The flapping of cloth was a constant sound that didn’t bleed away into the background.

People got out of his way, even if his progress through the city was done at a snail's pace. He wasn’t fond of the attention, and had to forcibly prevent himself from addressing the issue just to keep trudging along. Artorian needed to get his mind on something. Goals. How about goals?

Lodging, meals, sunlight. He didn’t have a great view from down in the tiny alleys. Puzzling out heads or tails concerning the city layout was not happening, he’d be aimlessly roaming for hours. With a slight bend of the knee, he jumped straight up. Playing hopscotch on light-bricks like it was an elaborate game when nobody was around.

Once atop the building, the sunlight on the roof alone was heavenly. This robe was fantastic for letting the light through. How did it accomplish that? He’d keep it in mind if he took it apart one day. If he could be fully clothed and not be hampered during active cultivation, that would be exquisite. He savored a deep breath as the sun’s rays washed over him. How warming and pleasant it was.

“Erm… Mister? Are… you here for the laundry?” Artorian turned around with his hands behind his back, a pint-sized girl held a basket full of wet clothes. She blinked at him, and his attention was drawn to her eyes. Pink irises? He’d never seen that before.

“I’m not, but I can give you a hand if you’d like. I was just lost in thought.” The caution in the child was thrown to the wind, and she smiled at the idea that she wasn’t going to need to jump to get the towels over the tall hang line. She hoisted the basket over, and pulled the wet towel right out and held it up to the grandfatherly looking man.

“He’ go!” It took them ten minutes instead of the half hour it should have taken, leaving the pink irised girl with a full twenty minutes to just lounge on the roof without needing to do work. She turned her head to see the old man looking off into the distance. The city was flat, and only the buildings gave it any character at all. Did they build this without a city planner? He couldn’t find a straight main street no matter where he looked. Telling the difference between a shop and a home wasn’t possible. Only very unique structures stood out.

“Find them?”

Artorian quirked a brow, attention turned to the little girl. “Hmm?”

She kicked her legs out off the side of the roof. “Said you lost your thoughts.”

“Ah. I was lost in thought, a little different. Though lost nonetheless. See, I’m not sure where I should go. Perhaps you know? Where can an old man go if he doesn’t want to be found, but that’s safe enough to sleep?”

The leg kicking paused; her finger pressed to her closed mouth as the smallest cogs turned. “Mmm. Mommy would say it depends on what someone pays.”

Artorian scoffed. Again with the corruption. If even a five-year-old gave this answer, this place was lost. “What’s your name, little one?”

She flopped onto the roof. “Scilla, but everyone calls me ‘hey you’.”

He nodded, and kept up the questions. “Nice to meet you, Scilla. Why are your eyes pink?”

Scilla shrugged; she didn’t like this topic. Her words became acid. “Dunno. Momma doesn’t like it. Sis has green, and she’s the big favorite. Brother has brown, and nobody looks at him twice. I’ve got the cursed color. That’s why I sleep in the corner and eat last.”

Artorian cycled Essence. Scilla had a center, but it was smaller than expected. A tiny smattering of every corruption, most of it on her back. Sleeping on the ground had something to do with that, no doubt. Her eyes were interesting and odd. They were… stripped? There was Essence damage present, though he couldn’t tell any further details without a direct connection.

He scoffed, brushing the front of his robes off. “So turn them green.”

Scilla laughed out loud. “That’s not something that can happen?”

Artorian shot her a look of disbelief. “Sure it can, give me your hand and I’ll show you.”

The little girl stilled as her face scrunched together in confusion and interest. She didn’t believe him, but wanted proof before she called foul and threw it in his face. Tall people making her feel better with words was worthless. She sat next to him, and gripped his offered palm.

Access was all the philosopher needed. As a non-cultivator, she didn’t have a veil shielding her Center. It was just like that time under the tree when Blanket had been a little glider with two very injured legs. His Presence wrapped around the five-year-old, and she drowsily collapsed against his side as the sleep Aura coated her. Best she not be awake for this next part.

With Scilla out of commission, he was freely operating in her optics; performing a detailed scrubbing. Someone had definitely intended some foul play here: her cones and rods were scarred. An intruder had swiftly and rashly slapped an Essence effect over her irises, making them more receptive to… celestial effects? He was knowledgeable about mental effects and Essence means to invoke them. This was one of those.

She would see what someone wanted her to see. Yet, who? Wrong question. Could he fix this? Right question.

A few minutes of work said yes. Though… jade wasn’t the variant of green he was hoping for. Dark forest green was the goal, but for some reason he couldn’t affect how light and dark the irises were. Must be a lack of knowledge on his part. Either way, pink to green? Child’s play. Though it was permanent. He was glad she was asleep. Had Scilla been awake she’d have screamed the entire time; this wasn’t a painless process. Artorian had to move particles of corruption around in her eyes to accomplish it.

Pulling his effects back, he softly tapped her on the cheek. “Scilla. Scilla wake up…”

The five-year-old blinked, rubbing her sore, dry eyes. “Mm?”

He smiled at her pleasantly. “You fell asleep and missed the entire trick! I’m afraid your eyes are going to be stuck as green now. I’m sorry.”

Scilla snorted, pushed herself up, and stamped off. More adults lying to her, as usual. Artorian smiled, counting on his fingers. He arrived at a count of twenty-three before the scream ripped from the inside of the home. He knew she couldn’t resist checking. Artorian could hear the five-year-old run to her mother.

The mother didn’t believe what she saw. The expected questions occurred. How? When? Why? Followed by the expected answers. Old man. Roof. Just now. So it was that, when the mother burst forth onto the roof, she was expected. “What did you do to my…”

Unlike Scilla, her mother Shamira saw the chasuble, the robes, and the rank with practiced and ingrained ease. Four vertical stripes. A Head Cleric. One rank below a Friar. If she made a fuss… her face went pale and she bowed. She had never even made it to Initiate after a decade of trying, and her chasuble reflected that. No stripes.

“My apologies for my behavior, sir. Would… would you do me the kindness to tell me why you blessed my daughter?”

Artorian played the role, just barely peeking over his shoulder. “Could you sit with me, my child?”

Scilla was shooed downstairs, her smile stretched all across her face. Her eyes were green! Full meals! No more sleeping on the floor! Shamira did as requested and threw her long hair over her shoulder. Sliding sumptuously into place next to the old man; always angling for profit. “Yes, my Cleric.”

He waved it off, not interested in her wiles. Artorian spoke with an entirely different kind of longing. “I’m the wrong person, my dear. I just wanted… some distance. Someone I didn’t know that I could speak with. Would you be that person?”

Shamira dropped her lascivious attempts, and moved right into mother mode. “Of course, Master Cleric.”

He nodded slowly. “I have been gone… so long. I don’t recognize any of it. I want to perform an inspection without anyone knowing I’m here. Your daughter’s eyes are the fee I pay to make this next request. Would you have a spare spot I could sleep for an evening, before I discover Chasuble all over again? I don’t wish to announce myself, nor barge into… well. You understand.”

Green eyes held immense social benefits—their value was not to be underestimated. Scilla could now have an education without cost. Her oldest was in the Paladin Order, perhaps her youngest could… The Choir? It was safer. Housing a Cleric usually came with coin, however, housing a Head Cleric trying to remain hidden might have equally hidden benefits. The choice was easy. “Of course we do, Master Cleric. We’ll find the room for you.”

“I appreciate it.” He motioned into the distance, then all around him. “So what happened? It’s been… I don’t know. Fifty years? More? What’s going on?”

Shamira nodded unpleasantly. She crossed her arms and legs, her face nudging over to the northeast. “It was a long time ago, but it all started with the refugees. Do you know of the Ziggurat? Completely populated now, sprawling tent city, and has been for years and years. Some refugees came here and everything got cramped, very cramped. All the people made food availability low. That made public order hurt, which caused safety to become so poor that our graced Vicars had to set up shop here to keep things under control.”

She pointed back towards the west, where the largest swath of poverty housing was seen sandwiched together. “When the Vicars settled, order was fixed. Chasubles became required, deadly punishments expanded to include petty crime, and those with money were king. Refugees are constant. Crimes didn’t stop. Paying your way out of problems became even more popular, and the rules got even less lax. If you couldn’t help till land, or could not pay your way into the inner wall. You were on your own.”

Her hand went back in the direction it started. “So refugees gathered in the Ziggurat, and as best as I know, a few people of massive power set up there. Someone calling herself ‘The Mistress’, or some nonsense. More people with power making themselves feel more important. I have an opinion, but I won’t voice blasphemy around you, sir. My apologies.”

Artorian whispered under his breath. “I promise on my chasuble that I will not hold your words against you, please tell me everything including your personal views.”

Shamira swallowed nervously. Well… he did promise. “The Ziggurat and Chasuble have a tenuous relationship. Any people Chasuble doesn’t take, Ziggurat does—and I mean everyone. They turn nobody away, because even bodies have a use. For years we’ve thought there would be a war to spill over, and one would usurp the other. Not the case, and word on the street is…”

He nudged her on to keep speaking. “There’s talk in the dark that the Vicars and the Mistress are friends. That there’s a conspiracy going on between the two, but nobody knows for sure. Everyone is finding a reason to blame someone else. Food is expensive. Cloth is expensive. Everything is expensive, and making due is difficult.”

Artorian patted Shamira’s back, attempting to give her comfort. It didn’t do anything. “I see. Ambition, desperation, and conflict must have a firm grip here. My thanks for the swift primer. Don’t let me keep you from feeding your family. I’m going to sit up here a few more hours. If I could nap when the sun leaves us, that would be ideal. A little later is fine too…”

Shamira assented and left the Head Cleric to his musings. Artorian squeezed his chin, overlooking the squished together city. He liked this place less and less the more he heard. Perhaps tomorrow he’d take a quick peek into the temple. If circumstances were as dire and controlled as his landlady had mentioned… lingering even a week was not an option. Someone would catch on.

He sighed, dismissing the concern. That was tomorrow’s problem.

Today, it was time to cultivate.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Artorian studied the temple the following day. Both his hands rested on the walking stick while he relaxed on a bench in the sunshine, facing the myriad stairs that led up to the deceivingly old structure.

Deceiving, because it only appeared old. His memories were hazy, but he had been here before. With rough calculation—over half a century ago—when he was a small lad. He’d thought the place would have been much the same, thus the major reason he’d suggested the plan in the first place.

He’d been sorely mistaken. Nothing was the same. Structures Artorian thought he recognized were but facsimiles of their original. Constructed in their style, but in the wrong place. He knew for certain, as this stone bench was still in the right place. The chestnut tree—which had been a solid, hefty thing the last time—was now a solid ten feet thick and at least four times as tall.

Neither tree nor bench had moved, yet the structures hadn’t been aligned straight to the cobblestone pathways. They’d been off center, angled away. The church’s structures now faced the tree straight on, so the ruse was clear. His center smoothly rolled along, pulling in Essence in an upwards cone. It was doing as much for him as it was for the tree, the rejected energy seeping right into the soil. Additional clusters kept sprouting as the tree easily took in the high-quality nourishment.

Is this how Dawn had felt all the time? Seeing the world pass her by until only ruin and relic remained? He deeply exhaled and shook away the thoughts, resuming his people watching activities. Artorian kept tabs on the new goings on of the people and the movements of their daily lives.

One could learn much from being still and observing. People passed him by constantly, but none so much as slowed. They were all busy people with busy lives. At worst, he was in the way. As much as one could be in the way while keeping to themselves under a hefty tree that wasn’t in the road.

Perhaps that wasn’t entirely fair. A staunch person strolling around the temple with empowered steps functioned as some self-appointed peacekeeper; or whatever he might have called himself. Neighborhood watch? It didn’t matter. The lanky figure in fashionable robes came up to him in a straight line, with all the forward momentum of a mother bear on a mission. The walk staggered to a halt as their heels dug into a mixture of cobble and clay dirt; their eyes had caught up to their hubris.

The peacekeeper, whoever they may have been, had a potent three vertical stripes on his chasuble. When their eyes caught the four stripes on the cloth of the old man, he promptly turned on his heel and veered away awkwardly. He was not making that mistake. Nope. Not today. He could lord his authority over anyone he wanted and stop them for any reason he could conjure up; except those of higher rank. Why a Head Cleric was just sitting on a bench was not his problem, nor his concern.

Midway back to the temple, the peacekeeper paused. His head shot a glance over his shoulder. Surely not… inspections? The man whisked himself away with great fervor, not to be seen again. Translation: he fled.

The only person Artorian did want a word with was an individual spending his time with actions rather than words. He had initially noticed the man because of the unique Aura he was coated with. From the general feel, and calm it provided to the surrounding area, it must have been some kind of restorative or regeneration Aura. He’d never seen this before, and was having a difficult time cobbling together the Essence formula. Regeneration Auras must be something specific to Clerics, yet seemed to have features similar to what his starlight Aura did; only more focused in purpose.

What looked to be an Acolyte with long brown hair in a ponytail came and went from the stairs. Each time he arrived, he held a basket full of bread and cheese. He handed these out to a flock of children that ran up to him, with naught but a smile to pay for it. They received a pat on the head afterwards. The little ones zipped back to their parents, handing over their bounty.

When the Acolyte was devoid of goods, he assured the kids he’d be back. Sure enough, a short while later he’d return with a lighter coin purse and a heavy basket. What a good lad. Didn’t he have other duties to attend? So many here just about ran over one another to get where they were going.

It was well into the afternoon when the Acolyte spotted him. The thin man performed a bow, but was beckoned by Artorian’s hand when he rose back up. Upon approach, Artorian could pinpoint the exact moment where the Acolyte noticed the four stripes. His entire body twitched, his step faltering. Artorian just smiled at the lad like only a patient old man could.

“Head Cleric.” The Acolyte bowed again when he approached within personal greeting distance. His words dropped from confident, to concerned. “You beckoned?”

“Have a seat, my son. What’s your name? I have a confusion, and require an unspoiled ear. ”

The Acolyte did as instructed, and took a seat in the shaded portion of the bench. He noticed the elderly Cleric seemed to delight basking in the sun. He folded his hands and answered the question. “Alhambra, Your Grace.”

“Alhambra?” Artorian tasted the word. It was sonorous, and full of melody. He liked it. A good name for a good lad. “I see many busy souls, but none seeing to the good of all these people. I’ve seen some of the Ecclesiarchy attempt to throw their status around like the scabbard of a sword, and others hustle while not caring who they got in the way of. You feed the people, yet what of your other duties? What happened to you, my boy?”

Alhambra scritched at the patchy start of a dark beard, though he had but scruff at the moment. His sandy skin matched it well. “I don’t wish to foist my burdens upon you, my grace. It is just the fate of all who get stuck where I am.”

The old man raised an eyebrow, a tiny head motion urging the lad to continue regardless. Alhambra tried not to crack a smile, he was speaking with a superior. The crack appeared in the foundations of his face regardless, this burden lay heavy on his heart. “I am an Acolyte because no higher positions are available. The quota on stations is filled, unless the faith gains more land to open new positions. My tasks are diminished, specifically so I cannot seek higher functions even if they do become available. My peers do not look favorably upon me, as they say I squander my wealth on the trivial. As if people are trivial!”

His tone turned bitter at that last statement, calming as he pulled himself from the emotion. “May I ask what district you field, Master Cleric?”

Artorian just nodded. “I’m on a little pilgrimage, I came from the Skyspear mountain. There’s a little kerfuffle at the moment, so I decided to come visit while I still could. I intend on entering the temple, but… my heart isn’t ready. I’m not sure if it will be by the time it comes for me to go back. I’m afraid to go alone, you see.”

The answer seemed to satisfy the Acolyte, if only because of the volume of it. The latter part confused the man, and his minor prodding faded to the wind as his personality came to light. “You should not fear your home, Your Grace. For it is here to welcome you, always. Would you like me to go with you? I am but an Acolyte, but would be blessed to help carry your burdens… for that is the task of the Church.”

He knew it! A good lad indeed. Artorian couldn’t help but smile as he conspiratorially leaned in for a whisper. “In my old age, I remember there’s… something I had to do to enter? Some ritual… something. I can't recall. I’ve been sitting here trying my best to grasp it, and it just won’t come. Could you cover for me, if we go?”

Alhambra beamed. “Of course, Your Grace, I would be delighted. I know all the rules and requirements well; I am still fresh from studying!”

The Acolyte helped the Head Cleric get up. With a hand firmly on Alhambra’s shoulder, the duo slowly walked straight up the stairs to the massive twelve-foot-tall ornate doors. It was even more massive up close! Nearby guards grumbled, and two more men with three stripes on their chasubles came to check up on the approaching pair. Much like the first, they made way and made themselves scarce. There was an awfully large number of shady Clerics here trying to both exert their influence and not get caught.

His ear perked up when he heard Alhambra chuckle. “Yes, my boy?”

The Acolyte swiftly regained his composure. “Apologies, Your Grace. Those two that came down and tried to bar us from entering were old classmates of mine. Their pride and greed live in excess of their other values, and they came to berate me for approaching so close to their temple. My chasuble only has two stripes, and that means everything here. If they tell me to leave, I must listen. Regardless of the character of those who speak.”

Alhambra slapped his hand to his mouth with a touch of fear. He’d just insulted those of higher station, and a Head Cleric was literally supporting himself on his shoulder. Abyss! It was exactly this kind of behavior that kept getting him stuck in these precarious positions! He was silent a moment, then a moment longer. The Head Cleric said nothing, nor did he berate him. Odd. That was not how it normally worked.

Chancing a look, the old man just winked at him, angling his nose towards the open door. His whisper was soft, but the Acolyte caught why he probably hadn’t been berated. “Show me what I forgot, my boy.”

Artorian released the lad, who strode forth and made complicated hand signals to the guards, the entry men, and a three-striped person seated behind a desk inside a gatehouse one had to pass before the temple could be entered. Artorian quietly followed along, smiling all the way as he kept a solid eye on all of the movements and words. He didn’t try to hide the behavior either.

He was playing on the assumptions people were making. Artorian was here for an inspection, and the Acolyte was on the chopping block from how scrutinizingly close the old man got to inspect even minor motions. Even the guards could tell the Head Cleric wasn’t trying to hide his attempts to check on every little detail. Artorian only noticed the Acolyte had performed something incorrectly when all the people directly nearby stiffened severely at a certain feebly motioned hand sign.

“Would you like to do that again… my boy?” Artorian sweetly smiled, copying the exact tone and expression of Gran’mama. His was soft, slow, and patient. On the surface, everything was just dandy. While Artorian was nervous he's guessed the moment wrong, some Initiates whispered sharply. They’d seen the mistake. Alhambra turned fear filled eyes upon the Head Cleric, but Artorian was already rolling his wrist as Tarrean did. The ‘get on with it’ motion.

On the second try, nobody reacted. Artorian decided not to act on the retry and strolled on past; his feet gently pittering against the gleaming temple floor. How does one get wood shiny? He didn’t know, but they’d managed it. When Alhambra caught up and they made their way through the center of the pews, chanting began. A choir was practicing, all men from the sound of it. When the Acolyte attempted to excuse himself, Artorian grabbed him by the wrist and dragged him forward.

“Y… Your Grace! I am not allowed on the chancel, nor anywhere near the space around the altar!” Perhaps he was being dragged to the ambulatory? He swallowed hard as the Head Cleric, undaunted and in full view of everyone, dragged the lad to the front-left of the altar.

“Stand there.” Artorian turned to face the people currently seated in the pews. Some common folk were present and curious. Many Initiates had gathered, not knowing what was happening. A few Acolytes were gathering up since for some reason a Head Cleric was presiding on the chancel, yet there had been no planned event for today. Nothing was on schedule for the moment, so what was this about. Had… had they missed something?

The speed of movement in the church increased to a scramble. If there was an event today, and they’d failed to set up for it… that would be disastrous. The whispers that a Head Cleric was doing an inspection grew in speed, and more Initiates spilled into the temple from their respective work stations. If there was an inspection, and someone was doing a headcount, not being in attendance was paramount to dereliction of duty. They couldn’t risk it.

Artorian smiled as he remained quiet, excluding the moments where he told Alhambra to stay put. The Acolyte was a statue, but beaded heavily with cold, nervous sweat. Abyss. Abyss. Abyss! The old man had heard him, and had just waited to be inside before levering punishment.

The people with three stripes on their chasubles also made a return, hearing that Alhambra was stuck on the chancel with a Head Cleric ominously standing still and keeping him there was prime gossip fuel. Was he being demoted? It wouldn’t be a surprise, given Alha’s behavior and penchant to run his mouth. They filed in and gleefully sat near the front. Why had they ever been worried about this four-striped Cleric? He was on their side!

With the temple at about half capacity, Artorian turned to Alhambra. He spoke in no more than a gentle voice, but everyone stilled to deathly silence to hear it. For the words cut off their chatter swifter than a spear through the neck would.

“Take off your chasuble.”

Alhambra panicked. He immediately fell to his knees, hands clasped and pleading. “Y… Your Grace! Please… not my chasuble. I will be forcibly evicted from the city! My children… they…”

The man was silenced as Artorian reached out his open palm. “Your chasuble, Alhambra.”

Silence was king in the temple. Some smiled in great pleasure, others looked on in great horror. No one had missed the fact that Alhambra’s title was missing. This was the fate of those who underwent inspection: it was gruesome, and resulted in the worst fate. Being revoked from the faith. Artorian kept track of those who were happy about this, as a piece of cloth made it into his hand.

The chasuble was neatly folded and laid upon the altar as Alhambra tried to keep his weeping silent. Children in the audience were forcibly stilled by their mothers after being informed that the person who had given them food was being made to stand at the altar. “Your outer robe, Alhambra.”

People held their breaths as the broken man handed his robe over. It too, was neatly folded and laid upon the altar. Alhambra felt shattered on the inside. He grit his teeth and squeezed his hands as he felt his life fall apart around him. He didn’t react when the entire crowd broke their silence to gasp in disbelief. With his head down and vision cast to the floor, he didn’t see why. Had a blade been produced to sever his head? It might be a relief at—

He felt a soft weight added around the back of his neck. The gasping continued, and became louder. Protests from people he knew to be old classmates picked up. Angry shouts replaced silence, and at the rustling of cloth, a very confused Alhambra looked up through tear filled eyes to see the old man shake off his Head Cleric robe. Hurling it over Alhambra’s shoulders, the robes gently folded around him. Alhambra didn’t understand. He wasn’t being exiled?

