| You have been invited to |
| The Tournament |
| You are The Repudiate |
Chapter 26: 35.0°C
Due to the viciously extreme climate of the Anhydrous desert, there were few who ever willingly entered. Even when the Country of Smiling Skies existed, all the trade routes looped around the deadly wastelands, instead preferring to traverse the Dead Lake and out from the Golden Country to reach their destination. Not even adventurers were enticed enough by the prospect of untouched artifacts hidden in buried ruins to risk the journey. There were some, however, few that they may be, who managed to call the Anhydrous desert home. A small tribe whose existence wasn''t even known by most of the outside world.
The roaring day star was beating its scorching rays with an unusually high heat on this day. A blaring bonfire rose high in the sky in the center of a small tribal community. The star and bonfire worked together to cook the surrounding sand, bubbling to languid arms of blackened glass.
The Phlogiston had built their culture on their absolute control over temperature and were mostly immune to the usual heat of the day star. Mostly immune was not completely immune, and not all members shared the same degree of mastery. On particularly scalding days, such as the one they suffered today, most of the tribe gave the central bonfire a wide berth, preferring to lounge at the nearby oasis, hidden under umbrella trees and watching the children splash in the shallow pool. But not all the Phlogiston avoided the bonfire.
Within the blazing flame of the bonfire itself, nestled atop charcoaled logs, a man sat cross-legged. His teeth clattered uncontrollably, his arms hugging himself tightly, fervently trying to rub warmth into his frigid limbs. The short man had long platinum hair and wore around twenty layers of heavy winter coats. His body looked completely bloated as the countless layers of clothing struggled to remain tied closed. He wore an innumerable number of mittens, and he still bunched his hands into fists, recoiling them into his sleeve for more warmth. He had seven cotton hats, each one larger than the last, stacked atop one another and still wore every winter coat-hood on top of those. Stacked atop the layer of hats and atop the layers of hoods, delicately balancing at the very peak of cloth on his head, was a large pewter cauldron filled with boiling stew.
While most of the tribe steered clear, hiding in the shade and fanning each other with fronds, the man in the fire used his power over fire to fuel the bonfire even more. A continuous stream of deep red flame bellowed out from his body, vitalizing the bonfire, melting more sand, and still not warming him enough.
In front of the burning man and the bonfire, sitting about halfway to the edge of the glass was an elderly man, clean-shaven and thin to the point of near emaciation. The elder quietly sat cross-legged upon the burning glass, hands peacefully resting over his knees. Surrounding the elder further to the edge of the glass was a group of distraught children wincing and huffing as they hopped from foot to foot, trying to reduce the amount of time their poor bare feet spent touching the scorching glass.
Not all the children struggled on the glass; there was a pair of fraternal twins, a boy and a girl, who managed to sit themselves. Although they tried to maintain a stoic face, all could see they were in a constant battle of subtly readjusting to avoid having any individual part of their body bear the heat for too long.
The tribe''s clothes could not be any more different than that of the man in the bonfire as they all wore thin light cloths that merely worked to hide their skin from the rays of the day star. The elder was totally unfazed by the glass''s temperature or the children''s radical movement as he continued his lesson. "You must rest tranquil on the glass and meditate on the temperature if any of you wish to unlock the power of the Phlogiston''s flame."
One of the younger boys complained. "But it hurts, it''s too hot."
The elder carefully stroked his beard while ignoring the groans of the annoyed children and continued with his lecture. "The Phlogiston''s flame thrives through strife. When a Phlogiston puts themselves in a position of discomfort and learns to accept and make peace with that discomfort, is when a Phlogiston will finally be able to grow."
"My mom grounded me from going to the oasis for a whole week. Don''t we know enough about strife?"
The elder laughed with such ferocity he fell on his back. "No, you will need to at least be grounded from the oasis for a month to even catch a glimpse of the flame."
The children let out a ubiquitous outcry of displeasure at the impossible obstacle placed before them. One of the children eventually asked the elder. "I could be playing kickball right now. I just showed up for your lesson because I thought I could shoot fire out of my hands like you or Mr. Crockpot. I didn''t know there would be training, and why does it have to be so depressing and sad?" The children resonated with this concern harmoniously as many nodded their heads in agreement.
The twins did not join in this class mutiny as they silently meditated on the glass, using all their will to overcome the overpowering heat, their faces scrunched in pained concentration.
The elder calmly responded to the child''s question. "The Phlogiston flame is not depressing or sad-"
One of the children quickly butted in. "But you said it was all about strife or whatever!"
"It is about overcoming strife. The phlogiston flame is about overcoming one''s limits and dashing away the shackles of leisure which excuse imperfect action. When we put ourselves in these positions or in this mindset, it is then that we can work on improving the core of ourselves and refine the person we desire to become..."
"I don''t know; it sounds like a lot of work when I could just go play kickball."
"¡and you''ll be able to shoot fire out of your hands." The children all shouted out in rapturous excitement and were revitalized into another weak attempt at bearing the glass''s heat. The day continued on, and slowly, more and more children would give up and move on to other things.
On the bright side, there were now enough children to have a full kickball game.
The only people left within the glass perimeter were the elder, the man in the bonfire, a few meditating adults by the edge, and the twins. The twins were the last of the children forcing themselves through the arduous lesson, a mixture of pride and competition pushing them through the hardship. The twins were each trying to best the other by inching closer to the bonfire than the other without having to run out of the glass to cool down. Both had made significant progress since when they first started and were even close enough to confront the man in the fire.
"Psst, psst, hey¡ Mr. Crockpot!" The man inside the bonfire stuck his nose out from under his winter collar, wiggling himself free of his scarves and looked at the little girl in front of him. He pushed through his constantly spasming muscles to show the girl a great, big grin. "Hey, Mondo, looks like you made it here first this time. New technique?"
Mondo pushed off the glass with her hands to give her bum a brief reprieve and then dropped down and shot her arms high in the air to give them a turn, rapidly repeating the process as she huffed in and out with a practiced rhythm. She gave Mr. Crockpot an ear-splitting smile and a thumbs-up. "Yeah!"
"Are you going for the full prize today?"The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.
"Huff, huff. Yes, yes. I can do it." Mondo was speaking quickly between winces. Mr. Crockpot raised an unconvinced eyebrow at the girl, but nonetheless, he grabbed a metal bowl next to him and poured in a big ladle full of stew from his cauldron. Now that the bowl was ready, the girl cupped her two hands to receive the bowl. As she felt a lick of the bonfire flame, she retracted her hands, holding them as close to her chest while tilting her head as far away as she could.
Mr. Crockpot snickered at the action. "Now come on, Mondo. I can''t give you the bowl if your hands aren''t past the line."
Mondo''s brother finally noticed how close his sister was to the bonfire and quickly began scooting closer while letting out pained oohs and aahs. Mondo turned her head back towards the bonfire but kept her head down as she couldn''t take the heat waves directly splashing against her face. She slowly stretched her arm out, shaking incessantly.
"I''m going to hand you the bowl now. Are you ready?"
Mondo fought back some small, quickly evaporating tears and bit her lip. "mmhmm."
She gave the briefest nod, and Mr. Crockpot let out a sly smile before slowly moving his arms over hers and descending the bowl. "Okay, here you go."
He placed the bowl onto her hands, and she immediately retracted her arms away, spilling the stew all over the glass. "YEOUCH!!!!!!!!!" She shouted at the top of her lungs and instantly jumped up high into the air and ran out of the glass perimeter in as large of steps as she possibly could. The elder and all the adults ruptured into laughter at the expected result.
Mr. Crockpot held back his mirth and turned to the brother, "What about you, Zen? Are you going to try the stew today?"
Mondo''s brother Zen stopped his hurried scooting as he watched his sister run away. He turned back to Mr. Crockpot and gave a shy smile. "I think I''ll just try and get used to being this close for now."
The elder stood from his meditation halfway out the glass and approached the bonfire, joining Mr. Crockpot inside. The elder grabbed the spilled bowl of stew and started scooping the remaining unspilled food with his hands and eating it. He spoke to Zen as he did this. "Very wise, Zen. Divide and conquer, take every challenge, one problem and one step at a time. Eventually, you will make it here and have a delicious taste of stew, yes?"
"Nope!" Zen swiftly retorted as he rocketed into the air, span around, and bolted out of the glass perimeter, barely even touching the glass, shouting as loudly as his sister had. "YEOUCH!!!!!!!!!"
The elder and Mr. Crockpot broke into laughter, refilling their bowls and gulping down. After downing an entire bowl of stew and wiping his chin of spilled remnants, the elder spoke to Mr. Crockpot. "And what about you, Hiemal? How is your meditation going?"
Hiemal drank two full bowls of stew but his shivering did not relent. "I don''t know; no matter how hard I try, I can''t seem to break into the orange stage. I managed to unlock the red flame just five years after coming to your village, but it has been fifteen since then, and I still don''t feel any closer to orange."
The elder nodded, stroking his chin. "You managed to unlock the Phlogiston flame exceptionally quickly as you worked on conquering the strife that sent you to this desert. But as I told the children, the Phlogiston flame is not about strife but overcoming it and moving on. Even now, twenty years later, you are still holding on to something. Acceptance was but only the first step.
Hiemal''s complexion was wrought with a deep sadness. "But I don''t want to forget and move on."
The elder grew a wide smirk and wagged his finger at Hiemal. "Ahh, but forgetting and moving on are not the same thing. You seem to have it in your mind that if you don''t remember those who were important to you at their worst moment, then you have done them some sort of injustice. You think that if you truly embrace yourself into our tribe and openly call us as a new family, then you are discarding your old family."
Hiemal had nothing to respond to the elder; he just continued to shake as he prepared another bowl of stew for himself. The elder shook his head in disappointment. "You have been listening, but you have not been learning. It is not what was destroyed that made your relationships important; it is what was created, so why are you so fixated on the destruction? Why don''t you tell me about the Country of Smiling Skies."
Hiemal was taken aback slightly by the sudden prodding of the elder. He brought his hand over to his breast pocket and contemplated, though his outermost jacket didn''t have a breast pocket. "Well, it''s colder than here."