“Stand, Head Cleric Alhambra.”

Screams of joy broke from the back pews as the common folk who Alhambra had supported for years went wild at his promotion. It had been years since anything positive had come from the Church, and ages more since it had been something positive for them. The three-stripes were red in the face, furious and forced to keep their silence as they watched their hated, non-corruption-friendly foe rise and lift up the end of the chasuble.

Four stripes. It had four stripes. The old man had given him his position and his rank. When a speechless Alhambra looked up, the aged Cleric had his arms out. Alhambra threw himself around the man, embracing him in a deep hug. He did not have the heart to ask why the Cleric had exiled himself just to hand over his status. “Thank you…”

Artorian leaned and whispered in his ear, words meant only for him to hear. “They will not accept this. When you leave, venture to the mountain of Skyspear. Seek the celestial scion of combat, and request the path to Dawn. Only when you find the will of fire will you find people truly deserving of your kindness. Seek it, my boy. Seek out the will of fire.”

If there was ever such a thing as prophecy, Alhambra was certain that he’d heard it spoken this day. The old man was right. There was too much personal hate against him here, but with the prophecy he had a direction and a purpose. Gone were the days of aimless wandering, only seeking to do best for the people. He could now actually do his best for the people. Should he take them with? Could he? Could he chance asking? No. He had to ask. He was Head Cleric now. “What… my people. Where?”

He watched as Artorian threw on the Acolyte’s robe, and snuggled his old two-stripe chasuble in place along the back of the neck. The old man just winked at him. “Do what you think is best, my boy. I have seen your heart, and know it to be celestial.”

Artorian decided to show off a little, and cycled Essence to his eyes in a combination that made his irises shine a luminous gold. Copying the Wood Elf pattern to make it sound like multiple voices whispered in cohesion, Artorian spoke. His voice reverberated against everything in the building made of wood, especially the shining floor. “I trust you.”

The alteration was gone before the old man turned to walk down the main aisle, leaving Alha behind on the chancel. Stunned and speechless, Alhambra no longer believed it was a mere Head Cleric he’d been speaking to. What… what had that been? That was no person that had just spoken to him, and he was awestruck as his mind did its best to cope with the glimpse he’d seen. He had just spoken to the heavens, or the heavens had spoken to him, through an elder as their vessel. A strange old man, who even though he’d been feeding children in the square for years, had never before been seen sitting upon that stone bench.

Alhambra staggered distractedly down the aisle. He blinked and looked to see outside the massive temple doors. The old man was gone. His vision ticked up, and where there this morning had been a yellowing chestnut tree, there was now one in full spring bloom. Healthy flowers dotting its rich, dark green canopy.

Alhambra pressed his hands together, said nothing, and bowed deeply. He was going to be the news of the week, and all eyes would be on him. He did not have the luxury to ask the old man why he’d been provided this gift. He only heard the words he’d spoken, again, and again, as Alhambra’s mind raced to construct plans to take him and all his favorite people away from this vile place. It would take a while to gather and convince them all. Yet, he knew who was good, and had excellent motivation to free them from the bonds of Chasuble.

His confidence wavered when classmates roared at him. Yet it didn’t matter. He was of higher rank now, and he was no longer subject to their whims. He needed only to hold onto the last words that had been spoken to him; an objective truth for his self-worth to keep hold of while he weathered the storm.

“I trust you.” Alhambra would not be daunted. He had people to save.

Chapter Thirty-Five

A Dwarven hand had gripped Artorian’s sleeve the second he’d left the temple, ripping him from public view. Disoriented, the old man saw a familiar bulbous nose belonging to a certain Don. It was partially hidden under a hooded Acolyte robe, clearly several sizes too large.

“Artorian, we got to go. It be worse here than we thought. The plan be drowning in the river and there ain't no reeds for us to gather air. Hurry yerself as swiftly as ye can to the north gate. Dimi already made it out, an’ he be waiting for us. Don’t stop for nuthin’ that won't kill ya. Go. Go!”

The Dwarf-hiding robe fluttered away quickly as a still-finding-his-bearings Artorian wobbled in place. North? Sure. North sounded great. Where’d the Modsognir go? He looked, but did not see. The Dwarf was a swift boy-o when he wanted to be. Then the words had hit home: he was right, this was no place to try and stay. To the north gate it is!

“That was… noble of you, my Cleric. To rescind your position for the younger generation.” A figure stepped from the side door that veered off from the main temple doorway. Artorian turned, and he immediately wondered if he’d ever seen a man with gaunter cheeks. His gauntness had gauntness, for crying out loud! Did those cheeks cave in and form spatial bag caverns? Dear celestials above! Still, he needed to swiftly make himself scarce. Better think of something.

The old man shrugged softly as he wistfully looked up to the sky, not noticing the rank of who he was talking with. He sighed and leaned on his walking stick like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

“My time is over. The end of my days has come. I returned to see the temple one last time before my long trek north. Where I believe… I will fade away. I merely saw a young man trying his best for the Church. He was merely in the right place, at the right time. I’m not sure if it was noble… I’m only glad I won’t be a burden any longer. It may be difficult to tell, but I can barely even see anymore. I’m of no use to the mighty Church. May I be excused? I’d like to head out while the sun’s bright enough that I may make out some fuzzy details.”

A powerful, thin, spindly hand squeezed onto his shoulder. Artorian didn’t need to look at the man to recognize the feeling; he knew this gentle tingling sensation well. This was a hand made from Mana, and he’d been touched by one enough to tell by mere tactile feeling. “Surely, you would offer a fellow faithful your ear?”

Artorian made sure to squint. His eyes caught the end of the chasuble. A plus symbol, two vertical stripes below it, then another plus symbol below that. Six stripes. A Vicar! He weakly smiled, hunching over as he looked up at the Mage. “I have shamefully removed myself from the Church with my embarrassing display to hand over my chasuble, without the proper… ueh… what was it called again?”

The old man sighed and shook his head. “I would, of course, be delighted to be of service, Your Grace. How may this exiled one be of service to you, Head Cleric?”

The Vicar’s question had been answered before he had a chance to ask. The gaunt man raised his eyebrow. It had been a hundred years since anyone had mistaken him for something as meager as a Head Cleric, yet if the man was on his last legs and barely able to see… he supposed that it was to be expected. Unlike himself, the lesser, mortal Clerics were… fallible. Yet, perhaps there was a boon here.

Ever scheming, the Vicar twisted a sickly smile onto his face. He didn’t correct the man, and walked him down the stairs. None dared interrupt. Not even the three-striped Clerics that ran from the Temple, only to skid to a halt when they saw who the old man was spending time with. The fact that a Vicar walked with the man solidified everything they had just witnessed. Their eyes contracted to points; this wasn’t a joke.

Nothing under the heavens could convince a three-stripe to do as much as greet a Vicar, rather than remaining silently bowed unless addressed. Interrupting one’s affairs? You’d die on the spot. They could, and would, smite you.

“No tithes to the temple?”

Artorian stopped and cupped his hand to his mouth. His whisper turned conspiratorial, and the Vicar bent in delight to hear what awful excuse the old man had ready. “Head Cleric, I wish to warn you. There are villains in your midst!”

Not the answer that had been expected. The Vicar paused in his step as well. His words were sharp and nasal. “Tell me everything, my son.”

Artorian swiftly squinted his eyes and looked around. He grumbled for effect and took a step closer. “I was halted at the west gate. The bannermen there asked for papers, and not having been here a while, I showed them my chasuble. I thought, perhaps there are new rules? They tell me that everyone pays tolls now. The higher one’s station, the higher one’s tolls. I of course do not believe them, and get out of the way of some merchants.

“Then, my ears pick up the sounds of coin. Again, and again the merchants paid hefty tolls. I think, perhaps I am wrong? So I relent. I ask how much my portion is, they say to hand over my coin purse, and they will hand back what’s left when I can prove my station. I give them my pouch, but have entirely forgotten all my hand motions. I remember the Acolyte one, yet because I wear four stripes, they call me a charlatan. A cheat!”

The old man threw a hand in the air. “Robbery I say! Yet, several younger lads with three stripes on their chasubles pull me through the gate and told me not to make a fuss. I’m staining my office with uncouth behavior, they murmur. Damage not the image of the Church, they said. I’m being an embarrassment, they whisper. I know this was my last trip, and I know I’m… faltering. My memory is… well I’d love to say it’s slipping. But it’s gone. I remember none of the chants. None of the motions… they still have my entire pouch. Yet… you are correct Head Cleric. I should have fought to bring a tithe. It’s my beloved Church, after all.”

Artorian stuck a finger into the air, like he’d had a thought. “Perhaps… perhaps I still can? With my life fading, and no living heirs, I should donate my life savings to the Church! What do you think, Your Grace? I could donate it to the temple, or perhaps to one of my favorite Vicars? I know it might be a pittance to them, but I respect them so. Even if the Church loses this small tool, the guiding light of my Vicars shall remain strong and vigilant. Heavens bless them, for they keep faith strong in my heart.”

The Vicar with his hand on Artorian’s shoulder was all smiles. “An excellent and faithful act, my son. Such a wise and gracious gift. I encourage such endeavors.”

Artorian nodded, and patted his pockets for something as he emphasized words while he spoke. “I should write this down. The northern gatehouse will be my last chance to have a parcel sent. Perhaps I can… oh. No. I’m not a Cleric in good standing anymore. Heavens, how will I make them listen to me when I request them to send a letter to have my goods delivered to the temple? Head Cleric, have you any ideas to make them see to my needs? If they are anything like the western way gate, they will strongarm me into sending them my savings instead! What should I do?”

The Vicar lost himself in thought. He was… aware that the toll demands of the gatehouses had risen to pad their coffers. Yet he very much wanted the little treasure for himself. If he sent the old man off, he wouldn’t see a single electrum of it. “Lend me your back, my son. I’ll scribe a swift message for the north way gate to assist you. We do not want the affairs of the gate to interrupt the affairs of the Church.”

Using Artorian’s back as a table, the Vicar procured a perfect piece of embroidery edged paper from his spatial pouch. He scribbled down the following. ‘See to this man’s needs. Signed, Vicar Karthus’. He dated the document so it could only be used today, and neatly folded it before handing it to Artorian with a smile. “Provide this to the bannermen, and they will give you no difficulties. The Church thanks you for your years of service, my son.”

Artorian took the missive and bowed the same fashion he’d seen Alhambra bow to him at the bench. The bow for a Head Cleric. He did not rise until the self-satisfied Vicar had walked away at least twenty paces. Then, he hummed to himself and checked the note’s contents. Smiling, he slid the writ into his spatial pouch while skipping off to the north, walking stick abandoned next to the stone bench. It had served its purpose, and he needed it no further. Unbeknownst to him, a sneaky Scilla absconded with it minutes later.

The northern way gate was half of what he expected on arrival. Half, because there was a large merchant caravan stuck in place, and that’s as far as his guesses had taken him. He could not have been prepared to see Chiffon again, this time in a bannerman captain uniform. Arguing with… Don? Yes, that upset scowl was definitely Don.

He’d planned to use the writ from the Vicar to safely squeeze his way through the gatehouse. Now… a more involved plan started to take form. He’d bluffed his way through Chasuble the entire time he’d been here. What was some icing on the cake?

Artorian mused pleasantly, fiddling with the end of his chasuble as he interrupted the conversation between the two heated children. They must have been children, given the type and amount of insults present in their conversation.

“Hello again.”

“Don’t interrupt me, and wait in line! I don’t have time for-” Chiffon paled as he came face to face with a smiling Head Cleric, who was most certainly not wearing the clothes they’d provided him at a different gate maybe a day earlier. Deagle had told him about the inspection. Abyss!

The sudden silence made the seething Modsognir snap his gaze across the shoulder. He knew the tall, long bearded bloke. Looking back, he no longer knew the quiet, significantly paler gatekeeper that had been making a right mess of them leaving. The old man had been here a day, why was some random little weasel gate guardian scared? What in pyrite did this man do in a day? He decided to stay out of it as Artorian procured the nicest piece of paper he’d ever seen.

Chiffon slipped from pale to downright chalky as he laid eyes on the outstretched note. He really, really didn’t want to take it. It found its way between his quivering fingers regardless, and he opened it with a swallow. Reading the contents, he squeezed his eyes and lips closed. With a sharp inhale, he handed back the piece of paper. To the Don’s immense surprise, the pipsqueak bowed. “Master Cleric, I am of service.”

The old man smiled widely. “Excellent. Tell me, young man whose face I’m starting to really remember the details of. Is money other than divines confiscated?”

Chiffon did not enjoy the mention that his particular face was being remembered by people who performed inspection work, and casually carried a personal Vicar writ in their pockets. “We do, your grace. Divines are fairly exchanged for all the wealth that attempts to enter into Chasuble after being properly taxed. We have several vaults for storage in the event an expedition crew requires some when leaving.”

Artorian calmly nodded, and looked back at the caravan. “In a way, I’m glad you held up Vicar Karthus’s secret little project. Though, I find it troublesome I was made to come and personally take stock of the matter. Since I’m here, you’ve allowed me the unique opportunity to add the addendum. Not only are you going to let the caravan through without complaint, I want all the confiscated wealth that isn’t divines loaded up on this caravan. As much as it can hold. I will be setting out with them to fulfill the Vicar’s private wishes. I trust this can be done as swiftly as the task… yesterday? I would very much like to forget certain faces.”

Chiffon ran for his life, barging straight into the gatehouse before barking orders at the top of his lungs. Don quirked a brow at Artorian, but the infuriatingly scheming human just winked back at him. What in pyrite was going on?

An hour later, the last of the caravan carts cleared the inner circle gatehouse. Artorian sat on the last cart out, and his gaze met Chiffon’s. He waved at the boy. “Goodbye, person I don’t know and don’t remember!”

Chiffon was soaking wet from his cold sweat, not dropping the salute until the last caravan was long, long out of eyesight. He collapsed to the ground and pressed his face into his knees. “Oh, thank the heavens he’s gone.”

“Captain, who was that?” One of Chiffon’s men, equally tired from lugging heavy chests posed the question. They were rarely roused so fast and with swift secrecy.

“One of the Vicar’s personal investigators, if I had to venture a guess. He had a hand-written note from the Vicar himself. Signed. Dated. Ring-Seal. Everything. I don’t ask questions when a four stripe is involved. You think I was going to stick my neck out when who we were dealing with had higher rank? Speak of today to nobody. Today didn’t happen. Take the rest of the night off. The north gate is closing early.”

The aide assented, and started to pack up. “Sir, just… how much gold did we load up on that caravan?”

Chiffon groaned. “Too much.”

Artorian joyfully played with his moustache. The caravan had met up with Dimi, and he couldn’t believe the story from Don until he was in the back of the caravan swimming in a tub of gold coins. “I have never been so happy in me life.”

Don popped up next to him, and he smiled at his massive Dwarven friend, rubies in place of his teeth before spitting them out. He raucously laughed, doing a single backstroke through a caravan hold full of money. “I know the feelin’. Artorian, you mad lad! How did… ya know what. Never mind. What’s all this for?”

Artorian tiredly stretched. Tired of ruses and needing to lie and pretend his way through situations. It was time for some well-deserved, cold, hard truth. “Two things. One, to increase our options. Two… you’ve taken good care of me. Recall that pouch of electrum you prepared for me? Well… have a few caravans worth of gold. I’d say that makes us square, and it has nothing to do with putting a smile on all your lads’ faces for leaving home. I’m responsible for an upheaval, I thought I’d get you some… recompense. I didn’t want you all to scowl and bicker because of me. Consider it my apology to the clans.”

Dimi blinked, and shot a look at Don. “Hold on now. All this gold. It’s… for us?”

Artorian just softly smiled in return, and a tear welled up in the largest Dwarf’s eye as the old man spoke. “Family takes care of family.”

Chapter Thirty-Six

Weeks of uneventful travel was dull. Time on the road—when there was a road—left much time for thinking. An unpleasant dilemma for most individuals which meant that caravaneers found ways to entertain themselves on the way to Ziggurat, some more troublesome than others.

Some made garden gnomes out of stone, just to toss them into the distance at their real-life feral namesake. Others went on the hunt with throwing axes, with surprising amounts of success. One entrepreneuring Dwarf decided to get the boars drunk; that was an eventful day! Yet two events stood out above the rest. First, when they accidentally started a war.

Feral gnomes were thieving little creeps that stood only knee-high on Dwarves, and the entire feud had triggered due to a drunken enchanting attempt. Rota, a sturdy and strapping Dwarf whose jokes had latched him the nickname ‘Otter’, had tried his hand at scribing Runes into a set of gambling dice. While that idea was suspect all by itself, the real hubbub began when said dice went missing and a section of nearby forest up and exploded.

Rota had attempted to condense Gran’mama’s explosion effect to go off if the dice ever rolled their lowest value; never considering that this was a terrible idea. The gnomes took exception to this, and the caravan was assailed by the mad creatures. Metal-tipped darts zipped through the air, stinging worse than ice wasps as Dwarves devolved into an angry horde of insults and axes.

It was a strange war. While the half-foot tall bush warriors rushed out to stab their foes to death for desecrating their favorite mushroom circle, the Dwarves invented a new sport by using the swing of an axe and striking with the flat of the blade. Scored based on how far one could club a tiny, screaming nuisance. Bonus points if it didn’t kill them, since the gnomes endlessly came back to fight on for their feud. The fallen gnomes had their little hats gathered and showcased, forming an ever-increasing call to neighboring tribes that caught wind of the situation.

The chaotic activity of the first event overshadowed the mentally taxing tedium of the second. Artorian was putting Dawn’s armor through endless rounds of testing. ‘Find the human’ stopped being difficult. They could now consistently find him when they concentrated hard enough. They’d both been in the back of a cart, and Artorian had asked Don to look away, do something else, and finally read a note. All the note was meant for was to remind Don that Artorian was in the room with him. When looking up from the note, the Don blinked in surprise.

“Ye were here this entire time? I thought you were gone!”

Artorian shook his head ‘no’. His voice remained masked under a heavy *thrumm*, an effect he’d not yet figured out how to deactivate. “The entire time. I didn’t even move while you were counting gold coins. What did I look like? It’s not like I stopped taking up physical space.”

Don rubbed his chin and lay back in the money-pile. “Well… I noticed something. ‘Twas like… how do I say this? When ya go to a drinkin’ hole, there’s always those blokes drinkin’ their sorrows away. Head on the bar, buried in the bottom of their mugs. Ya know they’re there, but you pay ‘em no heed. They’re someone else's problem, and me thoughts put it out of mind. Yer just part of the background unless I’m specifically looking for ye.”

Artorian fed Essence from his Aura back into the runic effect, and he saw Don squint his eyes at him. “Did ye just do the thing? Kill it.”

“Well, any difference?”

The Dwarf grumbled with dissatisfaction. “I knew you were there, but ye blurred out of focus. That whole becoming part of the background again. If I hadn’t specifically been puttin’ my attention on ye in the middle of a conversation, I’d have slipped and gone back to counting gold. Speaking of… I thought of a wee problem we didn’t consider.”

Artorian took the helmet off, returning his voice to normal. “With the armor?”

Modsognir grunted in the negative. “We’re headed to a refugee haven, and the first time we thought of this, we weren’t bringing several caravans loaded down with literal buckets of gold. We’ll get torn apart in there, if we even get in.”

The old man pointed to himself. “You happen to know someone that can go in and take a look, before the caravan moves. If you give me about a day, I can go check the situation and report back.”

Don’s expression was flat. “I know what you did in one day in Chasuble, so that be a more dangerous proposition than it initially seems; no matter how innocently ye say it. Still, ain’t got an easier option, and I gotta admit it’s convenient. Aye. One day. Given yer track record, I’ll have the caravan ready to run away, rather than run in. Me nose be tingling even givin ya that much.”

Artorian couldn’t help but gently nod. That was, after all, fair. “Very well. Escape direction?”

The question got the Modsognir right back to grumbling. “Further east and we’ll hit water. There’s better ways to die than bother Aquatic Elves on their beach turf. They’ll think we’re there for their memory stone production, and that’ll be an ugly, wet way to go.

“There be nothing north but deadly mountains and crags, and across that range you’re dealin’ with the Lion and Phoenix Kingdoms. I want none o’ that. Straight west and we’ll be smack back in the mess we’re doin’ our best to leave. That leaves south, and I can’t say I’m fond of Socorro or Morovia. One’ll scorch us and leave us gasping sand, the other has grass taller than Dimi, an’ even worse predators. Still, the eternal plains of Morovia may still beat out the City of Dunes. Ah hate obsidian scorpions.”

Don shuddered as if he felt a chill, rubbing his own shoulders. “Ain’t no good options.”

Artorian sighed and rubbed his forehead. “The sects of Morovia have long since fallen. It’s just overgrown wilderness now. The ligers may be bad in their preferred territory, but they’re really the only problem. Everything else can be dealt with.”

Don sat up in his pile of gold, curious. “What do you mean ‘everything else’? Know an awful lot about a place many people won’t willingly venture. Gonna add that nugget o’ gold to the pile?”

The old man shrugged, trying to brush away the unpleasant topic. “We all come from somewhere, my friend.”

Don flicked him a platinum coin he’d dug out of the pile, dropping the topic after correcting him on a single detail. “Brother. Call me brother.”

Artorian silently smiled, nodding in assent before resuming field tests as the Dwarf removed himself from the cart; escaping his own embarrassing sappiness. Artorian was distracted by national borders, since from Don’s description they no longer adhered to geographical limitations. Why couldn’t kingdoms just stick to nice and convenient squares?

The Modsognir caravan encountered more and more refugees the closer they were to Ziggurat. It wasn’t a major issue for the well-armed Dwarven clan, but it came with its own set of issues. Merchants they encountered began negotiations angry and hateful, and they demanded payment up front. Dwarven gold warmed their cold, cold hearts, so if merchants had food? They bought it. Alcohol? Bought it.

A great number in the caravan didn’t even realize they stopped when the outer territories of Ziggurat came into view. Somehow, regardless of how much they managed to drink, no one spoke a word about their carts full of wealth. They sobered swiftly when someone wished to gander. Sacks full of feral gnomes were tossed at curious refugees with sticky fingers, leaving them covered in a ravenous, angry biting mass.

The caravan had to stop when the population density became too thick. The tent city sprawled, and the mess was as could be expected. Chasuble had a sewer system, even if hidden. Ziggurat did not; instead it had smells and concerning puddles. The Dwarves prepared themselves and their animals for a plethora of diseases, and filtered all water before boiling it. The infernal Essence that freely roamed here was so thick that a cultivator would choke on it. Non-infernal cultivators needed to seal their techniques up tightly; corruption would eat them alive in this region, and they had only reached the outskirts.

Don rapped his knuckles against Artorian’s armored hip. “You’re up, brother. One day. Just. One. If ye come back running, we’re ready to roll out. So expect to find us right at the edge. We will not be moving the caravan any further into this muck than we need.”

Artorian winked at his Dwarven compatriot, tucking in his beard neatly before sliding the helmet over his head. On either side of the helmet, two vertical eye-lines flared to life as the completed set linked the Runes. They interacted as intended, sapping a portion of Artorian’s Essence to engage their passive effects.

They remained present unless repressed, but for the moment the old man was very happy to have a constant supply of fresh air. Regardless, he wrapped his Presence fully about his iridium gear so it didn’t stain as he walked. The trudge into tent city ended up being as unpleasant as imagined. Kind words were only used in a sarcastic fashion here. There was nothing nice about trucking through a living area worse than an active warzone.

How did these people live like this? He made the question rhetorical when he realized there were more dead in the tents than living. There were crews going around piling the bodies up and bringing them closer to the center of the area, rather than the outskirts. Artorian didn’t want to know why. It was clear as day something unsavory was going on here.

It wasn't until tent city gave way to an outer palisade that he found an area he could give the minimum rating of ‘livable’. Initial observations made it clear that strength was everything here. Not his… favorite measurement. Ruffians crowding the gate didn’t notice him at first when he muscled his way through; it was so easy to forget his S.E.P. field was active. To everyone nearby, he was Someone Else’s Problem.

Or he was, until he reached the front of a group only to be barred by a seven-foot-tall man wielding a warhammer. Both factions of ruffians noticed him at the same time. They were confused only for a fraction of a moment before they shouted insults and attempted to strongarm him. Now, C-ranked cultivators can give roughly ten D-ranked cultivators at a time a run for their copper. A D-rank easily handled ten F-ranks. You were only an F-rank if you qualified as a cultivator. Roughly forty non-cultivators against a C-rank? There was only one outcome.

The armored figure didn’t budge an inch against the combined muscle and might of easily seven burly men attempting to move him. Artorian didn’t want to move, therefore he was immobile. His body wasn’t optimal for reinforcing, but as an external cultivator, his Presence performed much the same function. He and his armor were the same thing as far as his Presence was concerned, and the forces involved were measures of energy. The math was easy: he had more.

A single step forward let Artorian bowl through a dozen screaming men, and he snatched a surprised and muscled specimen by the shoulder, only to whisk him about in a half circle and smack away five others before dropping the bruised meat-club into the mud. The path before him cleared quickly. There were grumbles, shouts, and general assertions of unpleasantry, yet the rule here was simple: might makes right.

Don’t get in the way of the metal man that can use you as a baton.

Artorian hated this. There was no point in staying here! No point in trying to get the caravan here. Was there even a point for him to be here? He hurled another strongman out of the way when the bruiser stormed up to him with demands. He was sure the bruiser believed his shouted words to be important; Artorian found them less compelling. He did stop a moment, struck by a realization: how had the bruiser seen him?

He looked at his armored hand. The view around him was clear. He saw it with clarity and detail, but nothing about his hand looked different. He tried to switch his stealth feature off, but found he could not. It was already off? Odd. Had he removed it subconsciously when stepping into problem solving mode? The armor was meant to be responsive to him, he’d discovered that much. Did it matter? No. No, it did not. “Let’s finish the scouting and go back to the Dwarves.”

Artorian forgot his complaints when his eyes caught sight of a large sign ahead. It was a tournament listing for some kind of arena fight. “Glory, honor, prestige. Recognition from the Ziggurat if one makes themselves worthy. Sure. Can most people here even read this sign?”

The sign used smaller, simpler words. Yet that’s what it essentially said. It wasn’t the promise of prestige that attracted Artorian; it was the two names at the top of the listings. They each had a removable wooden beam as a plaque, names carved in for all to see. Artorian remembered this place now, and found an excellent reason to stay.

Position one. Grimaldus. Position two. Tychus.

His sons were here.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Given the social standards of Ziggurat, being cordial was utter foolishness. Artorian knew there was no point. They’d look at him strangely, and would take it as a weakness to exploit. Fights were a constant in the arena, and anyone was able to join if they could get past the factions of ruffians serving as self-appointed gatekeepers. It was swiftly apparent that the closer to Ziggurat’s center one was, the better the living conditions became.

So, how to get to his sons? He’d need their attention or their presence. That likely meant doing some damage to the current standing of that leaderboard. He was secretly proud they were at the top, and hoped it was a clever ploy to get attention and get the word out. Or it could just… be who they were now. Artorian swallowed hard, he hoped the latter wasn’t the case. It didn’t matter. They were his boys. He’d treat them like all the rest.

Finding the large raised dais that served as one of many stone arenas was easy. Artorian strolled right up to a massive man, and helped the giant creature find his way onto a knee. The thrumming voice that erupted from the suit only helped sell that the full plate armored man wasn’t here to play. “How do I get on that board?”

Gorgon the Glorious was twelfth on the board—and thus not listed, as only the top ten got a mention—and was having a good day until he found himself on a knee. With a metal hand crunching his clavicle to rubble, he swiftly found it within himself to be cooperative. “Scarf man. Speak to scarf man!”

That was plenty information. Gorgon hastily beat a retreat to a healer upon being let go. His entire left shoulder had a purple handprint on it that was getting darker by the second, and the armored figure moved on without missing a beat. Gorgon’s posse had witnessed the event in stunned silence, reduced from raucous fans to confused onlookers. They exchanged glances and ran to the betting pools. Word traveled fast: there was a new fighter in Ziggurat!

Uferiel, the coordinator, pinched the bridge of his nose. How he despised these uncouth monstrosities of muscle and savagery. “No finesse. No finesse I say!”

He sighed deeply as yet another imposing shadow came over him. Uferiel wasn’t even phased, he just prepared a new small wooden block. “Name?”

Given the red scarf-clad coordinator was in what Artorian would call ‘refined’ clothing, he smiled beneath his helmet. Finally someone in this area he could speak with! “‘Mr. Fringe’ would be an adequate representation for the purposes of the tournament, my good man.”

Uferiel nearly lost his composure. Manicured nails pressed to his embroidered inner vest as his hazel eyes shot wide open, turning to regard the specter of politeness he had just been haunted by. A full, proper sentence? The luxury! His ears felt like they were healing from the underutilization they had suffered. “Oh, my good heavens, please do tell me that wasn’t a one-off chance at proper perlocution. I’m shaken, sir. Shaken!”

Artorian nested his arms behind his back, a habit that his age wrested upon him. In the armor, it merely made him look regal. “It was not, and I do apologize for my uncouth entrance. Much of this place is crude. May I kindly register for the events?”

Uferiel blushed pink and was overcome with emotion. A tiny cheer peeped from his throat as his fingers pressed into half-fists on either side of his fangirling mouth. He was delighted! Overjoyed! “Oh, of course, Mr. Fringe. I’ll have you registered and lined up momentarily. Please do give those savages a proper thrashing. It’s been so awfully long since a person of any caliber has graced my… well, it used to be a respectable sport. Now it is the ‘clobbering zone’.”

He sighed and carved in the name. “Arena seven, if you please. The one next to the seven flagpoles, if you can count that high… Oh! My apologies, sir! I slipped into my usual entrapments. I’m so used to offering only grunty pointing. It’s over there…”

Artorian took the coordinator by the wrist, and firmly gave it a shake. “My sincere thanks. I am delighted to see such a strapping mind in charge. I was expecting ruffians to control everything in the area. Are you unharmed?”

Uferiel nearly fainted, biting back a whimpering hiccup of enjoyment at being treated with respect by another mind. Oh, his knees were weak, and cheeks were rosy pink! “Oh, oh no, sir… I am an untouchable. If anyone so much as bends a hair on my head, the Ziggurat would turn against them.”

The slender man showed off a wrist bracelet made entirely of bone. A tiny opal reflected light in the center of the band. “I am marked by the Ziggurat. I can be found any time so long as I wear this, and anyone who has one is under the direct protection of the leadership. We have gained their favor through… some means or another.”

Artorian pointed at the arena in question upon letting the man’s hand go. Receiving a cordial nod in return, he muscled his way through the crowd and got onto the dais. It was a large, stone circle. Two squares were set on opposite ends near a stripe in the middle, and from the muddy footprints he could deduce that was where fighters stood before things began. He set himself into place and crossed his arms.

He did not have the details of how the fights worked. Artorian didn’t need them. The only true victory condition was clear. Win. Win, and don’t stop winning. The crowd around his arena was nothing special. He seemed to have the favor of the coordinator, but that was of little help for now. He waited only for a few minutes for the first opponent to crawl his way up the dais.

The man crawled, and onlookers yelled. “There are stairs! Use them!”

The armored figure covered its faceplate with a hand. To Artorian’s surprise, that didn’t obscure his vision. He saw right through to the other side of the hand. Helpful? Yes. Mostly odd. Still, gift horse, mouth, the usual.

“I am Rafan! I shall gut you from spleen to stern!”

Stern? The… ship…? You know what? Never mind. Artorian doubted these people even knew what the word ‘anatomy’ meant. He wanted this over quickly. Actually, now that was a thought. He smiled and spoke through his voice changer. “Ten seconds.”

Rafan circled him like a rabid dog, and rusty daggers found their way into both his hands. So weapons were allowed? Good to know. Rafan hurled an insult at him, speaking with a tone that denoted a lack of… certain mental faculties that could be trained. “Ten what? What’s wrong with your talky talks! You speak like dog barks!”

Artorian continued his mental countdown. “Five.”

The bandolier and headscarf toting fighter lunged at him from directly behind. Against a normal person that was likely something clever. Attack from a position where your opponent cannot see. It was something that showed forethought.

*Crack*!

With barely any effort, Artorian turned and backhanded Rafan straight into the crowd. Connecting armored fist to the side of an unarmored head had expected results. The dirty fighter twitched in the mud, and bubbled out some words. Otherwise, he was out of the fight. Booing and jeering echoed around the arena. They’d come here for a fight! What was this one-hit wonder nonsense? They wanted fury! They wanted carnage! They. Wanted. Blood!

The armor boomed as the inhabitant put some effort into it. “I will defeat every opponent in less than a count of ten.”

A count? Was that what a second was? Booing turned into questions, and greed found a new spot. Less than a count of ten was something that could be bet on! The armored figure had returned to the arms crossed position. So the fighter was confident and full of himself? Great! That would make odds all the better when someone took him down.

Uferiel was a person that played favorites. His current arena was handed off to someone else, and he quickly made his way to dais seven. No way in the abyss was he going to let someone else coordinate Mr. Fringe’s fights. Those were his! He called out, voice sweet and sugary in a sea of shouts and death threats. “Oh, Mr. Fringe?”

Artorian turned and made his way to the edge of the dais where Uferiel stood. The man was surprised this fighter had heard him the first time, and so easily! He again felt faintness threaten him when Mr. Fringe addressed him.

“Yes, Sir Fashion?”

“Fashion?” Oh! His heart! Composing himself, Uferiel fanned himself with his hand before clearing his throat. “Is there a particular difficulty we’re looking for today? It will be easier to match you if I’m more aware of your goals.”

Artorian wasted not a moment, pointing at the massive leaderboard bolted to the side of a tower. “Tychus and Grimaldus. I want them both in my arena at the same time. I need to exchange words.”

Uferiel’s smile was full of overjoyed greed. All the way to the top? He had a true contender today! Given how easily Mr. Fringe dispatched of his first match in the placing round… he might actually get there. “Mr. Fringe. I would be delighted to coordinate these fights. Do you need breaks between matches? You will need to change arenas for some of the larger, more popular bouts.”

Artorian shook his head before getting up. “No breaks. I will meet them today. Tell me when to change locations and send all challengers. Keep. Them. Coming.”

Uferiel didn’t even bother trying to hide his smile. “As you wish…!”

The second fight ended much as the first; an overblown fool backhanded off the stage. The third fight had the slightly smarter opponent remaining at the edge of the arena until the count hit zero, just to mess with the bets. It had not gone according to plan. Artorian only needed a single second to put the full effect of Rail Palm into motion. He didn’t even perform the full art, but it still sent the challenger flying twenty feet off the stage with a caved in chest. He did not live to feel the impact of his fall.

Betting erupted. Ten seconds to defeat, or be defeated. Rapid fire matches performed at high speed. The spectacle saw many a betting man resent their loss, but nothing in the rules said they could not crawl up on the stage to fight one of the contestants. The rules didn’t need to do anything: an armored backhand quickly made the attempt known as ‘pulling a Rafan’.

Uferiel, while set in his ways, was a dependable coordinator. He changed the entire format of arena seven at the drop of a hat. If you registered, you got sent up right away. Given the speed at which fights resolved, a line formed in front of him as people who wanted to win the ever-growing jackpot replaced self-preservation with the hope of a one-in-a-million wonder. If only the odds had been remotely so favorable for the challengers.

Several aides came to Uferiel’s side to help facilitate the event. Booing turned to cheering. While the carnage people sought was lacking, the constant, quick fire resolutions to fights had its own, unique draw. The first half hour of non-stop flying lessons contained nothing but non-cultivators. Those one-sided bouts were so unmemorable that Artorian yawned at the end of the last match.

Given that his armor amplified and altered his voice, his tiny yawn became an insulting bellow. The line finally thinned out of willing contestants. Even with a massive jackpot, none had put so much as a dent on Mr. Fringe. The old man looked over his shoulder. “Sir Fashion? Anytime you’re ready.”

Uferiel was screaming with glee. He jumped in place, arms performing little in-the-air wiggles. He was going to kill it when cashing in today’s coordination logs! He’d done so much work! His pay was going to be a fat purse of gold. “Coming right up, Mr. Fringe!”

A figure jumped from the crowd, easily clearing ten feet before slamming down onto the arena. Cheers of support cried out from surrounding fans. Artorian couldn’t immediately see the Center of this one. A veil? Oh my heavens, finally a cultivator. About time.

This match was different. Uferiel actually got up on the arena and performed an announcement. “Savages and ne’er-do-wells! The preliminary rounds have ended, and we can finally set this challenger against numbered opponents. We’re in the top one hundred now! Mr. Fringe now faces fighter ninety-nine: Fuego, the Firestorm! I hope you’re ready, because it’s about to get hot!”

Fuego was… D-rank two. Cute. His hands lit up with flames, and a minor cyclone of sorts formed on his palm. Air Essence? Artorian squinted. No… just fire. Essence plus a shape? “I mean. Why not? I’m not sure if that qualifies someone as a firestorm.”

Artorian had to correct himself. His understanding of ‘average’ was no longer the actual average. D-ranks were a significant accomplishment, and he needed to remember that. He was dangerously close to the trap of seeing lesser-ranked cultivators as non-threats.

He shouldn’t do that. If anything, Fuego over here might be the first actual threat he’d faced so far. Artorian decided to take the fight seriously. He smiled as the Firestorm took his position.

“Ten seconds, Firestorm.”

Chapter Thirty-Eight

A cyclone of fire enveloped the arena. Onlookers gasped and cheered when the armored figure appeared to be too scared to move. He was going to lose this one! Yeah!

Far from feeling fear, Artorian was confused. This was the Essence technique of ‘The Firestorm’? This ability had more holes than Tarrean’s favorite cheese! Was the man trying to kill him or tickle him with Essence? Currently it was the latter, as even a light field of fire Essence in his Aura made the whole attack moot.

Artorian cocked his head to the side and broke down the technique with Essence-cycled vision. Essence? Fire. Shape? Cyclone. Area? Wide. Intent? Nil. Control? Laughable. The D-ranked cultivator had fueled a half-formed technique and released it on the arena to perform a function. Undoubtedly, the effect would fizzle out when depleted of refined Essence. Even with not being great at techniques himself, he could see this one was terrible. The Essence was just spinning and expressing its unaltered concept upon the world. Fire Essence was just… there.

An idea struck the academic. Could… could he just… take it? There was only refined and fire Essence occupying the space around him. With a simple pull, it passed through his Presence coating his armor, and when it did… it was his. Artorian blinked at how easy it was. With just a thought, Fuego’s technique was fueling Artorian’s Essence shielding.

He needed to know. Even if it burned him a little, Artorian expanded his Presence to envelop the full span of the dais. No harm so far. Artorian altered the edge of his Presence into a membrane — as he didn’t want any rogue infernal Essence getting in — while his Presence filtered out the unpleasantry. Conditions looked good, so… nom?

The burning cyclone simply ceased to be. The Essence fueling the technique stopped inside of Artorian’s Presence as his will overshadowed both the technique and its owner. Neither were very sturdy… Essence looked to be molded, and the presence field was superseding a great many factors. Without effort, Artorian made it gather and come to him. It harmlessly seeped into his Aura, becoming part of his Presence.

Artorian frowned. No side effects? None? Surely not. Nothing in the cultivation life had been so easy. Fuego frowned as well, but at his outstretched hands, trying to figure out what had gone wrong. He threw out another flaming cyclone, but no fire eruption burst from his hands. As soon as the energy left him, the noticeable Presence field he was in gobbled it up. Fuego was doing little more than throwing free Essence out into the world.

Artorian was so perplexed that his count of ten stopped dead. So taken aback that he flat out asked his opponent a question: “Would you like to try again?”

Fuego threw his hands out a third time, fueling more Essence and power into the technique. Not a sliver of heat or *fwoosh* left his fingertips. Instead, he felt drained. He was sweating heavily, and his lungs drew deep, demanding breaths. Only then did he realize he was in the F-ranks. What! How? He thought techniques perfectly returned Essence back to the user every time, so how was he drained? The truth was simple, yet it escaped Fuego: he was wrong.

The Firestorm sank to his knees, hands shaking as he looked at them. His Essence was still draining! Fear gripped his heart, and showed on his face. “Fuego… Fuego surrenders!”

Artorian released his crossed-arm pose, and pointed at the edge of the arena. He didn’t give the crowd a chance to voice their displeasure. That wasn’t his concern; only continued victory mattered to him. If he could avoid killing a man in the process… that was just a better alternative. “Accepted. Leave.”

The crowd broke out into screams of defiance. Conceding? Unacceptable! They berated Fuego as he left the arena. He didn’t mind that he’d lost his spot, or that Mr. Fringe now held it. Fuego was more worried for his cultivation and his much-reduced lifespan.

Artorian mulled things over. Why had nobody thought of this before? Perhaps they had, and discovered downsides he’d not yet seen? Running the gambit, it was a safe bet that any affinity he didn’t have would be absorbed as corruption, which was a good reason to be careful. A condition for this feat also seemed to be the opponent having a tenuous grasp on techniques, and a lack of intent fueling the ability. Could he test this further?

Uferiel announced the next contender. “Next up in the blood games, number eighty-five! One who needs no further introduction: Typhon of the Blades!”

A pointy-eared man clad in scarves and rags slid up the steps. He took the pose of a dagger fighter, but held a small gourd of water in his grasp rather than a knife. Artorian couldn’t discern any features on what was likely an… elf? No, this was a human that had pointy ears for some reason. A mystery for another time. Artorian could discern a strong water affinity, but not much else.

Typhon activated his technique, fueling power into his gourd to create a high-pressure knife of water. It belched from the spout, and Artorian noted the same flaws as his previous opponent, so tried to sap the Essence from the technique.

*Splat*.

Typhon stood still as a handful of water fell to the ground. The man looked down, not sure what had just happened. Oh no… he’d wet the arena. Usually that happened with the blood of his enemies after he slashed them. His knife ignored most defenses, so it was a powerful offensive tool. He… must have done something wrong? Typhon activated the knife again! It seamlessly shaped into being while his opponent was counting down, already awfully close to zero.

*Splat*.

Typhon didn’t have time to wonder why this was happening; a palm to the chest sent him barreling out of the arena. He hadn’t even seen his opponent move, and he regularly boasted about his kinetic vision. He didn’t get the chance to boast ever again, dead by the time he landed in the mud.

The armored fighter squeezed his hand open and closed. With that second cultivator, he had recouped all the costs his armor had taken from him over the last week. This was fantastic! He should attempt to use this often whenever the situation allowed. No… becoming reliant on this would only bite him in the keister.

Uferiel snorted at Typhon’s loss, and announced once more. He wasn’t in the slightest bothered that people he disliked were racking up eliminations. In fact, he was lining them up in hope of that outcome. Fuego remaining alive had been… unfortunate.

A line of ranked contestants prepared themselves, lining up without needing to be called. Cutting short the winning streak of a rookie was both profitable and prestigious. Not that they knew that second word, but preferential treatment was a big deal in Ziggurat. “Number seventy-four, Hestiroth the Forbidden One!”

A steam cloud wheezed onto the arena floor, forming into a bathrobe-clad human. Artorian nodded approvingly: the bathrobe was a nice touch. Cozy and snug. Artorian couldn’t say he complained about the effort toward finding comfort, but then his attention shifted to his priorities. Steam? Fire and water affinity, then. Did the higher affinity of steam play a role here? That this was combat was no reason to stop learning, and he was fairly certain that this Essence combination was safe for the taking.

Hestiroth surrounded himself with a seven-foot cloud of steam the second the countdown began. Artorian saw him as if the steam wasn’t even present, including the steam clone in the shape of Hestiroth’s body. Was that meant as a distraction, or could it do damage? No reason to deviate from the tests!

*Fhwop*.