"Tell me about before the storm."
It took Hiemal time for him to rummage through his mind to find what to say. He gave a small smile. "It was still colder than here."
The two shared a rapturous laugh; the laugh was much more exaggerated than anyone else would have thought the comment was worth. Hiemal continued on. "I guess since the tribe is so seclusive, you probably don''t know the rumours, but it was just as beautiful as everyone said. Every night, it was so clear that you could see the whole galaxy; you could go swimming all year round and fly a kite at any time. Oh, kites are these sheets of thin material tied to a string that dance in the wind."
"These kites sound very interesting to watch."
Hiemal let out a hollow chuckle at the elder''s comments. "They really were; my sister and I used to love going to the yearly kite festival and watching thousands of crazy huge and intricate kites fill the sky. There was this one time that my sister wanted to see this specific dragon kite up close, so we snuck into the engineering tent. We ended up accidentally snapping the string, and the kite flew wildly in the air for an hour before it crashed down and landed right on my sister. I guess you could say that was karma."
"You seem to be really close with your sister."
"I actually have five, but I was particularly close with Gascon."
The elder burst into a fit of laughter while slapping Hiemal''s back. "Yes, yes, exactly! You HAVE five sisters. You see, fire is very destructive. People tend to think that way, but fire created this glass before us, and it helped create this stew for us, as well as the light that fills our homes. The worst mistake a practitioner of the Phlogiston''s flame can make is to think that destruction negates creation and that the two are separate. I''m going to make an assumption now and say that your sister Gascon is dead. But that destruction did not negate the creation of Gascon. She is still your sister and always will be. The red flame was you accepting what was lost, the orange flame will be you accepting what can be found."
The elder stood up and arched his back, letting out an uncomfortable number of cracks. "Now I''m going to join those two twins at the oasis to cool down. I have no idea how you can constantly handle all of this heat."
The elder then tilted his head to either side, cracking his neck. He took a final scoop of the stew and massaged his throat. He shook some life back into his sleeping legs, took a deep inhale and then-
"YEOUCH!!!!!!!!!" The elder shouted at the top of his lungs, running out of the bonfire and its glass perimeter as quickly as he possibly could.
Hiemal was different from the locals; while they worked on mastering temperature itself and overcoming the cold and heat, Hiemal only wanted to overcome the cold. He hardly ever left the bonfire unless it was to help the village in some sort of emergency or building effort, and even then, he would usually bring the bonfire with him.
Hiemal meditated in the bonfire while thinking about what the elder had said. He thought about what it meant to accept what could be found, but his contemplation was interrupted by the sudden chime of a bell.
Directly in front of Hiemal there was what seemed to be a small pink rhombus that grew out of thin air, or it was a rhombus, but its body would reject any stable state. It would shift and transform, shrink and grow, continuously morphing into other shapes. The pink shape finally locked into a form resembling that of a featureless human with only one limb. The pink organism''s single arm was outstretched toward Hiemal holding on to a glowing parchment.
As soon as the parchment was exposed to the ludicrous heat of the area, it burst into flames and disintegrated. The pink organism once again began to morph and transform, continuously changing shape until, finally, it was just a rhombus that simply shrunk out of existence. Then Hiemal heard the sudden chime of a bell.
In front of Hiemal, a little way away just outside of the glass perimeter, there was what seemed to be a small pink rhombus that grew out of thin air, or it was a rhombus, but its body would reject any stable state. It would shift and transform, shrink and grow, continuously morphing into other shapes. The pink shape finally locked into a form resembling that of a featureless human with only one limb. The pink organism''s single arm was outstretched toward Hiemal holding on to a glowing parchment.
For the first time in three months, Hiemal stood up and left the bonfire. He walked over to the pink organism. Hiemal took the glowing parchment and read it.
| You have been invited to |
| The Tournament |
| You are The Hyperborean |
Chapter 27: Hopping
The thinning forest made way to a bright shell beach, its many minuscule iridescent fragments scattering the day''s rays across a glistening lustre. The colourful beach stretched out unnaturally, dipping lower than any reasonable sea level and pushing further out than any reasonable shorefront. As the beach continued out and down, it too grew less empty. Corpses strewn over the basin floor by the thousands, squinting far to the great yonder, by the hundred-thousands. Minnows to sharks, whales to rays, it was an ocean without water, a sea of rot. The decay rank in the air, the angry day star baking an insufferable odour, flesh seared to the shell sands, bones ivory stained and brittle. Even at the boundary of water and sand, the desolate beach could not be contained; pushing outward, it forced the ocean to give way to a dry path of wasted sea life carving into the horizon.
The otherworldly wrongness of the not-beach disturbed her; she curled her bare toes into the rich Golden Country soil as if that weakly moulding dirt somehow anchored her to the understandable real. A wizened hand pressed upon tree bark to comfort in the vital greenery that surrounded her. She was not on that beach yet, and if all went well, she wouldn''t have to stay long. The world''s edge was not a place to visit lightly.
She unwound her toes from the soil''s calming grip and stepped forth. The elderly woman slowly trodded onto the beach, her hands grasping her great cane. It was an odd cane, its slender ebony pitch staff rising higher than she were tall and then topped at the tip with a bulbous mound of black fur. The lengthy fur, wild and growing into thick textured strands that coiled together in uneven rope-like tendrils. Despite the clear, hefty mass of the thick furry coils, they danced about as if billowing in a non-existent wind. The old woman''s spine was so twisted she pushed nearly her whole weight into the cane to complete the tripedal stance of old age.
Despite how far from home she was, the woman looked quite fitting in the disturbing ocean bed surrounded by death stranding. Her damp skin, patched with moss, sagged on her haggard body. The line of flesh to cloth ambiguous as the mossy skin meddled with slimy vines and thick bark to illude some sort of murky dress. On the seafloor, her long brownish-green hair gave the guise of dried kelp, draping over her face, completely obscuring it save for the sharp needlepoint nose poking through.
She hadn''t wanted to visit the edge of the world, but she was running out of places to search, and not even rumours of impossible holes could deter her anymore. That tiny flying bug-person assured her that it never stole her precious scion. Some of the forest spirits mentioned feeling its presence at one point but would always say that it had long since left their territory. The elderly woman had scoured the entirety of Trammel multiple times over at this time yet still hadn''t tracked it down. They were approaching the critical point now; if she couldn''t return it home soon, then the one whom she dedicated herself to would not survive. She was desperate, and out of ideas, and so she came here.
Deep into the trenches of the dried ocean, the elderly woman cleared her throat and spoke, voice crackling, "Umm, excuse me?" She didn''t speak in any discernable language, her voice simply carrying the nature of communication itself. "I''m sorry to bother you, but I was wondering if anyone has seen a particular fruit?" She respectfully asked out to the beach, though she only had the deceased sea life as accompaniment, and so, she received no response.
"Um, it''s a little small and has a cute little spiral birthmark; it''s a very kind fruit that always says please and thank you and¡" The elderly woman stopped her gushing praise of the lost fruit and self-consciously looked around the lifeless beach. "I''m sorry if I look a little scary to some of you, but I mean no harm."
She waited for a reply, but just like the rest of the responses she received, they were only spoken with howling winds and distant waves. "Oh! How rude of me. I should have introduced myself first. You all can call me Granny Ayah."
Granny Ayah paused again, waiting patiently for a non-existent reply. She nervously fiddled with her furry cane and curled her toes, bunching up a pile of broken shells below her feet. "You see, I''m quite worried about the fruit¡ I just want to bring it back home. Everyone there misses the fruit dearly." Granny Ayah looked down to her cold bare feet.
"We have a lot of birthdays to catch up on." A whistle of wind blew her raggedy hair astray, tossing a few strands into her open mouth. "ptui- I guess I''ll have a lot of baking to look forward to. That''s my duty as a granny, don''t you think?"
Just when she thought she was doomed to silence, a squeaky voice shyly cut through the howling wind. "¡ am I invited?"
Excited to finally get a response, Granny Ayah straightened as tall as her twisted spine would allow and exclaimed. "Of course, of course! Our little fruit loves making new friends, especially with your kind. The more the merrier!"
Not wanting to seem threatening, Granny Ayah parted the hair out of her face to reveal her great toothless smile and the swamp lily blooming from the patch of moss covering where a human would have had eyes. She spoke out to the empty beach with a renewed vigour, knowing that somewhere there was a listener. "I just need to find the little fruit first. You must have been all over the world, have you seen the fruit?"
"I don''t know the fruit."
Granny Ayah''s smile shrunk away along with her shoulders. "Oh."
"But I know someone who might."
She quickly regained her energy. "Can you take me to this someone?"
A pause lingered long enough that Ayah worried her shy companion had left, until finally, it meekly responded, "¡Okay."
Granny Ayah noticed a stirring in a small half-decomposed fish carcass. There was a cautious shuffling from within the corpse, though, despite the obvious movements, the body itself rested completely unaffected. Then it rose out from the corpse, transparent and intangible; it appeared as an illusory echo of the very form it had left. The ethereal fish swam out of its twin host, travelling through the air as if the ocean had still breathed about them.
The ghostly fish flew apprehensively, its nervous eyes glancing back to its rotten cadaver home. Granny Ayah patiently waited for the ethereal sea folk to adjust, allowing it time to overcome its anxiety and bravely approach the stranger. "I have to take you somewhere special first."
Granny Ayah presented her cane to the creature, tilting its furry sphere top to it. Upon approaching, the cane''s furry tendrils all statically pulled in the direction of the fish. "You can sit right here as you guide me." When the ghostly fish approached the sphere, its furry tendrils coiled around as a warmly blanket and pulled the fish inwards to its furry confines. The ghostly fish stained the fur it touched, shifting it from its dark hue to a similar ethereal transience. The ghostly appearance infected the entire cane and descended down its shaft until it struck the cold beach floor.