The bathrobe clad man unsheathed a curved scimitar. His plan had been to circle the armor and strike under the arm. That tended to be a weak point for full plate, as he had fought armored foes before. Still, he wasn’t prepared for his fog field to just… pop out of existence. He stood there on his tiptoes, awkwardly balanced as he’d been mid-step. He fueled the effect again, but nothing happened even though he lost Essence. Then he felt dread, and tried to stop channeling his Essence into his steam-body technique.

Hestiroth, much like Typhon, had begun as a D-rank four. He was at F-rank nine by the time Artorian’s count dropped to three. One needed exponentially more Essence each rank, even if it didn’t feel like it did. Artorian didn’t bother to stop counting, as there was no need to drain this man dry. The amount of Essence in each F-rank was paltry to a C-ranker. “Zero.”

*Crack*.

Uferiel broke another wooden slat in two, and smugly threw the remains over his shoulder. He gleefully called out another victim as he advanced the count by at least ten, but skewed towards the people he wanted to see fail. “Number sixty-four, Nentendoh the Three-Pronged.”

Nen was another human, this one clad in dark half plate. He paused as he walked up the stairs. Artorian was surprised to see the man’s hand stop at the exact spot where he’d placed the membrane of his Presence. The D-rank six man didn’t seem to be able to tell what the membrane was, but the academic took a mental note that it was in fact noticeable. Nen looked over his shoulder after passing through, worried about the effect he couldn’t figure out.

“Neat trick. Been watching for a while. Can it stop all fancy effects? I’m not powerless without mine.” Nen placed his hands together and pulled them apart with noticeable effort as a bolt of lightning formed with crackling thunder between his palms. Artorian went through the motions, and hit his first snag. Lightning? So it should be all air Essence if he remembered correctly? Though there was an earth affinity at play here. Drat! Not safe for absorption.

Instead, he just pressed his hind foot into the rock ground and disappeared during his forward lunge, only to reappear as his palm connected with Nen’s chin, transferring the force and momentum into bone and sinew that was in no way prepared for it. *Snap*!

Nen’s body remained in place, but his head did not. One needed a functional neck with a proper spinal connection for that; the man no longer qualified. His Essence fizzled into nothingness, and his body collapsed into a pile. Artorian dejectedly scooted it out of the ring with his foot, not wanting to touch the bloody corpse.

Uferiel craned to his right to watch the body hit the mud. Breaking another wooden stick in twain, he spoke his mind before really thinking about it. “Do you usually go through men this fast?”

Artorian shrugged, crossing his arms as he silently wished he’d done different tests on Nen. Perhaps he could have stopped the interaction of Essence, rather than absorb it? Could he negate or twist effects in his space, rather than just eat them? The thought of a meal weighed heavy on his mind as he replied. “Does one feast on a scrawny appetizer when they can see the main course?”

Uferiel shivered and announced the next contestant. Mr. Fringe was tearing through his hit list! “Number fifty-five, Zorah the Wall.”

The ground shuddered as a four-hundred-pound hog of a man walked with laden steps into the arena. He wore an extra two hundred pounds in armor, making him by far the heaviest of the contenders thus far. He too stopped at the membrane, but he flicked it. Ow! Artorian winced. What the heck? The membrane could feel? That was news to him.

Zorah’s voice was heavy and thick, the gruff rumble of a man used to eating meat every day. “A technique as a field? Pointless if it doesn’t do anything except sit there. Your winning streak ends with me, metal boy. Zorah the Wall stops all newcomers.”

The crowd chanted a song as the hulk rose a hand to greet them. He smiled at the hollering crowd with a row of exposed, sharpened teeth. Artorian thunked his hand to the bottom of his helm, having attempted to stroke his beard. All four basic affinities were present? Why was it that multi-affinity users were both incredibly rare, and yet bumped into him at a rate that just about made them seem common?

Zorah’s equipment creaked, becoming covered in a wooden residue that thickened before hardening. Only his eyes remained visible, while the rest of him looked like it was part of a palisade. Oh, using higher nature Essence to armor oneself up by fostering wood growth on predesignated locations? Neat! Shame about the glaring weak spot. He was thankful Ember’s gifted armor didn’t have that problem.

Zorah roared out his challenge. “Zorah is going to flatten you!”

A beam of condensed light flashed from the tip of Artorian’s armored finger. It lasted a fraction of a second, less time than lightning remained visible when it clapped in the distance. The starlight blast was a fine line, and the hole in the back of Zorah’s head was all the proof Artorian needed that it was very effective against cultivators who forgot to invest into Essence shielding. Really, it was important. They should do it. The man had even been C-rank one. Had. Not a surprise when four affinities were involved.

*Thud*.

The crowd was still half-chanting by the time Zorah’s lifeless body hit the arena floor. The noise died down slowly, not sure what they’d seen. Light moved awfully fast. Another wooden nameslate broke into pieces as with another dejected ‘I don’t want to touch this’ foot-nudge, the fighter was ‘helped’ off from the dais.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Grand Vizier Amon, unflatteringly called ‘the nope rope’, coiled around his lesser throne in the top of the Ziggurat. The Queen had seen fit to bless him with an artful form for his many years of faithful service, and merely sitting on the throne was no longer possible.

The fifty-foot-long crystal cobrafied man still had arms, yet his legs were a thing of the past. He now shifted with true serpentine motion. His vermillion scale-coated body pressed what used to be his human spine against the cushioning of the throne, and golden hued rings coated him in an interlocking hook pattern. Amon’s fingers steepled in their usual fashion.

Observing the heaving messenger collapsed on the floor before him, he sipped the air with a thistle forked tongue. His cobra hood stirred, inflated lightly, but comfortably eased back into place; there really wasn’t a reason to be upset. The messenger had run for dear life to deliver his task as swiftly as possible. So the mortal was a little out of breath… how could he blame the limited for their limitations?

Uncaring of the plights of lessers, the Vizier glanced out of the large stone openings to regard the ever-growing fields of people. The unceasing death was pleasing. The cobra indulged in the gathered infernal Essence for a moment as an opal the size of a pearl drew energies from the region up to the apex of the Ziggurat. The best fresh breath was one steeped in power.

The messenger had their back patted by a figure with a lime-green glow oozing from its skeletal mouth. This small action pulled Amon from his musings; it didn’t seem to matter how many moths he crushed to dust. They came endlessly, and no amount of security could keep them from finding an audience with him. He’d stopped trying, even if he had no use for their favors.

The messenger regained enough breath to speak, forming the proper bow with assistance. “My… my Vizier! I bring urgent news.”

Of course it was urgent. Nobody ran for their life to deliver something mundane. Amon reminded himself that his superior mind couldn’t be matched by his servants. Their sluggishness… it was to be forgiven. Again, they were doing their best. Like ants. His scaled hand rolled on his wrist, beckoning the servant to continue.

Hastily and with some panic, the messenger relayed his words. “In the last wave of refugees, an unmatched warrior has arisen! He tears through the blood games as I speak, and has already breached the ranked listing!”

Amon wasn’t impressed. Many warriors entered the ranked list only to fail after a few days of climbing. There was nothing special here. His slithering voice softly whistled as he worked the words out of his reformatted serpentine mouth. It was so much more difficult to speak without lips. “Inssssufficient… merely a temporary shock to my system. In a few more days, the games will settle as they always have.”

The messenger’s panic increased, and his gaze pleaded with the quiet onlookers in the room. The guests lounging about did not speak, they had not been addressed nor given permission. They would not help him today. “My… my all-knowing Vizier. The warrior has not been in the games for even an hour! He breaches the thirties as I relay this message, and has sustained not a single scratch of damage. Nor does he seem winded! He has declared a challenge to the top two on the leaderboard, and the survival rate against him has been…”

The messenger ceased and bowed as the Vizier’s finger steeple broke from formation. This was not news that pleased his master, and he abyss well knew it. The slithering voice snapped out with expected sharpness. “My system, undermined by a single paltry servant? It shall not be so. Who has survived thus far?”

Rising upon being addressed with a question, the sweating messenger attended the command. “Fuego, my Vizier. The man conceded and was allowed to leave the arena by the warrior. All others have fallen… in less than ten seconds.”

Now Amon’s interest was piqued. A serpentine eyebrow lifted, or what could be mistaken as one. It was difficult to tell on a scaled face that held the barest semblance of a human pattern, yet was for the majority, cobra. “This nuisance will either be added to my fold, or removed outright. Emerald Eyes, fetch your brother and see to this whelp.

“Nothing is unharmed after an hour in the games, and if it were a person on the caliber of our Queen, they would not have bothered with it to garner my attention. It displeases me that this has become my problem. If the nuisance is judged worthy, send him up to see me so we may add another to our fold. Otherwise… the usual.”

Tychus stood, eleven feet tall and built like a volcanic castle. He sported more muscle than most rich people had coin. After bowing cordially to the Vizier, his heavy, thumping footfalls left the hallowed Ziggurat halls. The messenger didn’t quite understand how the massive man managed that effect on a stone floor, but didn't have the luxury to find out. A massive mouth snatched him up before he even had the chance to scream. A convenient snack for the Vizier!

Tychus had to duck in a few places to not scrape the top of his head against the stone pathways. It hurt! He had to hurry, his brother wasn’t in the Ziggurat, and he had to play fetch before rushing back to the blood games. Where Tychus was bound to the Vizier, Grimaldus was tied to ‘The Mistress’. Their bonds had different connections and connotations, based on the differences in their abilities. After all, who in power doesn’t want a pet necromancer these days? Was it in style?

Tychus jumped twenty feet and decided not to think about it anymore. His impact on the ground thundered for only a moment before he took off at speed. While the Vizier oversaw local operations in the Ziggurat, The Mistress preferred her quiet gilded mansion, staffed with her personalized art projects. Her faux-Elves. The hefty man from the Fringe shuddered at the thought. Why did anyone like the idea of being disfigured for someone else's enjoyment? He couldn’t get it through his skull, but to its credit, his skull was very thick.

Why someone would want a mansion half hanging from the side of a cliff was also something Tychus didn’t quite understand. Perhaps only because he’d flipped a bench by sitting on the end of it, launching the person beside him. One who had mysteriously found his head smashed through the ceiling. That had been a good day at the tavern, back when they had a tavern. Every day, something else was being torn from anything resembling a structure by the sheer amount of people venting anger or needing a floor.

*Caw*!

The oversized infernal corvid made its presence known with its usual impatient impunity. Its beak flicked left and right as it hopped about on a gnarled perch, head tilting at the swiftly approaching…

*Fwumph*.

The corvid screeched and flew out of the way as the figure barreled past its perch, kicking up enough wind as it went to send the corvid skyward. It landed, now on a slightly more crooked perch.

The vast and lavish pristine structure opened its doors as Tychus slowed. Luxurious paintings and ostentatious drapery lined alabaster walls, and there was to be no running in the halls. Numerous beast furs lay underfoot, muting his heavy footfalls as he turned corridors. When he found the one with suits of polished and posed armor lining the walls, he knew he was in the right place; or would be when he reached the end of this endless hall.

Full plated guards barred the double-set elephant-tall doors, their grip tight on crossed halberds tugging weapons out of the way on Tychus’s swift approach. One could tell when another was in a hurry. After the guard hammered a fist against the reflective bronze, chains clinked and the grunts of a dozen men were heard as they once again saw to their task. Mechanisms in the wall creaked to life, and the pathway opened inward.

Tychus was ready for the heady scent of lavender bursting from the throne room. It was awful and overpowering. He was also allergic, and it made him sneeze mightily. Lit braziers filled the busy room, illuminating the expansive space as a golden figure worked her slender touch over an unrecognizable mass of flesh that used to be someone’s face.

The massive man skidded to a halt, petals under his feet making him slip just an inch before bowing. “My Queen.”

No amount of being in a hurry made one demand time from the Mistress. She would address you on her terms. Luckily for the son of the Fringe, she was impatient today, displeased with her current sculpture. “Speak…”

Tychus remained bowed, and servants adorned in a great number of gold bracelets made way. “My Queen, my Vizier has summoned my brother and I to the blood games, we are to quell an upstart.”

Her dismissive hand gesture sent him from the room. Tychus had learned it was better to go willingly, even if he hadn’t received an answer. Some people were just… different. He didn’t understand what made The Mistress so different, only that she was impossibly more powerful than the Vizier was, and the Vizier could floor him and his brother. He knew that lesson well, they’d tried plenty of times. He’d treated them like amusing ragdolls, and the ceilings were still stained by their bloody defeats.

The Mistress clicked her tongue, fist pressed against the underside of her chin. She really wasn’t making any headway on this sculpture. Honestly, how hard could sculpting a crocodile head onto a person be?

“Emerald Eyes, see to your brother… Your Queen does not wish to be disturbed for any reason until my doors open.”

An unremarkable man rose and bowed. Seemingly mediocre and common in every way, save for his lime green eyes, Grimaldus cordially performed the required bow and stepped from the throne room silently and at a hastened pace. Passing the elephant doors, he said nothing until they clanged to a close.

He didn’t need to inform the halberd wielders, who crossed weapons to bar entry. They’d somehow heard their Queen regardless of where she was. Grimaldus’s flat face broke into a sly smile as he saw his brother waiting for him with crossed arms, sporting an equally mischievous smile. “Brother…”

Tychus belted out a laugh, and bumped fists with his brother. The bump turned into an elaborate set of playful hand movements. Neither of them had ever properly grown up. Tychus slapped a hand on Grim’s back, who coughed and stumbled forward. “Ty! You’re still far stronger than me! Do take care.”

The walking castle had done it on purpose, so his brotherly grin hadn’t died in the slightest. “Is it not usually the other way around? You always protect me, big brother.”

Grimaldus laughed out loud, though it was practically a whisper in comparison to his massive brother’s bellowing. He playfully poked his kin in the ribs as they trotted into a swift walk. “Oh, I am the big brother today? What happened to all your bluster last week?”

Tychus grumbled, mumbling while looking away as he tried really hard to pretend he wasn’t disgustingly ticklish. “Was the infernal talking. Hush. You already know what we’re doing?”

A playful, deep sigh left his stretching brother, who was beyond pleased to have any reason to get out of the mansion. Constant cultivation made him so horribly sore. “I’ve been stuck in the pit, only got out this morning. I’ve missed the entire week since our last chat, and you weren’t exactly yourself.”

Tychus was glad to be outside as fresher air met them. He sneezed hard, nose beet red from all of the lavender petals that had attacked it. A hidden handkerchief came to the rescue, and the big man was glad for it. His speech sounded muted with his nose so stuffed up. “Some upstart is making a mess out of the games, got into the thirties in about an hour. Likely higher now, but we should make it in time in case he cracks his way up the ten’s. Nine tends to give people a run for their copper. Odd thing is that the challenger asked for both of us, at the same time.”

Grimaldus nodded. “But it’s my turn.”

“No, it’s not. It’s my turn,” Tychus rumbled as they both dropped into a run.

His brother wasn’t having this. “No, you went last time, it’s my turn!”

They bickered and snapped back and forth the entire way to the arena, arriving with a full-on slapping fight. Their banter was cut short when they heard Uferiel announce a victory not from a side arena, but from the main middle dais: the one with packed bleachers.

“Number nine goes do~o~own!”

Chapter Forty

“Well, this is disappointing.” Artorian heavily sighed, fingers nudging the front of his helmet as if trying to rub at his brows. It didn’t quite work with armor on, so the itch remained. The man hadn’t quite realized he’d said those words out loud. That was supposed to be a quiet thought, so he noticed it as the crowd around him exploded in jeers. Great.

Number nine had been something of a favorite, and what was left could only be described as an artful canvas of handprints. The jump into the top ten ranking had forced the academic to put some actual effort in, but his enemies were all one-hit wonders or one-trick ponies. Abyss, he had even gained a cultivation rank with these bouts. Artorian floated about the precipice of C-rank seven… though the armor was greedily drinking it all in. Perhaps he wasn’t holding back as many of the functions as he should.

Artorian was relying on it a little much, but not being hurt upon impact was just… such a massive boon. Blades were a laugh, but that one bloke with the hammer had put an actual dent into his chest. The harm was repaired as the armor took in Essence from his Aura to mold back into shape; it was good to know it could do that, even if it was a touch costly.

He should have known better, and really should have dodged. Unfortunately, curiosity killed the c’towl. The armor needed testing, even if in hindsight the time and place was a terrible idea. Blunt damage on heavy armor? Definitely felt that one. The force had carried right through and punched him in the gut harder than dwarven fire-brandy on an empty stomach. “Let's maybe not do that again?”

This entirely new way of approaching fights had enraptured the studious Headmaster. If he’d had all affinity channels, would there have been anything he couldn’t absorb away? He really wanted to know; it was nagging at him. Unfortunately, he had to put it out of mind as reality was simply not the case. He tried to break it down for himself as whoever the next opponent was made themselves ready. They all seemed to have coaches and a personal posse of supporters from this point on, so it could take a while.

Body layers were threefold. Vitals, internal, and external. Aura for a base cultivator matched those layers, nice and separated. Your average cultivator — upon grasping Aura — uses mostly the external Aura. That being the part that radiates effects outward, indiscriminately. Power and affected distance depends on invested Essence. Or, going a step further, Essence deemed ‘active’ if your Aura stores a whole bunch of everything like his did. Not an issue for limited-affinity cultivators with only one or two channels.

Separately, adding an effect to one’s Aura in the vital or internal layer caused the effect to only be applied to that region, or those aforementioned parts of the whole. It would be entirely possible for a skilled cultivator, likely in the C-ranks to apply a different effect to each Aura layer. Boost the vitals with refined Essence, empower the internal layer, apply an auric effect on the outer layer. Certainly feasible.

Hammer-brat seemed to have had a grasp of his vital and inner Aura at C-rank two. Yet no more than that, sticking to a straight forward charge and smash strategy, pumping refined Essence to the muscle for temporary empowerment. It had obliterated the prior, tiny dais arena they’d been in. Yet when the lad had stopped concentrating, both his auric defenses went down, and he was so horribly off balance that a small tap turned him into a twisted rag.

Was it really so difficult for ordinary cultivators to keep their head in the game, focus properly, and keep their mental acuity? His students at the Skyspear could have manhandled this entire lineup so far, and it would have been called a sporting exit exam. If the cultivators he faced here were indicative of the average, even with most of them being ex-adventurers, then this was… well, he’d said it before. Disappointing. How were these people trained? Were they trained? They all defaulted to tactics that worked well in cramped places, such as… oooh! Dungeons?

He doubted most of these adventurers had faced people, rather than endless waves of monsters. A person was nothing like a beast in the wild, and he didn’t know enough about what went on in a dungeon to even start a running commentary. “Right, I’m old in comparison to these youngsters.”

Most had risen through the ranks swiftly, brazenly, drunk on their might and blind to the gaping mistakes in their actions. Artorian had spent years picking such details apart in his students. From how to breathe, how to walk, how to let a body simply be. All the way to refined self-defense specifically against other people.

His combat experience was war on the open fields. Maddening fights in blinding environments where all was foe. Falling through cave mouths to see your compatriots turned to… never mind. A spot on his forehead ached. He was sure that these boys and girls were all potent warriors in their own eyes, but they… he might as well have been the sole adult in a room of flailing toddlers.

The crowd shouted out endless demands, jeering between choking on bread and water as they watched the bloody spectacle. “Show us Breaking Mountain style!”

Artorian cocked his head. Again with this ‘fighting style’ nonsense? All those were people thinking their single little trick, or slightly more refined than the other movements were something special. Surely something didn’t get a name each time it became slightly better than an average strike to the schnozz? No… no, he needed to remember what he was dealing with. That was exactly how it worked. It had been the same with the initiates in the Fringe, his first fan club. What had he told them? ‘No’ style? Ha! Actually… there might be something to that.

When number seven, Silvia the Slimy, came to the stage, Artorian broke from his theorizing. There were more ideas to be tested! He glanced her over. Why was she… sticky? No matter. The basics as usual. Artorian was starting to get very good at this, having remembered where to look for affinity channels, rather than trying to read it off someone’s Aura. It took some doing, but that was a matter of practice. Earth and infernal? Oh. Ew. Nonono. There wasn’t going to be any absorbing this Essence. Actually, did he even want to touch her? The identity of ‘caustic acid’ radiated from the slime she was coated with.

Oh! Finally someone with a grasp of Essence identity! Good heavens, he’d been craving something new. He knew it wasn’t usually until someone’s Mage days that identity was considered. Much like Presence, which is something not even end-level C-rankers tended to have access to, if they even knew they could. Merging your three Auras was possible, he’d learned it happened during Ascension, and was part of the basic Mage process. Body and mind somehow became one. Rather, he theorized that all the body layers at that point were made of Mana. No longer distinguished by fleshy, physical requirements, it became just ‘body’. Full and as a whole. The Aura followed suit. He wanted to find out for sure one day.

He extended his Presence as normal before reconsidering. He’d already forgotten Silvia wasn’t an absorb-friendly target. What had he just mentally said about keeping proper focus and acuity? Artorian, you hypocrite! He verbally sorted himself out by starting his count. “Ten seconds.”

His opponent appeared to roll out a whip of sorts at the confirmation they’d started. Inspecting it, the whip seemed to be an essence-made weapon meant to apply her acid coating effect. Perhaps to latch onto an opponent at a speed one could normally not react to?

Silvia screamed out and aggressively slid forward, her movements weaving as if she was skating on ice. Except… well… slime. Her whip cracked once for effect, and her second lash forward was going to melt the armor right off this grievance. He’d killed her partner! She was going to extract the bones from his still-living body for this! Silvia discovered a moment later that such an idea was little more than a passing thought. The armored figure had caught the blazing fast snap of her whip, holding the tip between his fingers as her acid effect… faded?

“Children and their tricks…” Air and celestial Essence coated his armored hand, filled with an imbued identity to ‘neutralize’. He could sense the Essence was confused. Especially the air Essence didn’t easily grasp what he wanted from it, even though the celestial’s base identity had no such issue.

When the acid whip was caught, and the opposing Essences interacted with their direct opposites, air understood what the point was. The will directing them wanted to completely counter an effect caused by their opposites. The Essence was almost glad to do so, and Artorian noted that it was the first time he’d gotten anything remotely close to such a visceral reaction. It felt… odd? To gain an understanding that Essence was glad to do something.