Once the whole cane turned ghostly, Granny Ayah''s feet rapidly dampened, a chilling wave washing over them. Granny Ayah looked down at her feet and saw the faint echoes of water splashing over her toes, then rising to her ankles, and then rising more. The water bore no colour, no weight, nor pressure; it hardly even existed at all, and yet it was felt. As the ethereal water line rose higher, its buoyancy lifted many hiding ghost fish out of their corpses, and soon, the invisible ocean exploded with life.
Granny Ayah strained her gaze up, the ocean''s surface way above her head, taller than even the greatest mountains of her homeland. An incomprehensibly diverse excitation of life swimming abound in every size, shape, and hue of biology. The world''s ocean revealed itself bare to the grandma, all while she stood alone on a dry bed, surrounded by rancid, half-decayed bodies.
It took her a moment to adjust to the stark dichotomy of life''s dead sea and death''s lively ocean, but it was a welcome adjustment. Her spirit couldn''t help lift upon seeing the dancing menagerie of spirits overhead, all who once were, together in history''s sea. The lonesome death that weighed on her before had completely disappeared, being quite literally overshadowed by the excited clamour of a hidden world full of life.
Enthralled by this miraculous world, Granny Ayah found herself mouth agape as she took in the ghostly aquarium. "So, this is where everyone was hiding."
Her ghostly companion poked their little head out of the furry cane top to address her, "It can get pretty boring staying with our bodies all the time, so most of us eventually visit the soul sea. I can take you to see the someone who might know where your friend is."
Granny Ayah obediently followed the directions of her little fishy friend, not wanting to be rude but still unable to restrain her gawking of the soul sea''s splendour. The plethora of colours and shapes, creatures endangered and extinct, some never even seen before. The scale of the entire experience was difficult to put into words; she was walking on the ocean floor as the real ocean was not present, but the ethereal water acted as if nothing had happened. It was the entire height of a mountain dense with activity.The endless history of life and death was peacefully swimming over her head. As she gawked, so too did many of the dead take interest in her.
"Ooh a visitor."
"She''s pretty."
"I like your soul Miss."
Many a curious soul stopped by to share brief pleasantries. The attention certainly slowed their pacing, but Granny Ayah couldn''t find herself minding, with how endearing everyone was. She did note, however, with a little anxiety, that they were slowly winding their way closer to the edge of the world, that dry corridor somehow thinning, almost contracting about her like a hunting serpent. Ayah''s concern was quickly supplanted by the spirits'' tugs for attention. The leviathan soul of an impossible whale easily demanded her full engagement as it wholly blotted any daylight as it approached. The mere size of such a creature intimidated, even if it spoke without threat and a friendly curiosity, "What brings Miss over to the soul sea?"The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
Her little fish friend was quick to answer. "She''s looking for a lost friend."
"Oh, well his lordship should know then."
Even upon the expressionless form of a fish, souls had such a way of communing to which their thoughts were undeniable, and her little companion spoke with proudful empowerment, "That''s exactly what I was thinking; I was taking her to him now."
"Good luck, Miss. I hope you find your friend."
Granny Ayah thanked the kind whale for their concern and continued on with a wave goodbye. In an attempt to make small talk, Granny Ayah asked the little fish. "So, who is this lordship?"
"He''s not actually a lord or anything; everyone just calls his lordship his lordship since his lordship knows everything. I think he called it omnisciscince or something."
"To garner the praise of so many spirits, he must really be something."
"Oh yes, yes. If anyone would know where your friend is, it would be his lordship."
The journey from shoreline to world''s edge was not a short trek; in fact, it was incomprehensibly long; sometimes, it felt like with every step forward, that corridor grew two steps long. The ocean walls tightened on either side, now close enough that she could see the geometric spikes and tunnels undulating upon its surface. The little fish turned to Granny Ayah and spoke. "From here on out, make sure to follow my exact steps. If you walk even a teeny bit different from where I say or do, then it might be impossible for us to find each other again." Granny Ayah thought the fish was a little dramatic, but she played along, giving it an affirmative nod.
The two kept delving deeper into the barren beach all the way until Granny Ayah felt a light spray splash her face. It was a strange, overpowering feeling, not like the intangible coolness of the soul sea. It took her a moment to remember that was what real water felt like. They had finally arrived at the true ocean, the end of the carved corridor where she faced a flat wall of water. Craning her neck to either side, she saw it stretch to either horizon as if she hadn''t just been trekking between a divided sea for the past couple of hours. Gazing up, the ocean continued forever, conjoining to some impossible point far beyond where the blue hues of sky and sea blended seamlessly. The ocean''s face a turbulent assault of convulsions and impressions, shapes impossible to fluids forming and breaking but it would reject any stable state. It would shift and transform, shrinking and growing, continuously morphing into other shapes, her mind finally supplanted: they were waves.
She comforted herself in knowing that it was all on the other side, trapped and inapproachable, beyond the edge of the world. A place that no being would ever dare trespass; Granny Ayah could only hope that included her fruit.
"We''re here." The fish had stopped in front of a stone well. A quaint wooden roof peaked above, a rope drawn back on a spindle and tied to a bucket that rested on the well''s walls, smoothed by the wet of the ocean. Inside the bucket was an odd mixture of real and ethereal water, as if unsure of which world the bucket was meant to provide for. The little fish jumped out of Granny''s furry cane and into the well''s bucket with a little splash. It happily span a few circles, then surfaced, "His lordship will be at the bottom of the well."
Granny Ayah walked up to the out-of-place well and peered down its deep rocky shaft. The well pierced deep into the depths, the smoothed brickwork eventually ending, but a natural cave continuing the penetration into abyssal darkness. Granny Ayah gave her fishy companion an apprehensive eye but kept faith in her friend.
The first cause of concern with her tiny friend''s simple plan was that there was clearly no way she could fit in that bucket, but under the insistence of the little fish, she put her first foot in. At a distance, it looked like even her foot would hardly fit, but as her foot got closer, it almost appeared like it shrunk to fit in the bucket. As the rest of her body followed it too seemed to contort to its new small environment. Granny Ayah still struggled to fit her entire body into the small bucket but eventually managed to squeeze herself in with her folded knees rubbing against her ears. Then, she began feeding the rope some length to commence her descent.
Granny Ayah kept a firm hold of the rope, making sure to maintain a steady decline into the black below, and below they went. Down, deeper into the planet''s bod. The first thing to disappear was any smell of the outside world; the scent of rotting corpses and rushing saltwater had all but gone. Then, any sound of the outside world left; the howling wind, crashing waves, and chatting spirits seemed part of a faraway land now. Eventually, even light couldn''t make its way to the cramped shaft. Minutes turned to hours, and Granny Ayah found her skin getting more wrinkled than it already was from sitting in the bucket''s strange liquid for so long.
After a few more hours of descent, when Granny Ayah''s arms grew wobbly with fatigue and she struggled to maintain her steady pace, a saving light pierced the dark below. An eager fervour flooded her exhausted arms, and she accelerated her descent. Going lower more, she was welcomed by the methodical drip of droplets striking a shallow puddle. She descended even further down, and her nose was finally embraced with the stagnant stench of fish, the otherwise horrible scent a welcome relief after hours of sensory deprivation. Then, she finally came to an opening.
The base of the bucket could just hardly graze the surface of a shallow pond, Its connecting rope having been fully extended. A crack in the cave flooded the hollow with light. A single flat rock peaked out of the small pond. On top of this little rock, a fat toad perched proudly. Granny Ayah looked around the small cave before finally pointing to the toad and asking her fish friend. "Is that his lordship?"
The little fish gasped in horror before speedily stuttering. "I''m so sorry, your lordship; she is a guest and is still ignorant of some things. It is truly an honour to meet you."
Granny Ayah, having noticed her mistake, made a pained attempt at formally bowing in the cramped bucket. "I apologize, your lordship; I did not know exactly who or what I was going to meet, so I did not recognize you right away. I humbly ask for your forgiveness."
The toad made no gesture of acknowledgement as it replied. "Ribbit"
The little fish''s eyes widened in absolute bliss while happily wagging his tail. "Oh, you are so generous and merciful; your lordship, thank you."
Granny Ayah shot a confused glance at her fish friend but then looked back to his lordship and asked, "I have come here to seek your lordship''s guidance. I am looking for a friend, and I heard that you would know where they were."
Granny Ayah stared pleadingly at his lordship, trying to contain all her expectations and hopes. His lordship took a moment of deep thought and analysis and then bloated out his vocal sac and spoke. "Ribbit"
"I apologize, Your Lordship, but I do not understand the language that you speak. Would it be possible for you to translate, please?"
Granny Ayah couldn''t quite believe her own words. Perhaps she was just feebly grasping at straws to justify the time and effort of this trip. She waited patiently for his lordship to respond. His lordship remained quiet for an entire minute as he sat on his little rock without making a single movement. Granny Ayah also spent this entire minute silently watching His Lordship''s every action. Eventually, after a minute, the silence was broken. "Yes, I can see your friend, ribbit."
Granny Ayah''s face beamed with elation. She excitedly attempted to scooch forward in the bucket to get closer to his lordship as she asked. "Really! Where are they!?"
"They are in the bucket with you, ribbit."
The little fish did not waste a second to shower praise. "Wow, you are so wise, your lordship. Thank you for your great guidance!"
Granny Ayah threw a puzzled expression to the bucket, but inside, she could only see the little fish. "Do you mean this fish spirit, your lordship? Well, yes, it certainly is my friend, but this is not the friend that I was searching for."
Granny Ayah paused while she waited for his lordship to respond. She waited patiently for an excruciatingly long time, with only the occasional dripping sound of water filling the air. After a few minutes, his lordship stretched out his vocal sack and responded. "Oh, ¡ribbit."
"Your lordship, do you know where the friend that I am looking for is?"
"Of course, I know everything there is to know of the world."
"May you tell me where my friend is?"
His lordship did not immediately respond; however, he did blink for the first time in their meeting. His lordship sat on the little rock and truly took Granny Ayah''s question to heart searching deep within himself for how he could be of help. His lordship turned around on the spot, scanning the contents of the entire cave. Finally, he had fully turned, returning to his original position, and his lordship gave Granny Ayah his answer. "Your friend is not here, ribbit."
"Of course they aren''t! I thought you knew everything there was to know in the world?"
"I do know all there is to know of the world. I have just looked around it. I could not find our friend. I''m sorry to say that they must have passed on. It is time for you to move on. Ribbit."
"I know they aren''t in the well. Where are they outside the well?"
"Outside the well? What''s that?... Ribbit."
Granny Ayah was stunned silent. She could not believe what was unfolding before her. The little fish swam over to her to share their condolences. "I''m so sorry Granny, I had no idea that your friend had passed away. I will be here if you need a shoulder to cry on."
Responding uncharacteristically quick, his lordship said. "She cannot cry on your shoulder, for you do not have one little fish."
"Ooh, you''re right, your lordship. How very wise."
The sweet old Granny Ayah could not contain it anymore and burst into a fit of shouts. "No! His lordship is not wise! He hasn''t told anyone here anything they don''t already know! He knows nothing about the larger world, and this was all just a great big waste of time. I have rope burn from coming down here! His lordship can''t even consistently keep up his gimmick of croaking at the end of every sentence, and you little fish! His lordship is just a frog in a well, but what is your excuse, why did you tell me that he would have all my answers!? What do the two of you have to say for yourselves!?"
His lordship and the little fish both recoiled at the sudden outburst from Granny Ayah, and after a few seconds of her echoing shouts, the cave returned to an eerie silence. His lordship was the first to respond. "¡ ribbit?"
"Too late, frog boy."
Granny Ayah turned back to the little fish with a pointed finger, awaiting its excuse. "He said he knew everything."
"That obviously wasn''t true."
"I didn''t know that¡ I''m a fish."
Granny Ayah gave in to defeat. All of her rage faded just as quickly as it had roused. What happened was not the fault of these two simple creatures. Granny Ayah spoke with a calm, soft voice. "I am sorry for shouting at the two of you, I was just in a hurry to find my friend."
"I''m also sorry, Granny Ayah, I just wanted to help, but I didn''t know how."
The little fish swam over to Granny Ayah''s cheek and rubbed against it in a fish''s terrible attempt at a hug.
The frog awkwardly interjected into the tender moment with a question. "So, umm. In my infinite wisdom, I heard that there was going to be a birthday with baked goods. Will I be invited?"
¡°¡¡±
"¡ ribbit."
Granny Ayah looked over to the toad with a scornful glare; even the little fish still pressed against her cheek glared him down. Granny Ayah gave a curt but resolute answer. "No."
Suddenly, the loud sound of a bell chimed in the cave, echoing all throughout the small room. The toad felt its rock was being disturbed by something, so it hopped into the small pond and swam over to the bucket to crawl in.
On the small rock, there was what seemed to be a small pink rhombus, or it was a rhombus, but its body would reject any stable state. It would shift and transform, shrinking and growing, continuously morphing into other shapes. The pink shape finally locked into a form resembling that of a featureless human with only one limb. The arm was outstretched towards Granny Ayah holding a glowing parchment: It read.
| You have been invited to |
| The Tournament |
| You are The Mother |
Chapter 28: Recorded History
It had currently taken on the form of a female human, bushy hair puffing up into a haloed silhouette, untamed rivulets framing its round face. A brown tunic draped loosely over its slender frame down to the ankles that hid any human imperfections. A thick leather belt clamped the tunic tightly at the waist, and a large yellow headband over its forehead helped push that unruly hair out of its eyes.
It had just arrived at a quaint village, an unnamed hamlet, mostly quiet with little of note to fill meandering conversations. This made simple matters such as the arrival of strangers newsworthy, whose simple narrative would spread like a plague through the unpractised ears of bored villagers.
The reason it had arrived at this village was solely to confront the supposed vvitchenbreiver that called such an inane place home. It wanted to see one before they all disappeared, and supposedly, there should be one here.
Its initial impression of the minor hamlet and its plain shanty huts was of concern. The whole town was an uninspired dreg, each building the bare minimum to house its tenants. It was plain to see this was a village of farmers; the massive fields of brilliant crops were endlessly more impressive than the withered gathering of housing. The only point of contention was the grand Devootian temple, which, even from the village edge, could be seen looming over the town. It was the only building of stone and the only one constructed with any care or attention. It was still a plain, unimpressive thing, but relative to the homes surrounding it, the temple appeared a divine work of art.
Despite how small the village was and how little space there was to hide, The being was still caught by surprise when two small children snuck up on it, "You do look weird." the voice carried that high-pitched squeal of prepubescence and the being disguised in the form of a human female had to look down to spot their tiny forms. The childrens¡¯ hands were inversely cupped together, fingers in a constant dance upon each other''s palms.
The two children could not look any more different; the male on the left had black hair, brown eyes, too-small ears, and a black gown, his skin darker than the most pitch of blacks. The girl on the right had white hair, sharp, long ears, and a white gown, her skin paler than the most pristine white. The stranger part of the girl, however, were her eyes, which were a strange glazed red, clouded and unfocused. These eyes surprised the being; it had seen eyes like this many eons ago before the homomorphism, but surely the Devadoot worshippers of today''s age would go mad if they saw them.
The being disguised as a female human asked the two children. "Why do I look weird?". It awaited for a harshly honest answer to come immediately, blurting out as children were wont to do. Perhaps it would be about the being''s eerily unblemished skin, or its stoically perfect posture undoubtedly foreign to a farmer''s village, or maybe it would be about the bewildering yellow headband, a colour the children had likely never seen woven into fabric before. The children did not indulge in such juvenile curiosity; they didn''t reply at all, in fact. The two children instead turned inwards, their fingers exploding into a litany of silent activity across each other''s palms.
First, the girl moved her fingers over the boy''s palm, and then he to her. To the being''s surprise, the girl then responded. "Your clothes don''t quite fit."
Though the extra steps were unexpected, the children''s response was just as curiously pure as the being thought it would be. The being smirked with entertainment but couldn''t help asking, "How do you know what I look like? Is it not hard to see with your eyes?"
The little girl burst into laughter, and the boy, confused by his friend''s sudden movements, squeezed her hand questioningly. The little girl''s fingers fired into a flurry of movement over the boy''s palms as she simultaneously spoke. "I can see everything with his eyes, and he can hear everything with my ears."
Curiosity peaked, the being focused on the children''s hands and from the convoluted patterns of movements, the being saw it, a language. A girl without eyes and a boy without ears, yet they communed as well together as any other. The being waited for the girl to finish recounting the conversation to her friend through their hands. Once she finished and the boy was let in on the joke, he, too, burst into laughter, though his voice was strange, raspy and atonal, as if inexperienced.
"Do you two talk with your hands?"
"Yep, that''s right. We can always feel each other like this." The girl responded, both verbally to the being and with her fingers to the boy. The being drew its gaze over to the boy and spoke; this time, the being accompanied its words with a series of complex hand gestures. "Do you understand sign?"
The girl, confused, translated the sentence to her friend and then asked, "What''s sign?"
The boy excitedly released the girl''s hand to curl his fist up and down while nodding his head. The use of two separate sign languages impressed the being, though the little girl thought differently, letting out a panicked squeak the second the boy let go of her. Her panic continued to build until the boy reclasped her and translated the exchange for her.
The being spoke with both its voice and its hands. "Sign is a way that I can speak with your friend. This way, I can use sound to talk to you, lady, and visuals to speak with you, sir. I am impressed with this special touch language. Did you invent it yourselves?"
The boy, rather than sign back to the being, allowed his friend to respond for the both of them. The girl gave an unsure shrug, "I don''t know, I guess. We kind of just made whatever up as we went along."
"You two are very talented; how old are you?"
Once again, it was the girl who answered, likely a habit built from a vocally inclined society. "We''re both four."
The being tried to be discreet about voraciously analyzing every stroke of their movements in an attempt to decipher this new language. On the surface, ''she'' provided a kindly smile, "I have never seen four-year-olds quite like you two before."
Unused to such open compliments, the two children couldn''t help blushing with suppressed giggles. "Master says that we''re very smart for our age."
The being suppressed the spark of worry that word choice created and pressed forth, "Since the two of you are so smart, maybe you can help me. I am looking for a vvitchenbreiver that lives here. Do you know where they could be?"
The boy, with his free hand, pointed down one direction of the street while translating to his friend with the other. The boy was rapidly transcribing the directions to the girl who then relayed them to the being. "Um, so go down the road until you reach a¡ yellow house? Um, and then um go right for three blocks, then um left, then uh¡"
The being wasn''t sure if the boy chose to speak through that touch language instead of directly using sign language because he didn''t want to let go of the girl''s hand again or if it was because he was simply more familiar with that language.
After receiving the incomprehensibly confusing directions, the being nodded with a smile as if the instructions were even remotely helpful. "Thank you very much. I hope I will be able to see you both again."
The boy waved with a smile, and the girl cheered, "Goodbye, weird person!"
The girl waved to the now-empty space and translated what she said back to the boy. They were cute kids, and the being had to suppress another pang of sadness when thinking of the obstacles they would surely encounter. The being would definitely want to speak to the children again before leaving, but for now it had to go visit the vvitchenbreiver.
The being tried following the children''s directions, though it quickly became apparent that translating directions from a deaf boy through a blind girl led to less than stellar instructions. It was no surprise then that the being found itself utterly lost. A feat that was almost impressive given how miniscule hamlet was. The being was a little disheartened, having to abandon the children''s guidance, but it was getting nowhere quickly.
The devadootian church was an ever-present weenie in the town, with its structure being the only one taller than a single storey. The being thought that there would surely be people there who could give it more functional directions, and upon arriving it was not disappointed.
The church''s courtyard was oddly bustling for such a small town. The town''s priest was having an animated discussion with an irate mother bouncing her babe, what was likely the father on the periphery failing to placate either side. A couple of burly men carried a thick pillar to an unlit bonfire in the street''s center. A group of mismatched children, none near in age, played an uneven game of tag, their chaotic running disrupting their hardworking parents.