The topic of study needed to wait. Wrapping the end of the whip around his hand, he jerked on the taut weapon like it was a rope, harshly tugging Silvia in. Her slippery footing sent her flopping to the ground before being dragged towards her opponent. She wasn’t going to give up just because someone had her wea-!

*Ding*!

Taking a metal-clad punch to the face was unpleasant. Being decked while also moving into the fist? Doubly so. Silvia’s world went starry right after being pulled up by her own weapon like it was a spring cord. Crumbling to the ground with a bloody nose and a fogged-over mind, her rebuttal sputtered out to a snore. Artorian kept a close eye on the fallen opponent. Alright, looked like sleep Aura in close proximity worked on cultivators just fine, but their Aura defenses had to be down, or nonexistent.

He gently slid his foot under the snoozing body, and relieved her presence from the arena. “Yuck!”

Silvia was caught, dropped because she was still slimy, picked back up, then dropped again as the people who touched her suffered severe caustic burns after a few seconds of continued contact. Multiple buckets of water got splashed on her to get the goop off before she could be safely carried away.

Artorian tried to squeeze his beard, but found it inaccessible as he pondered. That slime hadn’t been an auric effect? It was real and physical, but clearly some kind of Essence… construct? This was new. Actually, was it? Wasn’t this roughly how he’d formed a spear when in the forest? The thing Ember had told him never to do again. Granted that was a long list, but it was on there. He considered it, and decided it was different. Artorian had ripped his Aura and… made it something else? Not the best life choice. Silvia had formed a thing using Essence.

That was… well everything was made of Essence and corruption, so that seemed… feasible? How was this something he’d never thought of? He kept a running tally of discoveries, but lost track of his thoughts as he saw two familiar faces. Older, more refined, but familiar. Nobody saw the smile under the helmet. He needed to get their attention somehow.

Artorian was pointing at them before really thinking about it. Nothing easier than a challenge! He wanted his boys in talking range as soon as possible. How was he going to manage to go unheard when they were finally up here? “Hmm. Maybe something with the membrane of my Presence?

“This requires exploring.”

Chapter Forty-One

Tychus blinked at what he was seeing; frankly, he didn’t really believe it. “Brother?”

Grimaldus crossed his arms, observing the conundrum as well. “Yes, brother?”

The massive man set his firm jaw, fingers drumming on his hefty bicep as the gesture was studied from afar. “I think… I think that’s a challenge.”

A nodding motion came from the dark man next to him, the young necromancer in complete agreement as his robes shifted into an ebony hue. “It does appear so, brother. Is it just me, or is that generally regarded as a terrible idea?”

Tychus agreed with the wisdom that had just flowed from his family member’s mouth. “Generally regarded as a terrible idea, indeed! Pointing a finger at the two top contenders, in a series of matches where the results are what we say they are, is commonly regarded as a ‘bad move’.”

Since they were being pointed out, the crowd saw them. The respective fan clubs for the top two ranked arena contestants went wild. Signs with caricatures and poorly-written banners rose up, and the shouting only got louder than the wild ruckus had already been. The brothers groaned as they were surrounded by people wanting handshakes, some to awkwardly hug them without asking, and others to scream in their faces before fainting. Popularity was… a difficult nut to crack.

Tychus didn’t like it one bit, and he felt cramped as claustrophobia crept in. His voice weakened as it mumbled out the discomforted request. “Grim… please do the thing.”

The necromancer flicked his hands upwards, and the bones of the dead littered beneath their feet promptly snapped upright, coated with a layer of dirt. A different sort of screaming pierced the brothers’ ears, as the crowd around them now fled, rather than charge. It was preferable, and Tychus inhaled deeply as the unpleasant cramped tingling faded.

Dozens of skeletons ripped free from their flesh and earthen bonds. Dark green light connecting bones as skeletal forms assembled themselves, standing up to form a protective ring about the both of them. “Still get the creepy-crawlies, Ty?”

The mountain of a man grumbled, nodding unhappily as he wiped his own arms off. Trying to remove a feeling was difficult. “Every abyssal time, too. The way this arena is structured deserves execution. So… points for consistency, I guess.”

Grimaldus had a good-natured laugh. Heavens, he was happy to be out of the pit. You just didn’t meet people with the mental power to put that quality of a sentence together down in the cultivation depths. The Ziggurat region was devoid of intellectualism. At least he was back with his brother and didn’t have to listen to the same droning compliments, copied and parroted by other ingrates because they liked how it sounded. Abyss, he hated that pit. No, he hated the people he was stuck with in the pit. That infernal Essence gathering hole was fine by itself, it would have been even better had he been there alone.

“So what do we do about pointy the poignant over there?”

Tychus snorted, and motioned to where seats were being cleared for them. “We don’t worry about it if that shiny metal can doesn’t make it to us, and spend the day fishing at the lake.”

His brother made the circle of repelling skeletons trudge along, taking seats when he got to the box sections of the bleachers. “The lake would be nice; I’d like the lake. Let's not count our fish before we catch them. Say shiny over there makes it. What’s the plan?”

The mountain shrugged, getting cozy in a shoddy seat that was far too small for his sizable behind. “Same as usual? I do the smashing, you do the Tychus-doesn’t-get-hurt with your adaptive bone armor. It still squicks me out knowing that all the bones you use for that used to be people.”

Grimaldus made one of the skeletons do a little dance, just because he could. “See that? It’s the same idea, just with more bones, and in a different configuration and pattern. It’s just bone, brother. I just move bone in places where you’d normally get hit, and make that take the hit instead of something squishier. Is that Silvia I see getting carted off? Her face is broken.”

Tychus squinted as the cart passed them by. “Bloody nose, sure?”

His brother shook his head to the negative.

“I can tell from the bone hidden behind all that meat blocking your vision. Her skull has several fractures, and all on the front. That shiny boy hits hard. Looks like a single strike too. Good to know. I’m going to have to change the configuration to the armor I’m adapting on you. Also, hand me that carrot.”

Tychus didn’t follow well over half of that, but reached and took one of the vegetables from the bucket before them. Why was it never meat? He missed the days of dried meat. He missed a lot about the old days. “Here. What do you need a carrot for?”

Grimaldus winked at him and stood. “Hey, Six!”

Sextus Palladia stopped as he looked from left to right, searching for the origin of the call. Palladia was a man in his early forties with full gladiator armor kitted on his muscled frame. His voice was gruff, having spent too much time smoking in the pit. The reply oozed disdain when he saw who he was talking to. “What do you want, One?”

Palladia felt a carrot hit his helmet, only to ding off and harmlessly fall to the ground as the top spot holder sneered back at him. Tychus bent over laughing as he caught the joke. “I’m rooting for you!”

It made Grimaldus sad that nobody in the crowd had been smart enough to grasp the nuance of the joke, but felt his curiosity peak when the armored figure in the arena doubled over with laughter. The man was slapping his knee, holding his midriff with his other arm before pointing at Sextus. “Ha, haha! Rooting? Get it? A carrot is a root vegetable!”

The brothers from the Fringe could tell that had specifically been done to make Sextus angry, and get a rise out of the warrior that had clearly not grasped the joke. Neither did he appreciate becoming the joke. Ice popped and cracked as it solidified across his armor and features, his affinity channel of water in plain view before he ever ascended the dais.

Artorian squinted. Affinities: water and fire. So that’s how he was sapping the heat from the water, and solidifying it into ice. Yet, how was he getting physical structures of it on his body? It was more of this construct stuff, and the C-rank three gladiator had him beat on the skill. That was worth a point of expense at the man’s fragile pride. Really uprooted his confidence there!

The gladiator walked up on the dais to a still snickering man in armor. Sextus twirled his spear, and somehow it made the armored figure stop its insulting outburst. He focused on the weapon, and that was something number six could appreciate. Attention on the fight. Good. The two contenders sized each other up, and Palladia had to be honest with himself. He had no idea what he was looking at.

Armor? Yes, but it was seamless. It had no visible weaknesses, and seemed flexible in places where there should have been openings to allow for mobility. On closer deduction, those four lines weren’t vision slits in the helmet. It was… fire? He could tell, but how was the person inside seeing him, or reacting, with a fully closed visor? Was there even a visor?

The visuals were streamlined, but the design served to take attention away from the more dangerous details. Such as the lack of weaknesses. An additional problem was the hum of power surrounding the shiny form in a tight field, while a much larger, significantly lighter field surrounded him and the majority of the arena. Sextus did not like these conditions.

*Tink*.

Tink? Palladia looked down to see a section of his ice protection had fallen from his armor, and was slowly disassembling into nothingness. There was no jettison from the fallen ice, and he couldn’t draw the energy back from the ice construct. Like a piece of snow under the relentless sun, it melted and was gone. That shouldn’t have happened. No ice should be falling off him at all!

*Tink*.

A significant sheet of plating disconnected from his left shoulder and hit the dais. The arena was coated in shattered, still skittering pieces of ice before they again dissolved into nothingness. What was going on? Nobody in the crowd, or any of the close observers called foul play. Even with the people screaming for him to attack already, cold dread crept around Sextus’s hands. Attacking into the unknown was dangerous, and his defenses had been compromised by a means he was unable to see. Abyss! What in Phlegeton’s name was happening?

A nosy old man was cutting Essence constructs like it was a piece of scrumptious cake is what was happening. He’d tapped at a spiky bit with some hardened light, and the ice had come right off. It had been a tiny fleck, and the warrior didn’t notice. The academic had a studious expression plastered on his hidden face, refining a line of water and fire Essence into a line barely the width of a scalpel. Adding the idea of ‘cut’, he then angled the unseen line and passed it diagonally through the points in space where ice coated the gladiator’s armor.

Seeing it hit the ground, and the cultivator appearing not to understand what was going on, he tried absorbing the piece of hard Essence and came upon some revelations. He had done this before, just not in this fashion. Taking the piece of ice-like Essence apart, it had the same base construction idea as his hardened light. Wait, it had more! This Essence construct was external Aura, energized and reshaped to hold the idea of what it was. Like a container, but with a set shape unless you let it do its own thing. It was very specific on the fire to water ratio the entire way through. That explained the ice spike!

He’d expected corruption to be at play, but no such thing was found. Breaking the construct apart, he found he merely had to bathe that area of his Presence in some unseen starlight, and lance away the preset identity. Like evaporating water, the construct reverted to pure water Essence, and he ate it up without a second thought. Excellent, the fire Essence had only been used to leech away heat before dissipating. Then he did it again with the back of a shoulder plate. Same result! Excellent! Now for something a little more… aggressive?

Sextus dropped into a low combat stance, spear at the ready for a stab while his shield angled forward, ready to take a direct hit. Straight on strikes were already known to be something his opponent excelled at; he couldn’t give the man the opportunity. Sextus didn’t feel so good. Was he sizzling? Pumping some extra Essence into his Aura to make sure the ice flows kept growing, he felt it… bump into something?

Something that was tightly compressing around him, siphoning away rogue Essence that left his external Aura. The feeling was also pressing him down to the ground like a weight, and his knee thumped to the arena floor as the gladiator did his best to keep eyes on his opponent as the entirety of his ice armor not immediately touching his armor melted away.

It was akin to being held under a magnifying lens. He was burning up, and fueling more water shielding to block the strange effect didn’t seem to be doing anything to stop his ice from melting. This also swallowed up buckets of his Essence stores as the crippling removal effect worked faster than he could build the ice back up. The effects were so pronounced after a few seconds that a soft vapor cloud of steam started to hang around Palladia.

Artorian was having a delightful buffet of it. Weaknesses in auric defense and holes in the ice technique let him freely coat the warrior in lancing starlight, without the light ever being noticeable. Some infernal Essence that was lanced from the tip of his spear was forced to drift away. It wasn’t hard to see that it beelined for the Ziggurat as soon as it passed Artorian’s membrane. The vaporized water Essence, his Presence took in with ease… at first.

Palladia was putting up a fight? Could you call it a fight when someone ladled soup into your bowl faster than you could drink it? The gladiator was fueling his effects with more Essence than Artorian could reasonably absorb. Oh, look! It made clouds! How charming!

This was certainly not how either of the contestants had expected this fight to go. Whilst he still had the strength, Sextus pushed up through the extra weight, using a burst of refined Essence on his musculature to break free. He charged swiftly, with the practice of a seasoned warrior. His spear would pierce that annoying armor with the force of his arm alone!

He’d have done so as well, if his arm ever had the power to move the spear close enough. The very space he occupied filled with a vapor and wetness that collided and clung. Sextus, midway through his charge, felt like he’d fallen into the ocean and that he was currently trying to run through water. In his confusion, he even saw the armored figure pensively nod, hearing the mumble nobody else did. “Looks like that works too…”

The gladiatorial cultivator was stuck as still as a statue but a few feet away from his intended target. Something hard, solid, and rigid had encased his joints beneath his armor. Or on his armor? It was frustratingly difficult to tell with his Aura being repressed, and when he struggled to expand it back out, felt the solid masses of Essence that had encased and immobilized him. It was like his ice, except… not utilizing fire or water Essence. A similar kind of solid Essence construct meticulously coated him, hard enough to prevent joint movement; like being bound in a cast. Actually, that’s exactly what it felt like. He was entrapped in a mold.

Artorian paced around his handiwork, getting a good look at it. “Looks like I win this one. I’ll take this if you don’t mind, young man. It looks awfully dangerous.”

Palladia the gladiator could do nothing as his opponent relieved him of his spear. The clamps around his fingers released, and let it easily slide from his grip as he was unable to close his hand to grip it tight. Making matters worse, his Essence was still being siphoned. How was he losing essence… his ice! Something about his opponent allowed him to rebuke the ice! Sextus stopped fueling his defensive ability, and Artorian stopped in his tracks.

“Oh. Oh, you figured it out? About time. Any more and you’d have been so low in the D-ranks that you’d have to concede.” Sextus shifted his battle plan, dropping the entire attempt of external armor, and fueling his Essence into his body instead. The armored enemy took a cautious step back. “Ooh, I wouldn’t do that if I were you…”

As if the proud and mighty Sextus would listen to a distraction attempt from an enemy! With power in his musculature, he broke free of the shackles with a mighty roar! Angling his shield forward, he took a deft step, and then felt his world go hazy. His arms and legs screamed in pain, his nerves flaring with fire. Sextus collapsed to the ground in soundless agony; unable to scream from how much everything was hurting, twitching in place.

“Tut, tut, tut.” The thrumming voice sighed while shaking its head. “Lost track of how much Essence you added to your muscles, didn’t you? You’re about to have a few unpleasant nights of no sleep. Nothing fixes an Essence overdose, just have to wait it out. Sorry my boy, you’re out…”

With a foot nudged underneath number six, Artorian soft-punted him out of the arena. Keeping the spear as a trophy, of course!

Chapter Forty-Two

Grimaldus held the second carrot firmly in hand. Not a single set of teeth marks marred the surface of the orange vegetable, as the son of the Fringe remained fully enraptured in what he was seeing. He didn’t actually buy what his eyes were selling. What was this ridiculousness? No wonder this upstart had been trucking through the lineup, this was insane! What kind of a C-ranker increased in power as you fought them? He was only C-rank three, and his brother one lower. Their opponent was C-rank seven, and he’d been rank six before the fight had started.

“Brother, I think we may need to step in before this becomes a problem. I also think… we might not be able to win.”

Tychus was rarely concerned when it came to fights, but his brother had a nose for trouble. Munching on some unknown leafy greenery, he stopped to glance over, cheeks bloated full of ‘rabbit food’. Some mumbling sounds came out, but a look from his brother made him swallow his food before trying again. “Why do you say that? It’s just one man, tired from repeated battle.”

Grimaldus slapped his forehead, groaning at his muscle head of a family member. “Ty, have you been paying attention?”

The mountain shrugged, licking his fingers clean. “I’m better at executing the plan, not coming up with it. You can see things I don't know how to. I lift. Now what is wrong?

Grimaldus firmly nudged his face in the direction of the dais. “That man started at a C-… you still don’t know the rankings, do you?”

Tychus looked away to pretend he wasn’t involved, and his brother sighed, covering his face with his hand to try not to be ashamed. “He’s stronger than both of us together, right now. He’s about where…”

The black-robed man leaned closer, whispering so only his curious brother heard him. “He’s where our Vizier is. We’re going to get rolled!”

The mountain unpleasantly shifted in his seat, expression no longer quite as ashamed, but far more concerned. “So should we just say he won, and take him to the Vizier? That’s not how we do things brother. We are from the Fringe! We are defeated only when we decide we are defeated. Give not the enemy victory when you can take it for yourself. We are merely afraid of a possibility. Now come brother, use your genius. How do we win?”

For all his bluster, Grimaldus appreciated his brother’s brilliant optimism, and equally brilliant smile. Really, how did he keep his teeth so white? He rubbed his temples, racking his brain. “We can’t half-abyss this. We should go in at full strength from the start, with everything stacked on and ready. Forget the rules, we have to make sure to get out of the fight alive. Power up and get in the ring. Don’t let anyone else fight, or that heavy armor monster is going to plow through us without a care in the world. Any more power and even my clever plans aren’t going to get us anywhere. Go, go! Make a scene! I need time.”

Tychus dropped his food, and jumped over the fence keeping them boxed in the private seats. He didn’t like it when even his clever brother was nervous, so he kept his voice bursting with strength. “Five! Hold!”

Symarael locked gazes with an equally confused Uferiel, but she stopped from finishing the sign-up process. She’d expected an interruption, but not on her turn. She pressed a hand to her cocked hip, and waited for Tychus to plod on over like a bull trotting to a fence. “Two? What is it, Tychus?”

The mountain cleared his throat and leaned over her, placing a hand on Uferliel’s clipboard. “No need for that, Coordinator. She’s not going next; my brother and I are. You can…”

Symarael kicked the massive man in the shin so hard that he jumped around on the other leg. “What! You will not do the replacing of me!”

Laughter belted from the dais as Artorian hooted, watching and listening to the display his son was going through. Ahhh… still the same old tactless boy. Still had a fleck of greenery stuck to his cheek as well, and didn’t even notice it. That was certainly Tychus. The two bickered for a while, but the woman stomped off angrily after feistily slapping her hand across his cheek. Looks like he was going into battle with a handprint on his face.

Tychus, cheek burning, stepped up onto the arena. He was not expecting to be addressed, and the words unsettled him. “Tychus. I’m… I’m so glad to see you again. Tell your brother to come over, we have much to discuss.”

The mountain didn’t want to approach further. ‘Again’? If this was a repeat fight, he was at a disadvantage as his particular use of the infernal was as simple as he was. Still, Grim had asked him to make a scene, so a scene he would make. “I. Am. Tychus!”

The crowd exploded in cheers once again. They loved seeing one of their champions galivant and pace about in a small oval, hands up to draw more of their reactions. “I am the unassailable mountain, the tower of strength, and wooer of the most wonderful women!”

People snickered. They knew that last one was a joke; particularly with the very obvious handprint on his face.

The armored figure crossed his arms and cocked his head. “Are you… sure? That doesn’t sound like you.”

Tychus grumbled as the retort made the crowd slather on a round of laughter. Not the scene he was wanting to make. He wanted to put some dents in that armor, but he knew it was a ruse. He needed to wait no further as his brother stepped onto the dais. Laughter turned back into cheering as the brothers performed their fist-bump. It was always a good show when the top favorites came to brawl! “What took you, brother?”

Grimaldus shot some side-eye at the coordinator. “Unexpected addition to the roster. Number three is joining in as well.”

Tychus threw his head back, in pretend pain. “What? No. Not him. I don’t like him!”

“Evening boys... Ready to get sweaty?” Grimaldus winced at the smell of grease and sweat. Number three was as big as Tychus, but several times as girthy, and several times as smelly.

Grim glared at the man. “Wash, you oversized boar!”

Blairon the Boar, aptly named, looked sickly from how happy he was to be there. “All three of us on the stage! Isn’t that just exciting? Maybe there will be hugs afterwards…”

Both sons of the Fringe visibly cringed, already doing their best not to hurl at Blairon’s presence. Grimaldus sternly looked the other way. “Can we not.”

Uferiel threw his wooden sticks into the air and stomped off. To the abyss with the rules apparently! Artorian had a look at the additional opponent in front of him. That… he agreed with his boys. This wasn’t going to be allowed. “Excuse me. Three of you? Really?”

Blairon, loving the spotlight, got loud and proud. Waddling himself forward as he addressed the crowd. “I alone am enough for you, weak man hiding in his armor! My armor is my girthy and thick meat!! My mass cannot be-”

*Shink*!

“I’m sorry, my boys. I just couldn’t listen to that.” Grimaldus and Tychus turned their sights back to the center of the arena, where a spear had impaled the brain-space of the smelly dead man.

The smaller of the Fringe brothers cleared his throat, and nudged a toe at the fat boar. Grim wanted it removed, but didn’t… really want to touch it. “No that… completely understandable. We could change rings? This one is a little tainted.”

The armored form strolled over, and slid his foot under the meat-pile.

“No, it’s fine… just… nyeh!” With a wet, meaty flop, the number three arced off the arena and laid still in the mud. Nobody wanted to move that body. It could… wait.

Artorian cleared his throat and thickened the membrane on the edge of his Presence. With that simple action, he altered the light that moved through until the outside of his Presence appeared as a dark orb, blotting out the battlefield. “Better! It’s about time we got some privacy.”

Tychus looked around, and backed up close against his brother as the inside of what was clearly an orb lit back up. A different kind of light, but light either way. “Brother. Tell me you have something.”

Grimaldus had his hands raised, but wasn’t firing the expected infernal bolts of energy. Their opponent was just… standing there. He was going to reply to Tychus, but the armored form leveled a question. “Your names. What do they mean?”

The brothers pressed side to side, and Grim changed his tactics to quickly summon the bones from outside of the arena. While they crossed the threshold into the inner workings of the light sphere easily enough, he lost his connection the moment they did. The bones sizzled and began to… melt? Finally replying to his brother, Grimaldus just gave a very weak headshake in the negative. No. He had nothing. If he started attacking, his brother would get decimated.