The being approached one of the citizens who was currently off to the side observing the pole mounting. "Excuse me, sir, would you happen to know where I could find the vvitchenbreiver?"
"What! Why in the Devadoot''s honour would you possibly want to see that disgusting recluse? I can tell you this now, stranger: if you¡¯re here to find that miserable wretch, you¡¯d better turn around and leave. Nothing good comes from associating with him. We''re already dealing with one of his messes; we don''t need you coming and conjuring another. I''m telling you, this is the last straw! There''s no way we''re letting him stay in our peaceful town after this."
The being was taken aback by the aggressive citizen but not surprised; humans tended to be rather close-minded in this generation. "May I ask exactly what did the vvitchenbreiver do?"You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
The citizen glared at the being with what could only be described as a mildly unsettling and certainly unfriendly look. "We¡¯ve all known he¡¯s been harbouring monsters in his drab hut. There''ve been strange sounds in the dark of night and he buys enough food for a whole family despite having been a hermit for years. He¡¯s finally gone and lost it. They say he¡¯s let the beast loose into our town, no one is safe anymore. You should be careful. Our town is usually such a peaceful place, but you¡¯ve chosen a poor time to visit, stranger"
"Oh my, that does sound horrible. I should definitely avoid getting anywhere near where he lives if there could be monsters there. Can you tell me where that is exactly so I can make sure to steer clear?"
It took longer than expected and a few more detours than the being would have liked, but it finally arrived at the vvitchenbreiver''s hut. The false-human slipped into a nearby alley, loosened its belt a few notches and transformed into a short, broad male. The being was never fond of staying in any particular form for too long; It did not like having humans know where it was and what it was doing. The ¡®broad man¡¯ left the alley and entered the vvitchenbreiver''s hut.
Upon entering, the being was surprised to find some familiar faces. Unexpectedly, the two children were here. If they were coming here all along, why didn''t they just guide the being in person? None noticed the being''s arrival, the two children with their heads down solemn and a pudgy elder with a deep hunch lost in a dramatic scolding rant. "I told you two to never leave here without my permission! Are you not aware of what you have done? The danger you have put yourselves in?"
The girl translated to the boy.
The boy then transcribed his response and she repeated his answer verbally, "But we had to go and see the weird person. Moiety saw it. It was the only way we had a chance of being free."
The older man was undeterred by the children''s excuses and continued his reprimand. "Moiety''s eyesight is still too weak. We can''t trust everything he sees; there may be as of yet unseen consequences from what you did today." It was then that the old man noticed the being silently watching. He stood tall, stepping between it and the children; his voice hard and authoritative. "I''m sorry, sir, we''re closed for the time being."
The boy turned around to see the being in its new disguised form. His face immediately glowing with recognition, his hands excitably scribing to the girl. "It''s weird person! See? We told you they would come. They can help us."
The being frowned, discontent with being outed so quickly. "How can you tell that I am the same person?"
The girl answered with a cheeky grin, "Like I said, he sees everything."
The old man reinvestigated the stranger now that he was armed with the newfound knowledge of who exactly it was. His suspicion did not leave, only strengthening, and he commenced an unceasing string of interrogations. "So, you''re this so-called saviour. What do you want? What are you going to do to them?"
The being was at a complete loss; it hadn''t even known of these children''s existence a few hours ago, and now it''s supposed to be their saviour? "I''m just as confused as you are, sir. I have no idea; I had not come here for them but for you."
The little girl''s posture plummeted, "What? But, but you''re supposed to take us away. You''re going to change the world so that we can truly live." There was a desperation in the girl''s voice. A little hope trying to fight against the crushing pressure placed upon it.
"I am sorry, but I am merely an observer. I don''t know what your friend''s eyes saw, but I never enact change; I merely document it." The being had long since gotten used to these conversations but still dreaded them as much as the first. The next part always pained it. The part where the others realized that it had come to watch their downfall, not stop it.
"So why are you here for me?" The old man asked, skepticism filling his voice.
"The vvitchenbreiver are not long for this world. I must document them before it is too late. You are the last vvitchenbreiver."
Grief flooded the man; his legs suddenly weak under him failed and he plopped into a chair to steady himself, "It, it can¡¯t be. Are you sure that I am the last vvitchenbreiver?"
The being merely nodded its head.
"What about Mosey?" Just because the being was used to these conversations didn''t mean that it enjoyed them. When the being came across other librarians, they never shared the same dread that the being did. They always apathetically completed their tasks; not even Luna understood. It wasn''t going to betray its occupation, but there was always that lingering hesitance in these moments.
The old man looked toward the being in hopes of finding an answer, but after a few seconds without response, he understood. "I see." His colour drained, strength sapped from his bones; perhaps it was just the being''s imagination, but his wrinkles seemed heavier.
The little boy, Moiety, approached the man, placing his free hand on the man''s lap. The boy could not fully understand what was happening, but he could see the grief. His fingers moved over the girl''s palm.
The girl gave Moiety a confused look, he nodded in assurance, and she hesitantly translated his message. "It''s okay, you don''t have to be sad. There was never really a Mosey anyway."
The old man looked up to the children, his pained visage contorted in puzzlement. The girl waited for the boy to translate the rest of his message to her.
The being felt a sense of importance from the encrypted words being traded between the two children, so it decided to record the event. The being raised a hand to its head and removed the yellow headband. Adorned upon the centre of its forehead was a third eye with three dark pupils enveloped in a pink iris. The three pupils merged into a single massive orb so large the optic rods were faintly visible within.
The trio were too enthralled in their own conversation to notice the being. The little girl continued to translate the boy''s message, her voice atonal and quick in a way which seemed rote. "Strange person is here to help us; they have books that can help us, that can save us. And when they do, everything will be okay again, and-¡± The girl paused, her face scrunched in confusion. She looked to her friend and he nodded affirmatively, repeating the same message upon her palm. She continued her transcription but this time with less surety, a repetition without cognition ¡°and Mosey can finally be born for the first time."
Distraught turned to rage ill-founded from mourning. He leapt from his seat, spitting bitterly. "You''re wrong! We''re not like you, we''re not monsters. I don''t know how life works for you, but when a real human dies, they don''t come back. If you were human, you wouldn''t come back either!"
The little girl was stunned still, her cloudy eyes tearing like a storm. The elder immediately realized his mistake. He regretfully begged. "I''m sorry, Tsela, please don''t translate that. I was angry; I didn''t mean it."
Tsela ignored the man. Her fingers trembled as they struggled to form the signs on the boy''s palm, salty tears raining onto their entwined hands. "Tsela, please don''t. I''m sorry." Her heart was nearly unable to pass on the words, but honesty forced her forth. Once Moiety received the message, his face filled with betrayal, then it morphed into anger.
He shouted in a broken, unpracticed voice. "Ur nah umin eiwer!" and released the girl''s hand, running out the door and disappearing into the village. When Tsela''s hand was released, she let out a terrified yelp and chased after Moiety''s fading footsteps. She struggled to find the doorknob but eventually managed to leave the room as well.
The old man buried his face in his hands, remorse and fear and pain and anger all mixing into a dizzying soup of self-loathing. "What have I done?" He didn''t stay depressed for long; pulling himself back together, he steeled himself. He had to make this right, "You have to help me bring them back!" He turned to the being ready to demand more, but all fight dissipated to naught upon seeing the leviathan third eye in its disturbing pink hue upon its forehead.
The being did not respond. It just stared back at the old man, unmoving, eyes watered with shame. If he wanted to get the children back, he would be alone. He huffed irritably, pushing past the being on his way to chase the kids. As he gripped the door''s handle, the being had an idea, "Did you teach them the way of the vvitchenbreiver?"
The man paused and turned back hopeful, "Yes, why?"
"Because when the day is over, I will need a vvitchenbreiver to observe."
Relief and resignation warred about the man''s face. He did not respond; instead, he gave a single nod and headed out the door.
Now, the being was alone in the quiet hut, only accompanied by the bizarre repertory of a bygone trade. The being took its time exploring the cozy hutch. Its third eye drank every detail left behind, the exact curves of the glassware, the age of the hanging plants, and the colour of each befuddling liquid, even the dents and scars of the stoneware cauldron. It was a packed room filled with unconventional ingredients and complicated mechanisms. Each trinket came together to tell a story; as the being surveyed more, it began to differentiate the scars of expected use and those of clumsy learning. Entire lives were hidden in the details, three separate nooks, two shorter working desks, and one with wobbly unpracticed writing, the other devoid of ink. It took a lot of time to fully observe it all and properly comprehend the meticulous documents. It did not rush, ensuring that every nuance was burned into its third eye, never to be forgotten. Once satisfied that it had observed every possible detail, the being left.
The first thing it noticed was that the day star was beginning to set, creating a beautiful purple sky; the sky was so peaceful that the being was willing to waste a few minutes just to observe it. The second thing the being noticed was a tall black smokestack that stretched up from the devadootian church. There was a faint hum of perhaps shouting or cheering; the being couldn''t quite tell.
It placed its yellow headband back over its third eye and went to see the plume. It was much easier to navigate the town with the large smokey beacon guiding its way. The closer the being got, the harsher it was assaulted by the scent of cooked meat. The being had not eaten for a while yet, but for some reason, this scent quelled the being''s hunger rather than enticed it.
Before it could arrive at the church and see what was happening, it saw a familiar face sequestered behind some trash in a narrow alley. The little girl, Tsela, was balled up as small as possible, suppressed sniffling gasping through the cover of cloth.
The being chanced a cautious glance to the sky, in day, it only saw the brilliant day star and faint moon. The being fought back any sympathy but, this time, could not hold back. Luna wouldn''t tell. The being approached the little girl and asked. "Are you a vvitchenbreiver?"
Tsela turned to the sound; her blank red eyes, not quite looking at anything in particular, were strained and had gone puffy. Streams of tears were pouring down her pale white face. Her perfect skin was marked and battered with dirt, scratches and bruises.
Tsela tried responding through choked tears and streaming phlegm. "Th-They''re¡ not¡. really gone¡ right?" Each word interrupted by full-body hiccoughs, chest heaving for breaths. "I-I-I¡ never really¡ met them¡right? We can¡ like¡ m-make¡ them¡ born for¡ th-the f-f-f-f-first time¡ or¡ something like that?"
The being paid no heed to the child''s trauma and asked again. "Are you a vvitchenbreiver?"
"We¡ don''t¡ac-ac-actually¡get¡ the br-breiver title¡until¡we finish¡ our¡training. W¡we get¡ a¡pseudo¡t-t-title¡until¡then.¡±
"So, what is your title?" Tsela wiped a thick string of snot viscous enough to hold as her thumb pulled away from her nose. The being noticed her arm was caked in dried red, a disturbing concoction of blood both hers and foreign. Tsela then brought her hand still laced with green slime, up to her drowning eyes. The being quickly stopped that, grasping both of Tsela''s arms and pulling them down. The being took its own cleaned sleeve and gently dabbed the tears from the child''s cheeks. The being pushed its questions forward again. "What is your title?"
"My¡title¡is¡ the White Vvitch."
Chapter 29:Reunion
Loneliness, it was devoid, the void, infinite nothing, finitely defined. A place that coldness consumed, not through presence, but through absence, an emptiness so hollow it denied existence. Land and sea rejected from the frigid void, incapable of bearing against such violent silence.
Loneliness was cramped in a sense; there were always many others traversing through that quiet vastness. The loneliness crowded beyond any world''s capacity, beyond any system''s capacity, yet it all remained lonely. It may have been crowded, but the loneliness was even more so empty to deny any contact amongst these beings, each lost, flailing through the loneliness, doomed to never cross paths, as was the curse of the void.
A heavy mass hurtled itself through the loneliness. A mass sent on its journey by the catastrophic death of its major, a journey it had travelled for time memorial; a silent escapade for nobody going nowhere. The mass never even existed as an idea, as a possibility; it was naught but a conjuration in the wandering imaginations of the past.
The heavy mass, packed with reminders of places once been and things once done, could only stupor in memory of times before the loneliness. Before the loneliness was the only place in which meaningful experience could even be fabricated.
The heavy mass, weightless and unyielding, moved forever, accepting the rest of its Sisyphean life.
Until a child called.
Eddy had just finished collecting the eggs from the roost. The day star had barely risen, yet he was already deep into his list of chores. Even in the cool pre-morn, his shaggy hair clung to his neck, sticky with sweat.
Coming to the foot of the home''s entrance, he was obstructed by a cry of blithe laughter, piercing clangs of cutlery, sounds separated by a door and an impossibly large chasm. Eddy could even imagine this chasm as a physical moat of bubbling lava spurting out angry belches of scolding flame, the heat smothering his face. Eddy, like a great hero, would brave through the daunting obstacle, leaping across the terrifying ravine and catching a stray vine to swing over the chasm and escape with the bountiful treasure in his basket. The chasm, in reality, was not so easily surmounted by physical actions. He opened the door and walked into the dining room.
Three younger children cheerily sat about a long well-worn table; two blond twins were mischievously play-fighting with their forks while the third child patiently waited for breakfast, a stoic poise battling with childish impatience. The rowdy children were energized by the warming embrace of the climbing day star reaching through open windows to blanket the hall in a homely yellow light.
The children shone in a familial glow, a beacon light calling from across another chasm. Meanwhile, in the kitchen, Eddy''s aunt and uncle were preparing the much-anticipated breakfast. In a happenstance turn, reaching for more flour, the uncle caught sight of Eddy. The uncle spotted Eddy''s muddy boot stepping forth, about to breach the home''s sanctity, and, so fast it were like magic, he was standing before Eddy, large frame blotting the dining room from sight. The man was so close, and so suddenly, Eddy took a shocked step back, tripping over the welcoming mat and landing painfully on his tailbone. His uncle glanced at the eggs uncertainly, though they remained steadfastly sequestered in the basket, and he smiled down at the prone Eddy. "You finally got the eggs perfect, now we can finish making breakfast."
The twins cheered in excitement while the third child failed to hide her satisfied smirk corrupting her patiently stoic face.
"Eddy." His uncle spoke firmly. He always made every moment feel like the pivotal turn of a century. The gap between child and guardian tight with tensioned gravitas. "Go muck the stalls." Each word spoken like it were more vital than the last, he always had that overpowering sense of authority, "You can get your plate after." It was like a grand quest, a king delegating to a uniquely qualified hero, a motivating reward dangled at the end and everything. This was an urgent task which had to be accomplished as soon as possible and Eddy was the only one who could do it.
Of course, Eddy knew he had a poor habit of projection, that he inserted more into that sharp tone than it ever deserved, but Eddy preferred to feign faith into his initial fantastical assumptions. "Yes, Mr. Caitiff."
Eddy handed over the basket of eggs as his uncle funnelled him out the door he had barely breached. Glancing back, Eddy still couldn''t help but see those small white rhomboids as a lavish stockpile of gems, handed from tyrants to paupers, the cheering of children in the background. They weren''t cheers for eggs. They were a celebration of the great Eddy, who had saved this town and brought peace to the world.
The door slammed shut in front of him.
Eddy briefly paused to gaze at the day star carelessly beating down on him and let out a tired sigh. It had seemed like such a gentle caress on his cousins'' cheeks, but on him, it felt like a terrible blast of fire melting him down to the bone. Perhaps this fire was summoned by an evil wizard; the Sodality of Cinder, with a renewed lust for power, instigated an assault on Aegis, and it was up to Eddy to stop them.
The destructive orb of enflamed death was too much for the mere small folk, forced to hide in their pitiable homes, comforting themselves with a final breakfast. It was up to the unmatched Eddy to halt this dastardly evil from wrecking its grim ideals upon the innocents.
With such a noble quest, of course, he would attract the aid of other fantastical paragons, and who better to swoop in than the Saviours? Doyen, The Hero of New Heirisson Conquest, rode in with Iatric, The Holy Light, on a beautiful white steed. The pristine mare flanked to his left, and the two fleshed legends gave him a deferential bow. Soon, to his right, Jocund the Wall, Ken the Preeminent, and Forgo the Ballista line up, their chosen weapons ready in white-knuckled grips. The Saviours were nervous; they had never faced a foe as powerful as this Cinder Wizard, and they all looked to Eddy for hope. Only upon his reassuring smile did they gain the confidence to move forward.The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.
Eddy led the charge, ducking and weaving, making short and accurate movements as he dodged the mental balls of flame that the evil wizard whizzed at him. The Saviours fought like they''d never fought before to open a path for him to the barn''s cover, as powerful as they were, Eddy was the only one that could do this.
With a desperate dive, he escaped a meteoric fireball and landed in the barn. Here he could acquire the legendary weapon, the ancient relic of myth left by the gods-
Wait, was it still okay to call the devadoots gods?
-an ancient relic of myth left by the devadoots, the holy-
Wait, it''s probably not good to call it holy, either.
The transcendental shovel! The second he gripped the unparalleled weapon, he felt a wave of unimaginable power wash over him, he sheathed his weapon into a wheelbarrow and carried it over to the horse stalls. Shirking his duties would never end well, so he obediently entered the first stall and shovelled the manure into the wheelbarrow. The sedate activity did not last long; before his very eyes, the pile of manure morphed into a legion of soldiers bearing flags of the Sodality of Cinders.
Eddy''s shovel sharpened, and the weapon would explode into sparks of emboldened light with every strike into the manure, and with every strike, he felled an enemy. The barn was filled with overwhelming pressure, an aromatic pressure so putrid and omnipresent that Eddy had to wear a thick linen mask over his mouth and nose to just maintain a grip over his consciousness. No, the pressure was not aromatic in nature, no matter what reality was trying to convince him of; the pressure was from the thousands of enemies stretching out to the horizon and beyond, from the weight of battle, the gravity of this very moment so overbearing it manifested as this unidentifiable pressure.
Just when Eddy felt so overwhelmed he thought he could no longer hold his own, an arrow came crashing down and knocked out an entire battalion of enemies. Eddy swung around to see Schlemiel, the beautiful Savage Archer give him a cheeky wink. The Murugan Squad, with their genius commander Ad leading the team, the Unstoppable Duo Emeritus & Emirita, and Liederkranz, the Child of Victory, quickly followed behind. The squad bolstered Eddy on either side, just barely saving him in time from complete defeat.
Even with the support of most of Murugan Squad, they were still only able to hold back the incredible forces; it wasn''t enough. The burning heat of day redoubled, stronger, harsher, and Eddy started to feel dehydrated. Wait, no, he knew what this was! He could hardly even feel the scorching heat; the berating star of the evil wizard kept smashing down on him, but his skin felt impervious.
Although he heralded from the cinders, he was a member of the Pangean entente and the Murugan Squad, and he would not accept this insubordination; Bennu The Phoenix directly opposed the enemy wizard in a beautiful show of magnificent flames.
Eddy had to make several trips to and from the manure pile to carry the massive load of dung. Eddy found his back aching and his arms losing their will with each consecutive lift and toss of the substance, with each consecutive swing and stab of his weapon. To muck every stall, along with the several trips back and forth from the pile, took Eddy several hours to complete.
After his gruelling combat, he and the squad finally managed to conquer his enemy. The evil Sodality of Cinders had been stopped, and the evil wizard in the sky could do nothing but watch. Although his imagination carried a resounding victory, the day star had actually only gotten stronger as noon approached.
He stood in front of the entrance to the dining room, another impregnable chasm gone blurry from the sweat cascading over his eyes. This time, he didn''t even bother trying to jump the gap; he just let himself fall down the endless pit.
The door opened.
The house was empty, quiet. Chairs pushed away from the table, twisted at odd angles, dirty plates and dishes littered the table, food spilled over the floor and sipped through the cracks of floorboards. There was a cold plate at the far end of the table, which was mostly barren, with a tranche of bread and a few dollops of mashed potato.