Biting through the realization of defeat as imagined example after imagined example led to them losing. He dropped his arm and found a thread of hope, perhaps he could just answer the question. “I am Grimaldus. Son of the Fringe, necromancer of the Ziggurat, loyal to my brother, and self-proclaimed intellectual.”

With a nudge to the ribs, Tychus followed suit. Not entirely sure why Grim wasn’t telling him to start throwing fists. “I… ueh… Tychus. Son of the Fringe. Apex warrior of the Ziggurat, loyal to my brother, and actual mountain of muscle; nothing self-proclaimed about it.”

The opponent nodded. He seemed satisfied with something, though neither of the brothers could tell why. Grimaldus blinked as he watched their opponent do something truly odd. The man was… removing his helmet?

“My name… is Artorian,” their enemy rumbled while a long, hefty white beard spilled free. The voice of an old man replaced the thrumming depth the armor portrayed.

“Lover of naps, a pain to the self-entitled, scholar, philosopher, ex-Elder of a tiny village.” The helmet came off fully, and a massive familiar smile beamed at them. “And proud father of two very much living and healthy boys, who have grown up to become men in my absence. Hello, my sons.”

He bit back his emotions as best he could, but the helmet slipped from his fingers and clattered to the ground as tears ran down his still smiling face. Eyes squinted; he extended his arms towards them. “How I have missed you both.”

Chapter Forty-Three

Neither Tychus nor Grimaldus knew what to say. The words were stuck in their throats, as if they were choking on coconuts. Grimaldus felt his mind race and seize up, failing to grasp what he saw. The memories in his head screamed at him, overburdened him. In front of him was the face of a man that should have died well over a decade ago. Though his memories were hazy, the elder looked exactly as his child-mind remembered. “But you’re dead?”

Tychus had no such hiccup. The moment he saw the elder’s face, his face fell forward, and his fists clenched so hard that his knuckles turned white. He took a step toward the old man, and blared out a howl of twisted emotions. He was both excruciatingly happy, and profoundly sad all at the same time. Not knowing how to reconcile the two, the mountain just scooped up his elder like a child would lift their oldest teddy bear. He mashed the side of his face against Artorian, and squeezed for all he was worth as tears streamed down his face.

Artorian was spun as fast as his cultivation technique when his now largest son refused to let him go. He didn’t mind for the moment, glad to squeeze the giant lug. He was certain Tychus was trying to talk to him, but the words came out as malformed bleating. When his massive son carried him over to Grimaldus to show off his find like it was an animal he caught in the wild, Grim snapped from his mental stupor.

He didn’t know when he’d started crying, but only now did he feel the contortions on his face as the elder wrapped his arms around his dark cloak. “B… but how?”

Artorian sniffled, not having a sleeve to wipe his face with. “Honestly, I gave you many clues! Did I need to make some kind of quip about choosing the worst cup, or have you been banging your head against the same hard rock your brother looks like he’s been lifting for the past decade? I even named myself Mr. Fringe for this stupid arena just to get your attention!”

That’s not what Grimaldus had meant, but he no longer cared. His fears that this was yet another loyalty test faded. This was very much the same Elder from all those years ago; nobody else would know about that stupid cup. He had loved that dumb cup. “I just… you… you can’t be here!”

He silenced himself and melted into the embrace. He just didn’t know how to process this situation. Tychus couldn’t bear to be left out, so he scooped them both up in a bear hug. Artorian’s voice cracked, but he finally got two proper words out. “Family, get!”

The trio needed a minute. Surprise reunions were taxing, and heavy on mental energy costs. When Tychus finally put them back down, their Elder didn’t waste a second filling them in on crucial details. “I’ve missed my boys. You’re the last two I’ve come to fetch. I’m so, so sorry it took me so long to get to you.”

Grimaldus wiped his face clean with his sleeve, but let his Elder borrow it for the same purpose as he immediately slid in with the questions. “Last two? So when we lost contact with Astrea, it was…?”

Artorian fiercely nodded. “I’ve got her, she’s safely in one of the regions I’ve made secure. You wouldn’t believe the firepower that’s defending that place. Wuxius and Lunella are home in the Fringe, rebuilding.”

Tychus screeched in delight, a massive smile broadly plastered on his face. The mountain used Grim’s robe to wipe his face, though his brother was far more grumbly and reluctant about it. “They’re fine! I thought it was down to just us!”

Their Elder squeezed them both by the wrists. “Safe and accounted for. I did promise, after all.”

Artorian was shoulder nudged by his non-humongous son. He was elated about the harmless little punch, glad to see that tiny touch still lived. Grimaldus straightened himself, already thinking about the problems that were going to come next. The fight still needed a winner, and he was being tracked. “I’d love to get out of the Ziggurat region, and especially the Mistress’s grasp, but these make that difficult.”

The necromancer extended his left arm, a bone bracelet sliding down to his wrist where it stopped and remained in place. A tiny opal connected the molded carbon together. He was about to explain, but the concerned and calculating expression on his Elder’s face told him that he didn’t need to do so. He filled in answers to questions he thought someone would ask if they were to see these for the first time.

“Can’t crush it. Not for lack of trying, but it marks you for removal. There’s always someone stronger, so crushing your own bracelet just turns everyone against you. It tracks my position so long as the person it is keyed to has… I’m not sure about that part, but I’d bet my favorite humerus that it would end if the person it is keyed to died. Mine is keyed to The Mistress, Ty’s is keyed to the Vizier. We can’t leave the Z region without them knowing, and while you seem to be on par with our Vizier, the Mistress is… something else entirely.”

His son was quick on the uptake, but still Artorian ruminated. The new information was added, and he could finally squeeze a hand down his beard to think it over. After two hours of repetitive one-on-one fights, he was glad for the small, soothing comfort. “Ah, yes, my son. She’s a Mage bound to a Law that has something to do with flesh-sculpting, I’m aware of the problem. Tell me more about this Vizier, is he a good person?”

Grimaldus froze, having just heard terms he’d never encountered before dropped completely nonchalantly on a problem he’d been struggling with for years. “She’s a what? Never mind. I’ll figure it out. No, he is not. The Vizier is an absolute scumbag and entirely responsible for dragging Astrea, Tychus, and me all the way over here from the Fringe. There used to be two advisors, but it’s believed one is dead already. So the Vizier now oversees operations in the room at the top of the Ziggurat. On that note, please tell me this bubble we’re in is soundproof?”

The wily academic winked, and shoved a thumb over his shoulder. “Can you hear the crowd? Because they can’t hear or see you. Thought that was fairly clear with the calm spot of space we’re in. Upholding the compound effects are more costly than I’d like. So let’s not dally. I can’t knock the Mage down a peg, but this Vizier fellow is free game. I’m feeling warmed up and vengeful. Let’s put a plan together.”

* * *

Uferiel returned with a stiff upper lip and a heart full of rage. A small horde of raiders were at his back and disposal. Nobody breaks arena rules. He arrived at the main dais only to see a large dark orb taking up a good chunk of it. Many people were on the arena, poking and prodding at the semisolid… thing. This was all sorts of not allowed! “What happened here?”

The stylish coordinator stomped up the steps with guards in tow, and people who knew they weren’t supposed to be there quickly made themselves scarce. Uferiel wasn’t interested in appearing any weaker than he already did, and dropped a hand towards the runners. Several raiders took off after the fleeing rule breakers. They’d be caught, and they’d be publicly punished. Keeping order was paramount. He leveled his gloved digit at another coordinator that had aided him earlier. “You! Answer my question.”

The aide jogged towards the head coordinator. Something was in his hand, and Uferiel recognized it as half of a femur. The middle of it was goopy, melting, and… unpleasant. He didn’t want to touch it as the aide launched into a hasty explanation.

“My lord, after your leave, number three was skewered through the head by a spear. His body is… over there. We haven’t touched it. The top two fighters were then swallowed by the shadowy, swirling orb. Skeletons ran into it at a certain point, but we know they didn’t get very far. This is what we’ve recovered.”

Uferiel just waved off the offer of personally inspecting the half-molten bone. He got the gist. “Continue.”

The bone was haphazardly tossed away. “Since we saw what happened to the bone, we haven’t wanted to try very hard in breaching that swirling dark mass. The Didact and the Mountain are both inside, along with Mr. Fringe. We’re half guessing the thing will eventually go away, and we’re just waiting for that to happen.”

Uferiel waited a moment. Things like that tended to be said with a coinciding event occurring. The universe was jinxed like that. The aide looked over his shoulder, not certain what his superior was looking for, because nothing happened. The stylish man sighed, rubbed at his lips, and spoke.

He didn’t get a word out before the ball dropped and the orb whisked away. Fans cheered and fights broke out in the stands. Uferiel pushed the aide out of the way to get a look. He saw the Mountain sitting on his butt, the Didact standing tall, and Mr. Fringe lying on the ground in the full armor he remembered seeing last.

Grimaldus punched his fist into the sky. “Victory for the Ziggurat!”

Tychus picked up the seemingly fallen Mr. Fringe, hoisting him over the shoulder as the raiders Uferiel brought stopped onlookers from storming the stage. Tychus was glad for it. No more surprise hugging… especially when Grim’s protective skeleton circle wasn’t available. He grumbled under his breath to his brother, raring to go. “Ready.”

Grimaldus threw his dark cloak across himself with a dramatic flaunt, flouncing out of there with effortful self-important superiority. The coordinator hustled to keep pace next to them as they waltzed past him without a second thought. Incomprehensible happy noises surrounded them, and Ufieriel gladly held his tongue until they were ascending the Ziggurat steps. “My Lords, I can deduce that you were victorious. Will the contestant be… returning?”

Grimaldus shot the man some side-eye. “We’re taking him to the Grand Vizier for evaluation. We will not make decisions that do not belong to us, coordinator. Would you like to come with us for the audience?”

Uferiel turned on a heel and descended the steps without a second thought. “A lovely day to you, my lords!”

Artorian mumbled softly once the man was out of earshot. “About time.”

Tychus hushed back, groaning unpleasantly at his brother. “This is a terrible plan. We should try something else.”

“Brother, relax.” Grimaldus nudged the large bruiser. “It’s a good plan, just because you didn’t get to trade fists with our Elder doesn’t mean I can’t tell he’s on par with the Vizier. Stick to the plan. You just keep the door sealed with all you’ve got; I’ll keep the help away from the commotion. Remember that you need to play stupid if anyone comes asking. Tell them the Vizier told you to do it.”

The mountain huffed. “Only matters if the Vizier dies…”

His elder giggled lightly, “My boy, you think I won’t win?”

Tychus had momentarily forgotten he was carrying the person in question, and looked away. “No, I mean… sorry, Elder. I’ve gotten floored by that oversized snake rather often. All I’m good at is packing a lot of power into my fists. I can dish out, but I’m surprisingly brittle and cannot take. The infernal Essence we can use is strange, I don’t understand it well. That’s more Grim’s thing. Just don’t get hit by the venom he can spit. Stuff’s nasty, eats right through stone.”

The Mountain staggered as his ear got flicked by shaped Essence. “I’m not the Elder of the Fringe anymore. Lunella has the robes now. Call me grandfather, but you’re welcome to drop the grand. Or, Artorian as I’ve already stated. We’re going to get everyone together one way or another… even if I don’t agree that we should wait for future plans to develop.”

Grimaldus shook his head, but his features bled into a massive smile. The son of the Fringe liked the idea of having a dad again. He said nothing about Ty’s trembling lower lip as the sniffling giant tried to keep quiet. “I would go insane without Tychus to keep me company. I too want to leave, but it would be folly so long as we’re being tracked. I will try and usurp the Vizier after his death, and attempt to veer problems away from certain places. If I can sneak information to Skyspear, I will. Don’t blast the person in lapis robes, I think I know how to get my hands on some. I have many questions… father. Yet, it can wait until we are secure, and not tiptoeing around a noose.”

Artorian beamed proudly under his helm. Yes. Excellent… his boys were still his boys. Though, he worried about leaving them here longer. The knowledge he’d come get them if they couldn’t get themselves out of this was crucial, so he’d just have to trust his lads to hold down the fort. Darn Mages! They complicated life for the little guy. How dare.

“I’ll be more than glad to engage in lengthy conversations of philosophy and wit, when we’re all settled. Just secure me a place to confine the Vizier, and kill as many lights and torches as you can on the way. There are many people on my list. I so look forward to crossing this new one off.”

Tychus just smirked. He also enjoyed the idea of that smug snake getting its fangs cracked. “My fist-sense is tingling.”

His brother laughed, relishing in the freedom to do so as they ascended the Ziggurat’s stairs without any people around to stifle them. He exhaled, and a light lime-green light flickered in the back of his throat. “I so look forward to that monster being crossed off as well…”

Chapter Forty-Four

Deep within the Ziggurat, Amon slithered back and forth in his private chambers. Something was wrong. He’d temporarily lost track of where the mountain had been, only for him to reappear at the spot he’d vanished. The tracking sense now told him that particular servant was almost to his door, but the event unsettled him still. He’d never lost track of a servant before, no opal bone bracelet just blipped in its function and stopped working for a while.

He’d question the Emerald Eyes soon. A different nearby servant bowed, vermillion scales coating patches of her upper arms. “The mountain requests audience, my Vizier. He says your will has been done, and the upstart is being delivered. The mountain says he is worthy, and had his catch not been knocked out, was already willing to join your fold.”

Amon hissed in delight, the pressure relieving as stress rolled off his lengthy tail. Yes. Of course. There was no reason for concern. Of course it was another victory just waiting to come to him. The curse of the Emerald Eyes was lifted after the death of the swan princess. Everything had gone smoothly since, though he vividly recalled the peculiar way things had always seemed to go unexpectedly awry. A concern of the past!

“I grant this audience…” Bronze doors parted to reveal Tychus, prize draped over his shoulder. The Vizier saw the mountain clasp wrists with his brother and share a nod before the two parted ways.

“My Vizier, I have brought the upstart, as you desired.”

A wrist motion directed the mountain to place his winnings down next to a pillar, and Tychus moved to do so as Amon finger-steepled his usual pyramid. He was delighted! Such an interesting specimen. What flawless, smooth armor! It spoke to his aesthetic, and his eyes flicked across the slumped man’s features. Oh, he couldn’t wait to begin interrogations!

“Leave us; you have done well.” Tychus bowed, and motioned for the aides in the room to come with him. Amon didn’t stop the request; the mountain had successfully guessed that he wanted prized alone time. In fact, it pleased him greatly! Even the lime-green Favor in the room slid from its seat and noncommittally bounced out of his chambers! He so needed time away from those bothersome moths. Hearing the metal clang as the door closed, the massive serpent slithered close, coming face to face with the slumped helmet.

“So what have we here…? Greetings, little specimen. Gack!” Amon choked as the suit of armor snapped its grip upwards, clamping thoroughly on the front of his throat where part of his airway forcibly collapsed shut. The silver lines mistaken as eye-holes flared bright red, and the helmet tilted up slowly to regard a surprised Vizier.

“Hello.”

The Vizier’s eyes opened wide, vertical eye-slits focusing as infernal Essence coursed between his fingers. His steeple broke as he stirred from the moment of surprise, preparing to bathe the entire area before him in deadly swaths of disintegrating energy. He was interrupted as the hand clamping his throat shut pulled him closer with enough force to crack-slam his face against the pillar.

Artorian was up with the swift whistle of wind, twisting out of the way as he connected pillar to face while setting his feet into a stable stance. He was already launching forward to plant a second Essence powered fist into the side of Amon’s face as the cloud of caustic energy sputtered from the cobra’s digits. The Vizier snarled in a seething hiss, the blow to his face stifling his ability to see from his right side.

The lights in Amon’s chambers extinguished as he slithered back, and only his own glowing eyes, and only the four red eye-lines remained visible in the room a moment later before they too vanished. Amon felt alone in the chamber of darkness. What was ordinarily a comfort was now a confusing, enraging, insufferable insult. Luckily, he did not rely on his eyes to see. Forked tongue flicking from his muzzle, he tasted the air and… tasted his enemy immediately. Everywhere.

How could someone be everywhere? He, Grand Vizier Amon, was the one whose Presence should be everywhere! Covering the world in his magnanimous might!

Artorian silently stepped around behind another pillar. Sound absorbed by his extended Presence as he built up power to begin an entire circus of effects. It had taxed him when he’d fought Cataphron that first time. This time, the burden of multiple effects would not be so taxing. Throwing his voice, he made the sound appear behind the Vizier’s head. “Your people came to the Fringe.”

Amon twisted into a coil, surrounding himself with a defensive cloud as a disintegrating infernal effect coated the massive serpent as if it were an extra layer of skin. Even in the pitch-black dark, his energy swirled about. Creating a visible outline as a powerful tail slam brutalized his own throne. Flattening and destroying the entire area in a swath behind him as the remains disintegrated while latent effects dissolved materials away.

Four silver lines appeared to his left. Sound erupted in a controlled, cold rage. “They destroyed my village. Scattered my family.”

The pillar exploded into rubble as Amon’s tail once again uncoiled with force and incredible mass. Forcing a croaking rumble to moan out from the rest of the structure. It was a terrible idea to destroy valuable support struts, but the Vizier was too engrossed in thinking about how to silence this… unexpected Emerald Eye development. He called for his aides. “Guards!”

No response came, and the bronze door remained closed. He hissed in anger, flooding the entire space of his private chambers with the caustic disintegrating foil. If he could not locate his opponent, he would make it so he did not have to. The voice was heard again, this time directly above him. He knew better than to fall for a ruse a third time.

“I was content. I was going to pass. Then. This.”

Artorian’s foot coated in Essence identity countering the disintegrating flood. He had faced worse, and he had faced better. Amon’s face was crushed into the floor as his assailant plowed into his skull from above. Acidic blood sputtered from the cobra’s nose, mouth, and eyes as the crunching impact splattered him on the ground.

Artorian felt his foot thunk against bone, signaling his enemy wasn’t going to compress any further, and made himself scarce from the location before spikes of burning, venomous darkness splintered into the space he had occupied a second ago. It grew from Amon’s head like a fire, wildly sprouting with a crackle of thunderous infernal energy.

The Vizier howled in pain, swiping wildly with his tail. He couldn’t afford to keep taking damage like this. He exhaled his last breath, and a lime-green brightness built in the back of his throat, taking over the light behind his vertically slit eyes.

Artorian knew something was wrong. He felt it as his Presence… tingled unpleasantly. A higher category of power was intermingling itself into the Vizier. Mana…? Or not quite? He couldn’t take the risk to have his Presence fielded across anything Mana related. A drop of it would splinter his every trick into tiny smithereens. Tutting, he pulled it all back to his form, slipping his back against an unbroken pillar as his advantage was removed.

Bathed in lime colorations, the green thrummed until it matched the beat and consistent tremble of a heartbeat. Amon’s voice altered from slithered difficulty, to an undead rumble as the human aspect of his voice easily returned. He was no longer using a voice box of flesh to speak, after all. “Filthy upstart, I shall feed you to the flame of the moths. Your feeble attempts at assassination are void. I know not how you tricked my servants, but I care not. You shall not exit my chambers alive.”

Artorian considered a cute retort, but thought better of it. He should start keeping a running tally of the amount of death threats and wondering if he was going to die. It was a sizable number by now. Just for fun? There would be no further talk with whatever the flesh-creature had turned into.

Sneaking a peek, a gargantuan skeletal cobra covered in crystal goop and a coral coating had replaced what had originally been a decently pretty snake. So much for blunt impact… that goop layer definitely looked like it would absorb kinetic energy.

His plan to stay in the enclosed room… alright. Bad plan. Backfired quite a bit. He should leave. Artorian wasn’t going to be able to distract the thing, he couldn’t get a grasp of how it sensed the world. He’d also used the element of surprise… so… run for it!

Without another thought, he bolted quick as the wind to the bronze door, but failed to reach it as a batting tail caught him right in the chest and sent him barreling back in the opposite direction. Artorian crashed hard into the now crumbly stone wall. He cried out in anguish, armor cracking and tearing from the raw strength of the blow. “Oof!”

It hurt more than an ‘oof’ could convey, but that’s what he got before cracking with a clang against the ground. He did not roll out of the way in time for a follow up tail strike to repeatedly bash him down into the metaphorical dirt. Artorian learned what a drum felt like, funneling Essence into his armor to repair it as a proficient tail kept dribbling him. Blunt bouncing damage hurt, and the massive snake was not letting up. His vision fizzled out hard as one of the slams put a chink into a Rune that helped make the visual effect.

Artorian’s world went dark, feeling only the pain of being ragdolled as he was thunked through the Vizier’s chamber like a rubber ball being struck every second and a half by a gargantuan tail that didn’t have the slightest problem keeping up with the rapid projectile. His Presence was neutralizing the disintegration effect, but that was a minor boon.

Faintly, he could hear amused undead laughter from the massive creature. Shielding himself with Essence and tucking in arms, he raced for ideas. He couldn’t risk extending his Presence, the armor was toast, and he couldn’t remove it because if even one of those slams would do to his bones what it had done to that support pillar. He was being batted around and… wait, bat? Echolocation!

Air Essence activated as the pounded cultivator shifted to external Aura usage, and hummed. His armor turned it into a thrum, but the air Essence fueled waves bounced across the room and came back to him faster than the massive snake was batting him around. While details were rough, the layout of the room appeared in his mind. Like a fading blueprint that was constantly updated each time a sound wave returned to him. To be frank, it was pretty fantastic.

A loud lurching metal groan of chestplate bending and twisting asunder made Amon cackle. Catharsis! He’d never felt the need to pull on the borrowed Favor power, because it was fleeting. He’d also not known it would turn him into an undead crystal cobra. His Queen would be furious with him for wasting all her hard years of work if this was permanent. He’d cross that bridge when it was time, for now he had a bug to crush. The sound the bug made went ignored, until a slicing air blade crackling with hard light forced him to swivel his head out of the way. Abyss!

Amon missed the next strike, and Artorian landed hard on a shoulder. It popped out of its socket with an unpleasant snap, but the old man was on his feet and already darting to the bronze door. He didn’t have earth Essence, nor the means to affect metal. He also knew Tychus was helping to keep it shut. How could he force Tychus to let go, and get rid of the door? A thought struck him. A simple, repeated thought that must have been a universal truth. He didn’t know how he’d never considered the option before, but it rang loud and true. When in doubt…

Fireball.

Chapter Forty-Five

Why use one fireball, when you could use two? Around his good hand, Artorian charged his starlight Essence. Unlike the normal identities to ‘soothe’ or ‘lance’, he tapped into a third one. Equally as natural. Equally as common. He spoke the words, not realizing he did so with as much venom as Amon was filled with.

“Burn.”

Spheres of power surrounded Artorian’s hand. As fire, it burned a hot white phosphorous bright. He’d have been concerned about being permanently blinded by being so close to his own effect. So harsh was the brightness that if it hadn’t been for his current blindness, he’d have used just fire. He didn’t have the time to fine tune the light away to maximize the heat effect, and hurled one orb back at the undead snake, who sizzled from sheer proximity to the starlight effect while the other flung towards the gateway.

Would his orb be hot enough to get through a thick bronze door? He didn’t know, and was unable to see the craft turn red, then orange, then white as the orb stuck to it like a sticky wet grape. Screams made it through from the other end. Well… it was successful in forcing Ty to let go, but based on his echolocation returns, a door remained. Abyss!

Glancing in the other direction, the Vizier had dodged the ‘fireball’ and was charging in his direction with a swift lunge. The light from the burning ball sticking to the far wall was suffering to all of Amon’s existence. His body burned, his mind burned. He shrieked in maddened outcry as he shot forward, completely in the dark on why his world was made of agony.

Jumping out of the way, sadly not entirely in time, Artorian lost feeling in the same arm he’d fallen on earlier as the burning, disintegration effect coated mass slammed into his side and crashed into the space that used to contain the bronze door. Used to, as the molten slag now coated the undead monstrosity, adding a third kind of burn to the Vizier. Ha! Artorian winced, surprisingly winded by that last blow. He staggered his functional shoulder against a pillar and pulled his Aura in, covering himself in starlight Essence. Shifting to Presence, he coated just him and his gear as the echolocation information dimmed away. How was he doing?

C-rank four. Eesh, costly. He let much of his Essence flood free, feeding the self-repairing and form shaping Runes on the armor that drank it in. His protections were trashed by being pinballed across the room. Countless imprints now littered the space in his embarrassing impact positions. He chanced a breather, listening to the massive snake deal with his burning orb in the gateway.

Artorian had a moment to decide how much he was going to invest in repairing his armor. The analysis was swift: cost was irrelevant. He was dead without the hardened exterior shell. He pulled a mental lever, and let the Iridium plate have everything it wanted. His cultivation lurched, and Artorian dropped to a knee as a full three and a half cultivation ranks were ripped straight out of his Aura. The only plus was that his shoulder popped back into place from raw Essence expenditure. His fingers tingled before regaining feeling and functionality, nerves and muscle mending from the soothing starlight healing surging through his frame.

He squeezed his grip open and closed, jumping away from a thrashing strike just as he heard it coming. Artorian was too slow, and groaned as he was blown back to a mere three feet away from his still burning starlight-ball embedded in the back wall.

Oh, that had hurt! It hurt bad. His Presence was mending him, and the armor was finally reconfiguring itself into a stable protective form as he peeled himself free from the rock. Falling seven feet was no fun, but with the armor molding and forming around him, he hadn’t the use of his legs to catch himself. Complaining on the ground, he remembered he could use air to soften his fall. A little too late with his face already in the crumbled gravel.

He pushed himself to his feet, and rolled his working shoulders. “Over here, you dried up carcass. I have a gift for all the misery and stress you’ve caused me over all these many years.”

Glancing at his starlight sphere, he considered pulling it from the wall. But no. No, there was wisdom that needed tending to and just as before, the truth was clear. If in doubt, use more fireballs.

A very much on fire Amon raged and slithered towards the outline of the heat form he could see. Being undead gave an entirely different perspective to the world. He saw that which was alive, and it didn’t matter if a little bit of rock got in the way. A soft heartbeat was as loud, and as irritating, as the steady thudding of war drums. Other heat signatures in the area he noticed as well, but the balls of burning light were tearing at… everything. They didn’t just lance his senses, but attacked his mind, his body, his Aura, his power. It burned him at a depth he could not perceive.

Amon could not have known that starlight was a particularly potent antithesis against undead. He could not have known that the borrowing of Favor’s power siphoned away his Aura to dump all the force fully into keeping up his empowered, far superior undead body. Several components of him dropped radically in defense, because the particular threat he faced was simply not something that otherwise existed.

More prominent threats he became immune to, yet he did not face melee nor weapons. Neither arrows nor spears mundane struck him, nor techniques not steeped in celestial. Facing him was a problem that functioned with celestial, but took it to a compounded category. He was fueled with maddened rage, and did not know why as memories burned away. A more serpentine, base level instinctual mind replaced him.

Artorian stood, calming himself as he focused not on the charging momentum of death, but on the numerous circling pea sized orbs that hovered around him in a gyroscopic formation. He inhaled and took a wide horse stance, spreading his arms out. Exhaling, he circled his arms. The orbs followed suit before they erupted into the size of apples, then melons. The orbs spun faster and faster, and Artorian heard a *fizz* as his sight partially restored when the vision Runes mended.

Not that it did much. The blinding brightness directly around him caused the view to melt into a crackly, uncertain, shifting screen of frazzled and fuzzy static. The Runes couldn’t process or render a view where so much energy was interfering. Only hazy bits and pieces made it through in a muddled greyscale.

The first sight that properly processed made him tense in fear. More in panic than through actual planning, he thrust his hands forward in a *gnnn* of heart-gripping fear, not having known before just how close his opponent had been. The gaping, hungry, venomous fang-filled maw of the biggest crystal cobra he’d ever seen lunged at him, only to take a chest full of sequentially launched orbs that tore holes right through the undead’s weakened defenses.

As with the others, the solar orbs stuck to the far wall, smoldering the surroundings as their light lanced and scalded layer after layer from the Vizier’s mutated body. For a moment, Artorian believed victory was in his grasp. He lost that feeling as the gaping maw snapped shut around his being. Even if the head of the cobra had been ripped and rent from the rest of its body, it wasn’t neutralized. Important life lesson: even a beheaded serpent head could still bite.

The scream that erupted from Artorian matched the shrill sound of venomed fangs piercing through iridium armor. The massive, curved bones stabbed deep into his being, and the weight of the skull alone pinned him to the ground.

The Vizier’s borrowed undead light winked out. The lime-green light vanished from existence in the span of a single breath. Across the area of the Ziggurat, bone bracelets crumbled as the opal keeping them together fractured and pulverized from feedback shock. Tychus too watched his restraint dangle, tumbling from his wrist before becoming bone dust on the floor. He grit his teeth when it happened, infernal Essence still restoring the damage done to his hands from sudden door burns.

Elation replaced pain. He was free!

Bursting from his hiding place, he ran as fast as he could to the Vizier’s chambers. Acrobatics snuck him through the wrought and wrecked hallway, and some blinding lights inside of the chamber were winking out one at a time. When he shoulder-checked through the rocks to form a new passageway, the dying light of the last orb was swiftly weakening. It was enough for him to see the slumped figure of his grandfather, pierced through by both of the gargantuan serpent’s envenomed fangs.

“Elder!”

Artorian drew a labored breath. His Presence remained pulled around his form, doing what he could to prevent the crystal venom from getting into his vitals. Even with intricate knowledge of the venom, the quantity of it that he was fighting off was going to result in a loss. He didn’t heal as fast as he needed to during purging. This was accounted for by the fact that he still had two very sizable fangs piercing him, and getting those out needed to be a slow and carefully monitored process. Just tugging them out would kill him. He’d in no way heal the gaping damage left behind with the pitiful Essence he had left.

Where was he? D-something? D-rank five. Ew. Here comes another few years of recovery. He pushed weakly against the snout. It didn’t budge. Crackers and toast! Faltering and about to lose hope, he heard the voice of his son. *Cough*. “Ty… Tychus! Break the fangs!”

The Mountain was at Artorian’s side with the speed of darkness. The environment reacted to his heavy expenditure of Essence and pushed him along as light faded. With a glance, he could discern the situation was dire. Clear directions helped significantly, and with a roar he smashed through the brittle, greying fangs using a hammerfist. Both loudly shattered. Without that support, the entire head fell sideways. Gently flaking away in the remains of the dying starlight.

Artorian didn’t know how many more words he was going to get out. It didn’t feel like either of the stabbers had gone through his lungs, but it hurt regardless. “Ed… edge of the refugee camp. Dwarven caravan. Two axes behind a stein of ale as sigil. Hu… hurry please.”

Tychus was a doer, not a thinker. Scooping his grandfather up, he took in the need with the same direction and haste as he did when Grim laid out a plan. There didn’t need to be questions. Only action. Like a hurled projectile, Tychus shoulder bashed his way out of the Ziggurat as an unstoppable obsidian electricity coated freight train. His footfalls thundered with each impact, and the approach of his charge was noticed by all.

People who didn't literally jump or throw themselves out of the way in time were bowled over and used as flooring. Palisades exploded into splinters when the massive man barreled through, Artorian kept tight and safe within his arms. Tychus could feel blood that wasn’t his seep from between his fingers, and his grandfather hadn’t spoken a word since going limp in his grasp. That venom was doing its work.

No thinking. No thinking! Thinking led to second guessing. Assumptions. Worries. There was no time for those. There was only time for the one thing he excelled at: charging in a straight line.

Chapter Forty-Six

Don Modsognir squeezed the bridge of his nose. Several more of his clan stood in a loose circle with him, while a very confused Dimi held a dapper gnome in an upturned hand. This was a topic that… honestly, it would help if they had a philosopher present. What this intelligent Gnome was telling them was difficult to understand, and he for one didn’t have enough firebrandy in his caravan for this kind of talk.

He’d been searching for excuses that would let them end the conversation, and at first he’d been delighted when thundering steps seemed to beeline towards his caravan. The joy had dropped like a rock in his stomach. He’d mistaken the massive man coming their way for Dimi from sheer size, but the Iridium cradled in his arms stood out. The slumped figure in the arms of that massive man was enough for him to make snap decisions.

“Dimi! Our human is comin’ in hot. Intercept and poultice! The rest of you lot, Caravan in motion! Destination Morovia.” Don moved to the front of the group and got everything moving. The Gnome stared for a moment, then hopped away upon seeing the commotion. His time would come.

Dimi snatched a major health potion from his belt and hustled in the direction of the incoming… he didn’t know what that was, but he didn’t want to be in the way of it. He’d never seen a man that was him-sized. No wonder people thought he was a fright when he bolted towards them. Dimi held up the reflective glass of the potion, and the approaching darkness comet must have noticed because the charger slowed down.

Half out of breath and heaving from a run that he hadn’t stopped for far longer than was healthy, Tychus coughed out a single word as his heart pounded in his chest. “Help!”

He could recognize a potion when he saw one, and the massive Dwarf had strode straight toward him from the very caravan his Elder had described. Ty’s arms felt like hewn stone, and his legs were slabs of granite. Stopping made the strain and expenditure catch up with him, and the rest of his words didn’t make it out at all.

Dimi twisted off Artorian’s helmet with surprising ease, and dunked the lip of the potion over into the drooling mouth after tugging the cork out with his teeth. “Hold his head up higher! Don’t let him choke on the preparation dose.”

Tychus was still in doing-what-he-was-told mode, and didn’t think twice before following orders. Neither man said anything about the other. It didn’t matter that a giant half-dwarf was handling a variety of poultices with the practiced ease of a juggler, or that an equally massive man had thick black veins coursing under his muscle while infernal Essence still crackled across patches of his ashen skin. The focus of both was on triage, and Tychus had automatically defaulted to the support role. The adopted son of the Fringe and the adopted son of Modsognir spoke without words.

The right combination of healing, cleansing, and purification potions went a long way to stabilizing their joint charge. Artorian woke and drew a breath, eyelids flickering a moment. Hazily, he saw his son. The edges of his lips curled up into a smile, and his metal hand laid upon the massive knuckles of his boy. “You… did good. My son. Protect… your brother.”

Tychus set his jaw, and handed his grandfather over into Dimi’s experienced arms. They didn’t know it, but the sudden loss of the Vizier was causing a commotion behind them as the hierarchy collapsed. His Elder was right. He needed to get to his brother, so he let his grandfather go off with the caravan that his old man trusted to get to safety.

His reply didn’t come in time to be heard; Artorian was out cold again. “I… I will… father.”

Dimi didn’t believe his ears, but didn’t have the luxury to question the statement. He connected his gaze with the frowning, massive, clenched-jaw man. “We’ll get him back to his usual peppy state. He’ll be back for ya, I’m sure of it. Old codger doesn’t let nuthin’ go.”

Inhaling sharply, Tychus squeezed his hands into steadied fists. He gave the dwarven healer a stern nod before turning to backhand a snooping thief. One of many interested in the goods of a well-stocked poultice-master. The son of the Fringe understood what he needed to do, and accepted the meaning the dwarf was trying to relay. “Go.”

Dimi hurried back to an already leaving caravan as the mountain turned to handle… local discord. Jumping into the back of the last cart, Artorian was laid on the thick blanket hiding the treasure trove of coin. Those broken off fangs didn’t look pleasant. Dimi saw to step two of what looked like long days of considerable intensive care. Cursed pyrite! It hadn’t even been the entire planned day and they were back on the move already.

Between getting the armor off and finding additional secondary wounds that needed tending, Dimi offhandedly watched as the region they left devolved into all-out civil war. Uncivil war? Yeesh. A wet cough brought his attention back to where it was needed. Fixing this… was going to take a while.

Epilogue

Artorian opened his eyes to a lovely sky. His first, properly lucid breath was pleasant and light, filled with nostalgia as the scent of overgrown bluegrass gently brushed over his senses. Was he five years old again? How long had it been since he’d lain in the endless wild fields?

He knew better than to sit up, and instead performed a self-checkup. Oh. Oh my. That didn’t look great. His Presence still wrapped around him nice and tight, but the energy in it had significantly drained to keep him afloat. A worthwhile trade. The Essence he could get back. The life, he could not. So what’s the damage?

The stab wounds in his lower abdomen had healed and closed, but not exactly properly. One of his kidneys was just gone, with matching damage around the other wound. He didn’t find any remaining crystal venom, and that was a good thing. While this damage was going to dampen his already questionable physical fighting abilities, an injury like this would have permanently crippled an internal cultivator.

Artorian knew he wasn’t getting up for at least a few weeks as his vitals healed, and his cultivation core mended some minor issues with refined Essence before spinning up into gear. Good news: he lived. Both his boys lived, and knew he was coming back. Astrea was safe in Skyspear. Lunella and Wux were safe in the Fringe.

His exhale relieved metaphysical weight from his shoulders as he tore a mental checklist up into ribbons. Every item was checked, and it was no longer needed. Now came phase two of the master plan. Gathering enough power to gather them all, and bundling them in a safe, single location.

A high-pitched voice he’d never heard before piped up behind him. “Ah, you’re awake… excellent!”

Artorian raised a single eyebrow, tilting his head back as he pulled himself mostly out from his Center. “That voice does not sound familiar to me. Hello there, have we met before?”

The sound of minute movements let it be known that the creature moving wasn’t very sizable. To Artorian’s confusion, a spiffily dressed gnome walked into view and stood at his hip with patient poise. A leafy green vest smoothly fit over a tunic and breeches; a diminutive matching pointed cap nestled on his head while lensed clockworked glasses whirred lightly as he changed the focus on them.

“A delight to make your acquaintance, good human. My name is Deverash Editor Neverdash the Dashingly Dapper! Please feel free to call me Dev, or Dev Editor if you feel the need to be formal.”

Artorian moved a finger forward, meaning to poke the gnome in the belly just to check if he was hallucinating. The gnome, however, took it as a cordial greeting and grasped the outstretched finger with both hands before giving it a shake!

“Well met! I’ve so been looking forward to conversing with you. I’ve been told you’re a more cerebral conversation partner that can appreciate a proper academic argument.”

The old man cleared his throat, and pulled his finger back. He found some nearby water, and had himself a drink before answering. “Ah, well. I’d say I’m decent at some verbal back and forth. My name is Artorian, current Headmaster of Skyspear Academy. Though, I expect that to change when the caravan gets back there. My injuries don’t lend themselves to being able to teach adequately.”

The small gnome held up a hand to indicate a request for a pause. Artorian broke off from what may have devolved into a lengthy blabbering session. It wasn’t every day you spoke to a gnome. Speaking of, he’d never known any mention of gnomes to exist outside of references that some of their leftover technology had been found. Deverash piled up some cloth and climbed it like a hill before seating himself.

“Delightful! I’ll fetch the poultice master shortly, though from what I can see, you’re stable. You’ve been out for weeks, and if that high tier core of yours hadn’t been passively turning, you wouldn’t have made it. We… err… did have to make some unpleasant decisions on your behalf. I apologize for that, but it was necessary for your survival.”

Artorian deeply frowned. “What kinds of decisions?”

Deverash pressed his fingers to his mouth a moment, goggles scanning the old man over. “You’ve partially descended into your cultivation pool at the moment, I believe? Have another look, I’m certain it’s very apparent what I had to break. Now, I assure you that I was careful. Your actual core is unaffected.”

Concern peaking, the old man dunked into his own center and quickly looked around. Body? Damaged but it’ll work out. Main solar gyroscope? Present and functioning. So… what was gone? Everything seemed present… oh.

His mind zipped to the glittering, fractured remnants of his pearlescent webway. The entire thing was Essence dust and pearlescent material. Better to just… He absorbed the pearlescence just like it was Essence that needed to be broken down and refined. The entire thing was gone. Not crippled, or slightly damaged, or broken into chunks. The entire webway that had separated the inner and outer spaces of his center had been dusted completely.

Well, that was a bit of a setback. Ascending back to reality, he exhaled hard and turned his head to face the still calmly seated gnome. “Let me guess. The diversion of Essence back into the core wasn’t conducive to making sure Essence went to my vitals instead. Since I likely could not eat, and that webway was preventing my Essence from keeping my body running…”

The gnome was already nodding hard enough to need to hold onto his tiny green hat. “I’m delighted you came to the conclusion so swiftly! As I said, no damage to the actual core. I apologize for essentially crippling part of your cultivation. I was told you'd understand adherence to priorities.”

The academic didn’t have words for a moment. Not having that webway was going to significantly increase the time that was needed to climb back into the upper C-ranks. He needed to ascend into Magehood to take care of his next batch of problems. Said problems had escalated to the realm of slighted Vicars and a betrayed self-important Flesh Mage. This was outside the realm of what C-rankers could handle, and he would not have Dawn to rely on for quite some time.

“I…” Another sigh left him. “Yes, yes, I do understand. If it meant I lived to have this conversation, I can’t even hold it against you, and am thankful for your assistance in my continued wellbeing. Though, I will preface that I am terribly confused as to how a gnome is speaking to me, Dev. I was under the impression that… actually I don’t know what happened to gnomes as a race or even what to guess. Would you mind filling me in on some basics? I’m aware the caravan encountered a feral variant during the travels, but you don’t appear… of their persuasion. Now that I’ve affirmed my immediate wellbeing is certain, curiosity is stalking the c’towl.”

Deverash rubbed his tiny hands together in anticipation. He’d been awaiting this question and couldn’t wait to expound into a thorough talk. The dwarves couldn’t handle his chattering, and he’d managed to give them headaches by word choice alone, but the tiny gnome didn’t need to hold back here.

“Oh, I’m so glad you asked!”

Afterword

We hope you enjoyed the first Artorian’s Archives Omnibus! Since reviews are the lifeblood of indie publishing, we’d love it if you could leave a positive review on Amazon! Follow this link to be redirected to the Artorian’s Archives Omnibus: Books 1-3 Amazon product page to leave your review.

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About Dennis Vanderkerken

Hello all! I’m Dennis, but I go by a myriad of other nicknames. If you know one, feel free to use it! I probably like them more. I’m from Belgium, and have lived in the USA since 2001. English is my 4th language, so I’m making due, and apologize for the inevitable language-flub. I still call fans ceiling-windmills. The more shrewd among you may have noticed some strange sayings that may or may not have been silly attempts at direct translations! Thank you all for bearing with me.

I started writing in the The Divine Dungeon series due to a series of fortunate circumstances. I continue writing because I wanted to give hungry readers more to sink their teeth into, and help them ‘get away’ for a while. If you have any questions, or would like to chat, I live on Dakota’s Eternium discord. Feel free to come say hi anytime! Life is a little better with a good book.

Connect with Dennis:

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About Dakota Krout

I live in a 'pretty much Canada' Minnesota city with my wife and daughter. I started writing The Divine Dungeon series because I enjoy reading and wanted to create a world all my own. To my surprise and great pleasure, I found like-minded people who enjoy the contents of my mind. Publishing my stories has been an incredible blessing thus far, and I hope to keep you entertained for years to come!

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About Mountaindale Press

Dakota and Danielle Krout, a husband and wife team, strive to create as well as publish excellent fantasy and science fiction novels. Self-publishing The Divine Dungeon: Dungeon Born in 2016 transformed their careers from Dakota’s military and programming background and Danielle’s Ph.D. in pharmacology to President and CEO, respectively, of a small press. Their goal is to share their success with other authors and provide captivating fiction to readers with the purpose of solidifying Mountaindale Press as the place ‘Where Fantasy Transforms Reality.’

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Mountaindale Press Titles

GameLit and LitRPG

The Completionist Chronicles and

The Divine Dungeon by Dakota Krout

A Touch of Power by Jay Boyce

Red Mage by Xander Boyce

Space Seasons by Dawn Chapman

Ether Collapse by Ryan DeBruyn

Bloodgames by Christian J. Gilliland

Wolfman Warlock by James Hunter and Dakota Krout

Axe Druid and

Mephisto’s Magic Online by Christopher Johns

Skeleton in Space by Andries Louws

Chronicles of Ethan by John L. Monk

Pixel Dust by David Petrie

Artorian’s Archives by Dennis Vanderkerken and Dakota Krout

Appendix

Abyss – A place you don’t want to be, and a very common curse word.