A terrific rumbling shook the whole house when suddenly a giant stone smashed through the roof, carrying a beautiful purple drape that fell onto the table. A magical portal on the tablecloth expunged a superabundance of silver platters adorned with immense succulent meals of wonderous variety. His imagination wasn''t strong enough to replace the taste of brittle bread more akin to a cracker, but in his mind, he could pretend.
After finishing his meal, he cleaned the room, wiping the floor from the smears of abandoned food. As his stomach grumbled, he couldn''t help but steal a few of the abandoned scraps of eggs, a little taste of the fatty meat glued to the floor. After tidying the dining room, wiping the floor and table, fetching water from the well, washing the dishes, tidying the kitchen, putting the food away and wiping the kitchen''s floor, his uncle walked into the room. "Finally finished the cleaning up? About time, we need you to send some of the left-over eggs to Dour''s, she''ll also need your help with sheaving the hay."
A great depression sunk into Eddy''s shoulder. The weight of his day bore down on him; it dragged his skin down and filled the dark bags under his eyes. It pressed into his heaving chest.
"Hey, are you listening to me, Eddy!?" His uncle shouted with his usual boiling temper intermixed with a strange panic. "You should do as your family tells you, Eddy. We''re all you have left, and you owe a lot to us. You owe a lot to me. Think of where you''d be if it wasn''t for me. You hear me? Think you could manage on your own, letting our good will go to your head."
Eddy chose to remain silent; he found it best to not get involved when his uncle spiralled into his hysterical paranoias. "Eddy, you need us, you need me. Without me you wouldn''t have a roof, you wouldn''t have the food you eat or the clothes you wear. Without me, you would have no means to even attain, to even think of how to attain these things!"
Eddy brought his chin down to his chest and clenched his jaw closed while keeping his eyelids shut. His uncle approached, and a bell chimed in between the two.
In between the two of them there was what seemed to be a small pink rhombus that grew out of thin air, or it was a rhombus, but its body would reject any stable state. It would shift and transform, shrink and grow, continuously morphing into other shapes. The pink shape finally locked into a form resembling that of a featureless human with only one limb. The arm was outstretched towards Eddy holding a glowing parchment: It read.
| You have been invited to |
| The Tournament |
| You are The Bolide |
Chapter 30: Cool Kid
Trammel''s heart, the dead center of the continent and bordering every one of its major powers, lay the greatest geopolitical marvel ever conceived: Proselyte. Proselyte was most known for its two omnipresent megastructures that dominated its skyscape. To the north were the dizzyingly towering spires of Ersatz University. To the south, was the incomprehensibly behemoth sphere of Empedocles only held aloft by its own vomitorium steps. Each megastructure was infamous in its own right, and each was home to some of the world''s most powerful and influential figures. Yet, for all their grandeur, these monolithic creations did relatively little for its massive population and bustling tourist industry. For the most part, the city-state strived on the stretch of streets that bridged the two buildings: Proselyte''s wild market district.
The market Streets thrummed with an electric vivacity. The chattering of fervid haggling and familial blather intermixed to create that particularly unique music of a living market. Thousands of stalls displayed various foods, jewelry, and any other commodity that one could possibly fathom. Such a thriving market in such a distinctive locale also invited some more extravagant fare, from displaying opulent magical instruments to peddling exotic reconstructed artifacts. Anything and everything could be found in the trove of Proselyte''s wild market district. Everyone was searching for everything, children to toys, elders to memories, and somewhere within it all, a group of teenagers enjoying their recently purchased ice cream were bargaining at a stall.
A young boy just reaching his late teens scowled unimpressed, his wide-brimmed conical hat dangling at his back by its strap, mauve tie loosened, and duel-wielding twin ice cream cones with queer art etched on their surfaces impossibly rebuffing the sweltering morning haze. He whipped out an outstretched arm to bar one of his female colleagues from handing off a pouch of coins. The younger fourteen-year-old looked up, unsure, at the boy. The boy kept his stern eyes on the merchant, "Nu-uh. There is no way she is buying that necklace for twenty-six platinum."
An old lady sat crosslegged behind a carpet of intricate jewelry and simpered openly for all to see her jagged yellow teeth, tongue coloured through alchemical abuse. "Your friend should be thankful she can find such a powerful essence-phoretic rune. You kiddies are still young, so you should trust your elders when I say you can only benefit from an increased essential flux. And this artifact right here-" she emphasized with a patronizing tap of the bracelet in discourse, "-is only the best foci for such a task."
The throng of teens erupted into laughter, a particularly boisterous boy leaning onto his friend for support, ice cream slipping off its cone to a tragic death on the dusty cobbled street amidst the hysterics. The old woman frowned, a little offended by the insulting reaction and definitely confused; she wasn''t sure what she had said that was so comedic.
One of the boys in the group next to the main haggler spoke up. "Lady, you have no idea who you''re talking to."
With his arm still blockading his naive companion with the coins, the lead boy picked up the rune-woven necklace in question and began inspecting it. "Lady, you shouldn''t talk to me about rune quality, I KNOW rune quality, and I could tell with my eyes closed that these runes could have been drawn by three blind mice¡ Now that I look more closely, it''s way worse than I imagined. Did you layer a D¨©pika with a V?k?a ?" That made him choke in disbelieving humour. "This wouldn''t even be worth ten platinum. Don''t bother haggling with this swindler, Patsy. I could easily make you a better one later."
The crowd of teenagers all released a collective gasp of astonishment. Patsy spun on her heels to face the lead boy, her eyes wide and face flush with eager anticipation. Patsy grabbed onto the boy''s hand, exclaiming hopefully. "Really Picay! But I thought you didn''t enchant for people anymore?"
"Yeah, but I''ll make an exception just this once because this crone pissed me off. Don''t get used to it." Picay turned to face his posse, "Don''t get used to it. This is not an open invitation!" A few in the crowds mumbled their jealous displeasure.
The old woman could hardly believe what was unfolding in front of her. "Kids these days are so arrogant. Who do you think you are that you could possibly craft a finer fetich than professional wizards?"
The boy dismissively scoffed at the long-forgotten woman; he lazily tossed the necklace back to her before speaking. "You''re in Proselyte. Who do you think we are?"
The group left the stall and continued to browse the market as they joked about and mocked the encounter they had partaken in. After some wandering the group spotted a friend of theirs lost in the market crowd. "Hey Belabor!" The group tried to wave her down, but it took the piercing whistle of an overexcited friend to overcome the sonic haze of the market and catch the girl''s notice. Once she noticed them, Belabor shuffled through the crowded street to get to the group.
The group left the stall, their laughter echoing through the market as they teased and mocked the encounter they''d just had. They resumed exploring the lively market, enjoying the vibrant chaos that buzzed around them. As they passed through the crowd, they spotted a familiar face¡ªBelabor, lost in the sea of people. "Hey, Belabor!" one of the teens called out, hands waving in the air, others joining to hail the girl down. The eventual sharp whistle of an overly enthusiastic friend finally cut through the market''s cacophony and drew the girl''s attention. When Belabor turned and saw them, she gave a half-grin before beginning her awkward shuffle through the packed street, weaving her way toward the group.
The group parted for Belabor, allowing her pride of place next to Picay. The shorter girl rose on the balls of her feet to plant a kiss on his cheek. Belabor then pouted exaggeratedly, "Can''t believe you seriously left without me."
Picay laughed her off and handed her the untouched ice cream cone he had saved for her. "You had class; what was I supposed to do, sit in on your lecture?"
Belabor''s faux pout couldn''t hold against her boyfriend''s coy smirk, and her acting broke into a familiar smile and a roll of the eyes, "Yes! I sit in on your classes." She laced her arm between his, and the group continued their meandering, the bustling market swirling around them.
Picay groaned. "But your classes are so boring."
"And your classes make no sense!" Belabor exclaimed, earning nods of agreement from the group. Soon, smaller conversations erupted around Picay''s perplexing courses, each person adding their own thoughts.
With a satisfied lick of her cone, Belabor glanced up only to find Patsy staring at her with a puzzled expression. "How is your cone not melting?" Patsy asked, genuinely baffled.
Picay gave Patsy a mischievous smile. "I frosted it."
The younger girl looked confused, "Isn''t that water magic? I didn''t know you were a water bug?"
Picayune briefly scowled, but swiftly corrected, "First of all, you shouldn''t call them water bugs. Second of all, what I did wasn''t water magic. In fact, water manipulation isn''t magic at all. I used something called calefaction. Calefaction isn''t actually a part of the somatic elements but is an elemental field that can be manipulated, so although I can''t-"
"PATSY NO!" Another boy took hold of Picay''s shoulders, shaking him theatrically as he lamented, "You can''t get Picayune started; he''ll never stop."
Belabor cheerfully chimed in between indulgent licks of her deliciously preserved dessert. "I''ve just learned to accept that Picayune can do anything with magic and just not question it," Patsy responded with a dishonest laugh, casually tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. Belabor, still holding her cone, paused mid-lick, her eyes narrowing as she studied Patsy more carefully. "I''m Belabor, by the way-" she said, her tone too sweetly friendly, "-Picay''s boyfriend. You can just call me Bela." Belabor placed her free hand before Patsy, inviting a handshake.
Patsy took Belabor''s hand and shook it with a firm smile. "I''m Patsy. I''m just in my first year, so I hope you guys can help me learn the ropes around here."
Belabor''s brow furrowed as she tried to place the name. It tugged at the edge of her memory, and after a moment of searching, it clicked. "Wait, you''re Espy''s little sister, right?"
Patsy''s cheeks flushed a soft pink, and she let out a shy chuckle, her fingers nervously rubbing at the nape of her neck. "Yeah, he''s my older brother. I have big shoes to fill I guess."
The tension coiling in Belabor''s chest relaxed, and her smile blossomed into something genuine. Her playful tone returned as she threw an arm out toward Patsy, giving her an exaggerated thumbs up. "You show that work junkie who''s the boss, best of luck."