Adventurers’ Guild – A group from every non-hostile race that actively seeks treasure and cultivates to become stronger. They act as a mercenary group for Kingdoms that come under attack from monsters and other non-kingdom forces.

Affinity – A person’s affinity denotes what element they need to cultivate Essence from. If they have multiple affinities, they need to cultivate all of those elements at the same time.

Affinity Channel – The pathway along the meridians that Essence flows through. Having multiple major affinities will open more pathways, allowing more Essence to flow into a person’s center at one time.

Affinity Channel Type – Clogged, Ripped, Closed, Minor, Major, and Perfect. Perfect doesn’t often occur naturally.

- Clogged: Draws in no essence, because the channel is blocked with corruption.

- Ripped: Draws in an unknown amount of essence, but in a method that is unpredictable and lethal.

- Closed: Draws in no essence, because the channel is either unopened, or forcibly closed.

- Minor: Draws in very little essence.

- Major: Draws in a sizable amount of essence.

- Perfect: Draws in a significant amount of essence. This affinity channel type cannot occur naturally. It is very dangerous to strive for, as the path to this type leads to ripped channels.

Alhambra – A cleric that lives in Chasuble. Kept down for the majority of his career, he remains a good man with a good heart. His priorities for the people allot him a second chance, one derived from an old man’s schemery.

Artorian – The main character of the series. If you weren’t expecting shenanigans, grab some popcorn. It only gets more intense from here on. He’s a little flighty, deeply interested, and a miser of mischief. He is referred to by the wood elves as Starlight Spirit.

Assassin – A stealthy killer who tries to make kills without being detected by his victim.

Astrea – The nightmare.

Aura – The flows of Essence generated by living creatures which surround them and hold their pattern.

Baobab – A wood elf with innate fire resistance. Strong-willed, this woman can handle the heat.

Bard – A lucrative profession deriving profit from other people’s misery. Some make coin through song or instrument, but all of them love a good story. Particularly inconvenient ones. This includes Kinnan, Pollard, and Jillian.

Beast Core – A small gem that contains the Essence of Beasts. Also used to strip new cultivators of their corruption.

Blanket – The best sugar glider. Blanket defends. Blanket protects.

Blight – A big bad. Also known as a Caligene, this entity can take many forms. Widespread and far-reaching, this thing has been around for over a millennia, and enjoys scheming to play the long game.

Birch – A friendly set of wood elves, of the Birch-tree Variant. They’re friendly and well meaning, even if limited in what they can do. They like scented candles, particularly vanilla.

Blooming Spirit – The Wood Elven equivalent of Aura. See Aura.

Boro – A trader in exotics, this man allied himself with the raider faction. He assists in swindling deals, and robbing villages blind after flooding them with gold that they will not keep.

Cataphron – One of the Skyspear headmasters. Uses the Imperius body technique of the Iron-Shelled Mastodont Kings.

Celestial – The Essence of Heaven, the embodiment of life and considered the ultimate good.

Center – The very center of a person’s soul. This is the area Essence accumulates (in creatures that do not have a Core) before it binds to the Life Force.

Chants – Affect a choir-cleric’s growth, and overall fighting ability. A Choir war host in action matches the chant of every other. Each voice added to the whole increases the power and ability of each person whose voice is involved, through celestial and aural sympathy.

Chasuble – The name of both a particular type of scarf worn loosely around the neck, and the name of a Major church-controlled city. Chasuble scarves are marked to show the rank of the person wearing them.

Church – ‘The’ Church, to be specific. Also known as the Ecclesiarchy, is one of the few stable major powers active in the world. It has several branches, each operating under different specifications.

- The Choir – The Face of the church, they carry to torch and spread the call far and wide. Operates as exploratory force and functions on heart and mind campaigns. The Choir’s special function is to use harmonizing sound to buff and empower every member included in the group-effect.

- Paladin Order – The Fast-Attack branch, these mounted warriors function as cavalry would. The mounted creatures in question vary greatly, and most members employ a high-ranked beast for these purposes.

- Phalanx Sentinels – The Siege or Hold branch, the Sentinels are a heavy-armor branch that specialize entirely on securing locations. They are well known to be notoriously slow, and just as notoriously impossible to uproot from a position.

- Inquisitors – The Information gathering branch. This branch remains secretive.

Church Ranks – There are multiple Ecclesiarchy ranks, stacking in importance mostly based on cultivation progress.

- Initiate – A fresh entry to the church faction, the lowest rank. Generally given to someone still in training.

- Scribe – An initiate who failed to become a D-ranked cultivator, was trusted enough by the faction to remain.

- Acolyte – Achieved by becoming a D-ranked cultivator. The third lowest rank in the church faction.

- Battle Leader – A trusted acolyte who shows promise in the fields of leadership and battle.

- Head Cleric – A high D-ranking cultivator, or a person who has been a Battle Leader long enough for their achievements to grant them their personal unit. Head Clerics are trusted to go on missions, excursions, and expeditions that differ based on the specific church faction.

- Keeper – Ranked equal to a Head Cleric. People who specifically keep administrative records, and interpret ancient texts. Keepers famously do not get along, and hold bitter rivalries due to said interpretations of the scriptures. Keepers tend to be Head Clerics who failed to enter the C-ranks.

- Arbiter – Achieved upon becoming a C-rank cultivator. An Arbiter is a settler of disputes of all kinds, whose authority is overshadowed only by those of higher rank. Otherwise, their say is final.

- Friar – A B-ranked Cultivator in the church faction. Friars are glorified problem solvers.

- Father – An A-ranked Cultivator in the church faction. A Father may be of a high rank, but has fallen out of favor with the upper echelons of church command.

- Vicar – An A-ranked Cultivator in the church faction. The de-facto rulers, movers, and shakers, of the church faction.

- Saint – An S-ranked Cultivator in the church faction. They do as they please.

Choppy – The prime woodcutter in the Salt Village.

Chi spiral – A person’s Chi spiral is a vast amount of intricately knotted Essence. The more complex and complete the pattern woven into it, the more Essence it can hold and the finer the Essence would be refined.

Cleric – A Cultivator of Celestial Essence, a cleric tends to be support for a group, rarely fighting directly. Their main purpose in the lower rankings is to heal and comfort others.

Compound Essence – Essence that has formed together in complex ways. If two or more Essences come together to form something else, is is called a compound Essence. Or Higher Essence.

Corruption – Corruption is the remnant of the matter that pure Essence was formed into. It taints Essence but allows beings to absorb it through open affinity channels. This taint has been argued about for centuries; is it the source of life or a nasty side effect?

C’towl – A mixture between cat and owl. Usually considered an apex predator due to the intermingling of attributes and sheer hunting prowess.

Currency values:

- Copper: one hundred copper coins are worth a silver coin

- Silver: one hundred silver coins are worth a Gold coin

- Gold: one hundred Gold coins are worth a Platinum coin

- Platinum: the highest coin currency in the Human Kingdoms

Cultivate – Cultivating is the process of refining Essence by removing corruption then cycling the purified Essence into the center of the soul.

Cultivation technique – A name for the specific method in which cultivators draw in and refine the energies of the Heavens and Earth.

Cultivator – A cultivator is a silly person who thinks messing with forces they don’t understand will somehow make life better for them.

Daughter of Wrath – A ranking female servant to the Ziggurat, that showed promise and was given troops to lead.

Dawn – The name taken by Ember as her S-ranked incarnation. A full perspective change from her original self, new options and a new life have opened before her. While the way of being Ember espoused still exists within her, room for the new is now possible.

Deverash Editor Neverdash the Dashingly Dapper – Also called Dev, or Dev Editor. A gnome that retained his intelligence, and may have quite the impact on adventures to come.

Duskgrove Castle – A Location within the Phantomdusk Forest. It is the primary hideout for the main antagonist.

D. Kota – An initiate in the choir, who has grand aspirations of becoming a scholar.

Distortion Cat – An upper C-ranked Beast that can bend light and create artificial darkness. In its home territory, it is attacked and bound by tentacle like parasites that form a symbiotic relationship with it.

Dimitri – Also goes by Dimi-Tree, due to his size. A mix between a dwarf and a giant, this brash and brazen mountain loves to dabble. Doing a little bit of everything, he has a reputation that there’s nothing he can’t fix.

Don Modsognir – Goes by Big Mo. Leader of the Modsognir clan. Responsible for trading and caravan operations. Known to be a troublemaker, he has an impeccable link of loyalty to his family. He enjoys finery, nice suits, and better company. He’s got the heart of a king, and the trouble making penchant of a feisty five year old.

Dwarves – Stocky humanoids that like to work with stone, metal, and alcohol. Good miners.

Eucalyptus – A wood elf skilled in defensive and protective essence techniques.

Ember – Secondary main character: A burnt-out Ancient Elf from well over a millennia ago. She’s lived too long, and most of it has been in one War or another. She finds a new spark, but until them suffer from extreme weariness, depression, and wear. Her sense of humor lies buried deep within, dry as a cork. Ember enjoys speaking laconically, getting to the point, and getting fired up. She will burn eternal to see her tasks complete. No matter the cost, and no matter the effort.

Electrum – The metal used as Chasuble’s currency. These coins are collectively known as ‘divines’ due to the very minor essence effect on them that keeps them clean. Their worth and value differs greatly from the established monetary system many other cities use, specifically to undercut them.

Elves – A race of willowy humanoids with pointy ears. There are five main types:

- High Elves: The largest nation of Elvenkind, they spend most of their time as merchants, artists, or thinkers. Rich beyond any need to actually work, their King is an S-ranked expert, and their cities shine with light and wealth. They like to think of themselves as ‘above’ other Elves, thus ‘High’ Elves.

- Wood Elves: Wood Elves live more simply than High Elves, but have greater connection to the earth and the elements. They are ruled by a counsel of S-ranked elders and rarely leave their woods. Though seen less often, they have great power. They grow and collect food and animal products for themselves and other Elven nations.

- Wild: Wild Elves are the outcasts of their societies, basically feral, they scorn society, civilization, and the rules of others. They have the worst reputation of any of the races of Elves, practicing dark arts and infernal summoning. They have no homeland, living only where they can get away with their dark deeds.

- Dark: The Drow are known as Dark Elves. No one knows where they live, only where they can go to get in contact with them. Dark Elves also have a dark reputation as Assassins and mercenaries for the other races. The worst of their lot are ‘Moon Elves’, the best-known Assassins of any race. These are the Elves that Dale made a deal with for land and protection.

- Sea: The Sea Elves live on boats their entire lives. They facilitate trade between all the races of Elves and man, trying not to take sides in conflicts. They work for themselves and are considered rather mysterious.

Essence – Essence is the fundamental energy of the universe, the pure power of heavens and earth that is used by the basic elements to become all forms of matter. There are six major types are names: Fire, Water, Earth, Air, Celestial, Infernal.

Essence cycling – A trick to move energy around, to enhance the ability of an organ.

Faux High Elf – A person who has the appearance of a High Elf, but is not actually one. It is a ‘Fake’ Elf, who takes the position in name only. A mockery and status-display rolled into one.

Fighter – A generic archetype of a being that uses melee weapons to fight.

Fringe – The Fringe region is located in the western region of Pangea. It has been scrapped from maps and scraped from history, by order of the Ecclesiarchy.

Gathering webway – A web of essence created around one's center. For the purpose of gathering and retaining essence. This was the first method concerning essence refining techniques. It should never be sticky.

Gilded blade – A weapon, status title, occupation, and profession all in one. A Gilded blade is a weapon of the raider faction. They are brutally efficient at a single thing, and terrible at everything else.

Gran’mama – Ephira Mayev Stonequeen is Grand Matron of all the centralized Dwarven clans. She goes by Matron, or Gran’mama. While not a royal, she tends to be treated like one due to the vast respect she holds. She also keeps the great majority of land contracts.

Hadurin Fellstone – Supposed head healer of the motley Fringe expedition crew.

Hadurin Fellhammer – Grand-Inquisitor Fellhammer. Executor of the Inquisition, Lord of the Azure Jade mountain, and slayer of a thousand traitors. While not fully of the dwarven race, he is short, portly, jovial to a fault, and as sly as a certain old man.

Hakan – A gilded blade, She is the main antagonist of Axiom. Her personality is as unpleasant as her fashion sense. She’s snide, cuts to the chase, and speaks abrasively without much poise or respect to anyone else.

Hawthorn – A set of wood elves that has taken it upon themselves to guard and patrol the edges of the forest. They are generally abrasive as the threats they come home with aren’t taken seriously enough. Or abundantly happy to see you, with matching southern cadence and happy reed-chewing style. Rules are actually guidelines. Make no mistake. In any other setting, Hawthorne would be a dastardly set of troublemakers.

Incantation – Essentially a spell, an incantation is created from words and gestures. It releases all of the power of an enchantment in a single burst.

Infernal – The Essence of death and demonic beings, considered to be always evil.

Inscription – A permanent pattern made of Essence that creates an effect on the universe. Try not to get the pattern wrong as it could have… unintended consequences. This is another name for an incomplete or unknown Rune.

Irene – A Keeper in the Choir. There is more to her than meets the eye, and is far more powerful than she initially appears to be. Do not argue with her about scripture. This world-weary Keeper plays with subterfuge like children play outside. Though when able, she speaks with her fists. Her rage meter is tiny, and fills with a swiftness.

Jiivra – A battle leader in the choir, she aspires to be a Paladin. She has the potential to become truly great, if only given the opportunity. Young, and full of splendor. She’s hasty, sticks to order, dislikes surprises, and answers to them with well-measured responses.

Jin – The child of Tarrean and Irene, a Keeper in the Fringe.

Lapis – A mineral-mining town in the vicinity of the Salt Flats. They refine the color Lapis into varying shades of Blue, and are a prime exporter. Lapis Is located in the Fringe.

Maccreus Tarrean – Head Cleric of a choir expeditionary force. His pride is his most distinguishing feature, next to that ostentatious affront known as his armor. Short and portly for non-dwarven reasons, this blundering Ego-driven voice blusters through life like a drunk through a tavern. Elbows first. His ability to craft schemes is as sharp as a dull, smooth rock. His Charisma unfortunately doesn't notice and charges on anyway.

Mahogany – Chosen leaders of the Phantomdusk Wood Elves. As a congregation of Sultans, they care deeply for their people. Forced to make difficult decisions on behalf of the people as a whole, they function with the full permission of the S-ranked council. Which is less active than they’d like it to be. A good soul, they speak with deep voices.

Mages’ Guild – A secretive sub-sect of the Adventurers’ Guild only Mage level cultivators are allowed to join.

Mana – A higher stage of Essence only able to be cultivated by those who have broken into at least the B-rankings and found the true name of something in the universe.

Mana Signature – A name for a signature that can be neither forged nor replicated, and is used in binding oaths.

Marud – Choir second-in-command Battle Leader, of the second expeditionary force to the Fringe.

Meridians – Meridians are energy channels that transport life energy (Chi/Essence) throughout the body.

Memory Core – Also known as a Memory Stone, depending on the base materials used in their production. Pressing the stone to your forehead lets a person store or gain the knowledge contained within. As if you’d gone through the events yourself. Generally never sold.

Mob – A shortened version of “dungeon monster”.

Morovia – A world region located in the south-eastern section of the central Pangea band.

Necromancer – An Infernal Essence cultivator who can raise and control the dead and demons. A title for a cultivator who specializes in re-animating that which has died.

Nefellum – Head Cleric of the second expedition force into the Fringe.

Noble rankings:

- King/Queen – Ruler of their country. (Addressed as ‘Your Majesty’)

- Crown Prince/Princess – Next in line to the throne, has the same political power as a Grand Duke. (Addressed as ‘Your Royal Highness’)

- Prince/Princess – Child of the King/Queen, has the same political power as a Duke. (Addressed as ‘Your Highness’)

- Grand Duke – Ruler of a grand duchy and is senior to a Duke. (Addressed as ‘Your Grace’)

- Duke – Is senior to a Marquis or Marquess. (Addressed as ‘Your Grace’)

- Marquis/Marquess – Is senior to an Earl and has at least three Earls in their domain. (Addressed as ‘Honorable’)

- Earl – Is senior to a Baron. Each Earl has three barons under their power. (Addressed as ‘My Lord/Lady’)

- Baron – Senior to knights, they control a minimum of ten knights and therefore their land. (Addressed as ‘My Lord/Lady’)

- Knights – Sub rulers of plots of land and peasants. (Addressed as ‘Sir’)

Oak – A set of wood elves that embody the purest spirit of flamboyance. Rules might exist, but Oak won’t care to listen.

Olgier – A trader from Rutsel, whose greed greatly exceeds his guile.

Olive – A wood elf who is very down to earth. A little greasy, he likes to dig holes and hidden pathways.

Oversized infernal corvid – Really big raven with the Infernal channel. D-ranked creature. Intelligent. Moody.

Pattern – A pattern is the intricate design that makes everything in the universe. An inanimate object has a far less complex pattern that a living being.

Phantomdusk Forest – A world region that borders The Fringe. It is comprised of vast, continent-sprawled greenery that covers multiple biomes. Any forest region connecting to this main mass is considered part of the whole, if entering it has a high mortality rate.

Presence – In terms of aura, this refers to the combined components that aura encompasses. Ordinarily a Mage-only ability. Presence refers to the unity of auras and them acting as one.

Ra – Lunella’s first daughter, who causes an amount of trouble equal to the amount of breaths she takes.

Ranger – Typically an adventurer archetype that is able to attack from long range, usually with a bow.

Ranking System – The ranking system is a way to classify how powerful a creature has become through fighting and cultivation.

- G – At the lowest ranking is mostly non-organic matter such as rocks and ash. Mid-G contains small plants such as moss and mushrooms while the upper ranks form most of the other flora in the world.

- F – The F-ranks are where beings are becoming actually sentient, able to gather their own food and make short-term plans. The mid-F ranks are where most humans reach before adulthood without cultivating. This is known as the fishy or “failure” rank.

- E – The E-rank is known as the “echo” rank and is used to prepare a body for intense cultivation.

- D – This is the rank where a cultivator starts to become actually dangerous. A D-ranked individual can usually fight off ten F-ranked beings without issue. They are characterized by a “fractal” in their Chi spiral.

- C – The highest-ranked Essence cultivators, those in the C-rank usually have opened all of their meridians. A C-ranked cultivator can usually fight off ten D-ranked and one hundred F-ranked beings without being overwhelmed.

- B – This is the first rank of Mana cultivators, known as Mages. They convert Essence into Mana through a nuanced refining process and release it through a true name of the universe.

- A – Usually several hundred years are needed to attain this rank, known as High-Mage or High-Magous. They are the most powerful rank of Mages.

- S – Very mysterious Spiritual Essence cultivators. Not much is known about the requirements for this rank or those above it.

- SS – Pronounced ‘Double S’. Not much is known about the requirements for this rank or those above it.

- SSS – Pronounced ‘Triple S’. Not much is known about the requirements for this rank or those above it.

- Heavenly – Not much is known about the requirements for this rank or those above it.

- Godly – Not much is known about the requirements for this rank or those above it.

Refining – A name for the method of separating essences of differing purities.

Rune – A permanent pattern made of Essence that creates an effect on the universe. Try not to get the pattern wrong as it could have… unintended consequences. This is another name for a completed Inscription.

Rosewood – Wood elves with an unbreakable passion for fashion, and making clothes.

Royal Advisor – A big bad. Direct hand to the Mistress, the Queen and Regent in charge of the Ziggurat. Lover of the Cobra Chicken, and Swans.

Salt Village – The main location of Artorian’s Archives one, where the majority of the story takes place. It is located in the Fringe, and is a day’s journey from the Lapis Village.

Salt Flats – A location in the Fringe. The Salt Village operates by scraping salt from the Salt Flats, a place where the material is plentiful. It is their main export.

Scar – Known as ‘The Scar’. A location in that Fringe that includes the Salt Flats as one of its tendrils. It is rumored to be a kind of slumbering dungeon.

Scilla – A small girl that lives in Chasuble. She is afflicted by an effect that caused her irises to permanently turn pink.

Sequoia – Wood elves that will not be forgotten, even without them speaking.

Shamira – Scilla’s mother. She is a resident of Chasuble, and not particularly happy about the conditions there.

Sproutling – A title for a child in the Fringe who has not yet been assigned a name, and thus is not considered an adult. Until a certain key event, this includes the famous five: Lunella, Grimaldus, Tychus, Wuxius, and Astrea.

Skyspear Academy – An Academy present on the world’s tallest mountain.

Socorro – A desert in the central-band, eastern portion of Pangea. It used to be a place for something important. Now there is only sand, and ruin.

Soul Stone – A highly refined Beast Core that is capable of containing a human soul.

Switch – A village Elder of the salt village in the Fringe region. She croaks rather than speaks. Though that’s only if she speaks. Usually she complains. Loudly, and in plenty. If forced to interact with Switch, consider stuffing one’s ears with beeswax.

Tank – An adventurer archetype that is built to defend his team from the worst of the attacks that come their way. Heavily armored and usually carrying a large shield, these powerful people are needed if a group plans on surviving more than one attack.

Tibbins – An Acolyte in the Choir. He has a deep passion for all things culinary, and possesses a truly unique expression. He means well, but there’s something about his poor luck that keeps getting him in someone’s firing line. Sweet, loves to cook, and loyal to a fault. Tibbins is just in the wrong place at the wrong time. His voice tends to tremble when he is uncertain.

Vizier Amon – A big bad. Direct hand to the Mistress, the Queen and Regent in charge of the Ziggurat. Things will get better before they get worse. Unless maybe one can pull the strings of a few favors. Sang with serpentine tongue. His time as grand vizier was short, becoming more nope than rope.

Yvessa – An elven name that means: ‘To bloom out of great drought.’ She is a choir-cleric going up the ranks, and holds incredible promise. A girl of destiny. A demon-lord with a spoon. A caretaker who gains wisdom beyond her years from the kind of abyss she has to deal with. Her voice gains energy as she ages, as does her spirit.

Ziggurat – Both the name of a region, and a large building central to it. Ziggurat is the current raider stronghold where all their activities are coordinated from. The hierarchies here are simple and bloody, but the true purpose of the place is to serve as a staging area for necromancer needs.

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