The group wandered through the market, stopping at the occasional stall for some fun Knick-knacks. As they strolled, they shared tips with Patsy on the best routes and hidden shortcuts, veering away from their usual path to point out some of Proselyte''s iconic landmarks. Along the way, they filled her in on little-known bits of trivia about the city-state, their voices light with excitement as they highlighted the quirks of their new home. All the while, their journey slowly routed them back to the university entrance.
Picayune and Belabor broke off from the group with a casual wave. "I''ve got to head to class, but you guys have fun."
Patsy separated from the group of older teens to join Picayune and Belabor, her voice tinged with hope. "Can I come with?"
Picayune hesitated, glancing awkwardly between Belabor and Patsy. He shifted uncomfortably, "Uh... maybe next time. Ken doesn''t like me bringing too many hangers-on." Neither girl looked pleased at that answer. Both pouted, their expressions flat with quiet dissatisfaction.
Patsy was swift to recover. She shot Picayune a strained smile that didn''t quite reach her eyes, poorly masking her disappointment, "Okay, next time!" She slowly tried to reintegrate with the friend group, but being a few years their junior, and without anyone she personally knew, she awkwardly hovered around the edge. Picayune winced at the sight, the guilt sinking in, but he couldn''t say anything before Belabor tugged him by the arm, pulling him into the university building.
They walked side by side in quiet contemplation, the only sounds those of hushed whispers and lingering gazes from passersby. By now, both were used to the occasional stares and muttered comments. After a stretch of silence, Belabor broke the stillness, her voice light but with a knowing edge. "So, Patsy''s pretty... forward, huh?"
Picayune chuckled, shaking his head. "She is, isn''t she? It''s kind of weird, to be honest."
"She seems quite fond of you."
Picayune took a few moments to consider it. "A sister of Espy is a sister of mine. Although I feel like eventually, we''ll have to have an embarrassing talk about her crush." He turned a coy smile to his girlfriend, "but you don''t need to worry."
Belabor crossed her arms with a playful pout, " You''re not exactly helping by promising to take her to lectures. And I wasn''t worried¡ªshe''s just a kid."
Picayune''s grin widened, and he pulled her into a side hug as they walked. "Right, right, not jealous at all..." he teased, his voice light. "Oh, and speak of the devil." Approaching the two was a young man in his early twenties with a muscular build and heavy dark bags under his eyes. His clothes were dishevelled, his shirt was partly untucked from his pants, and his vest seemed to decide which buttons to be buttoned at random. His hair was obviously lazily drenched in water at an ill attempt to quell the beast that it had become; the attempts were a failure, though, as different clumps licked and reached out in every direction.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Picayune called out to the obviously mentally preoccupied Espy. "Hey, Esp, we were just talking about you!" Upon hearing his voice, Espy looked up from the ground and instantly lit up with a beaming smile, although the smile soon turned sour. Picayune ignored the conflicted expression, and the two swept into each other with a firm embrace.
Espy spoke with a strained warmth. "Good to see you, Yune! What is up? How are you?" Espy was clearly relieved to see a familiar friend to just stop and chat, but there was also a clear undercurrent of concern.
They would probably end up being late to get good seats in class, but it was a worthy sacrifice. Lately, getting a chance to hang out with Espy had been rare. "I''m doing great, Esp; we just finished giving Patsy a brief tour of Proselyte''s wild market district."
Belabor made sure to quickly add as a half-joking quip. "And, next time you meet your sister, let her know that Picayune already has a girlfriend."
Espy stifled a chuckle and quickly responded. "Patsy has always been fond of you, Yune, but I hope you can still help her out every now and then since she''s never been the most¡"
"She''s very awkward, yes." The three burst into a fit of silly giggles at the curt response.
Picayune clapped his buddy on the shoulder, "But enough about us. What about you? Big Tournament employee now! I haven''t seen you for months, man. Are they running you ragged over there?"
Belabor couldn''t help her own interest take over, "Invitations should be coming out soon, right? What''s that like?"
The innocent intentioned questions somehow reinvited that tired weight that had plagued Espy before he encountered them. "It is such a mess, man, I can''t say much because I''m under a nondisclosure agreement, right-"
"Sure."
"-But there has been a lot of... there''s been a lot. And it''s¡ it''s just weird. I can''t really get into it."
Picayune joked as he lightly fist-bumped Espy''s shoulder, "Sounds pretty rough, but I guess that''s what comes with the most prestigious job in the world. Just make sure to save some front-row seats for us." The joke did not have its intended effect. Espy seemed utterly stunned by the comment, lost for words, gaping like a fish.
Recognizing his misstep, Picayune tried backtracking to comfort his panicked friend. "I was just joking, Esp. We can buy our own tickets. We wouldn''t want you to get in trouble or anything." Somehow, that comment only made things worse.
Belabor gently rubbed Espy''s arm in reassurance as she tried to lighten the tension with her own joke. "Maybe he can''t get you a ticket Picayune since you''ll actually be invited to the Tournament. You''ll get to compare your genius with the Hero of New Heirisson conquest." Picayune and Belabor dismissively chortled at the notion, but when they looked over to Espy, he had stiffened cold, face white as a sheet. The couple''s eyes widened in flabbergasted surprise.
Belabor shouted in complete disbelief. "NO. WAY. Picayune WAS invited to The Tournament!? That''s insane!" Belabor bounded into Picayune, arms wrapped about his neck in a crushing hug. "Congratulations Picay!" She pressed a deep kiss into his lips, but he did not return the kiss.
Belabor pulled her head back to see her boyfriend more clearly, with a puzzled expression on her as to why he wasn''t sharing her glee. Picayune had frozen stiff, eyes unblinking as they stared at the saddened Espy.
Picayune recollected himself and forced out some optimism. "That''s... great; maybe instead of asking Ken to get an autograph for me, I can just- ask the hero himself as he beats me blue." He followed his stammered sentence with a hollow laugh.
Espy looked at Picayune. "Sorry¡. Sorry. I have to get back to work."
Without a reply, Espy went on his way, leaving the two alone in the hallway.
Belabor snapped her fingers in Picayune''s face, startling him back to attention, "Hello? Picayune, want to bring your brain back to the planet?"
Picayune shook his head as if clearing an internal fog, "What, oh yeah. Sorry, I just got totally brain-wiped by finding out I got invited to The Tournament. Feels like I secretly opened my birthday present ahead of time."
Belabor giggled with amusement as she wrapped her arms around his and began walking him toward class. "So, what will you wish for when you win?"
"What?"
"The winner of the Tournament gets a wish granted, right? What will you be wishing for?"
Picayune stopped dead in his tracks, a disbelieving cry forcing itself out of him, "Woah, woah, slow down. I don''t think I''m going to be winning the Tournament."
"Why not? You''re the best magic user I know!"
Picayune quirked an incredulous brow, "No offence, Bela, but I don''t think ''people you know'' is a good enough sample size. Sure, I''m honoured to be invited to The Tournament. I mean, one of the sixty-four greatest specimens of power in the world is a pretty nice ego boost. And it''ll be a great experience to meet amazing people like Human Star Scoria, the Golden King, or even see some dragons in person. But I won''t be disillusioning myself into thinking that I could really win."
Belabor grinned while shaking her head in disapproval. "You''ve always been too humble for your own good."
"How about this? I''ll try to beat Ken''s score. I''ll find out how many rounds he made it through in the fifth Tournament after class, and I''ll beat that."
"You could make it all the way, but if you want to just start with that, sure."
The two opened the doors to the classroom and were welcomed by a chaotic symphony of over a hundred voices, each person vying for space in the crowded lecture hall. Students, teachers, and hobbyists alike stumbled over one another in the frenzy, jostling for seats as if they were back in the marketplace. The air was thick with energetic anticipation.
The two shuffled through the packed room, sidestepping elbows and avoiding stray bags, until they finally reached the very back of the class. Upon finding that there were still no available seats, Picayune approached the nearest seated people and cleared his throat. "Excuse me, I''m actually enrolled in this course. Do you mind if we commandeer your seats?"
What Picayune recognized as the faculty of wandmaking Dean and a History professor turned to face him, "Of course, certainly. Must really suck for you two always having to fight for seats against all us fans."
Picayune and Belabor carried placating smiles as the four exchanged places. "Well, we get used to it. Plus, it''s nice to have so many people interested in higher theoretics; the learning never stops, right Professor Fancier?"
The four exchanged a few more pleasantries before the professors went off to find a good view despite knowing that such views had been unavailable for a long time.
Belabor craned her neck, trying to peer around the sea of bodies between her and the near indiscernible podium at the front. "You can''t even see the blackboard from here. How are you supposed to win the Tournament if you can''t even take notes?"
As if answering her, an elderly man shuffled through the front doors, his thin glasses teetering at the edge of his nose, his thick beard nearly tracing down to his waist, and a heavy stack of parchment and materials clutched in his arms. The elderly man scanned the room and then sighed¡ªa deep, weary sound that seemed to echo through the chaos.
Picayune shrugged, a wry grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Don''t worry about it. Ken usually clears up the room when it gets overcrowded like this. We can get better seats then."
The elderly professor dropped his stack of materials on the podium and addressed the crowd. His voice, though soft, carried an undeniable authority. "Anyone not enrolled in this course, leave. The students who are actually taking this class get priority seating. Once class begins, you can return."
At his command, the class erupted into a frenzy of movement. As the mass of bodies parted, Picayune and Belabor clambered over the aisles, leapfrogging from row to row to claim some better seating. Once they contentedly sat down roughly around the center, Picayune leaned in close to Belabor''s ear so she could hear him over the horde. "Besides, I never take notes anyway."
The crowd had dissipated entirely, leaving only thirteen people, including Picayune and Belabor, in the room. The two of them were the only ones not in the front row.
Belabor rolled her eyes at her boyfriend''s antics, "Yeah, yeah, I know Mr. Eidetic Memory. Your whole existence is a cheat."
Picayune flashed a cheeky grin, his face practically glowing with mischief. He leaned over to peck her gently on the lips. "No need to be jealous. I''m your Mr. Eidetic Memory. Plus, who knows, maybe I should ignore what Ken says; he might try to sabotage me so I can''t beat his Tournament record."
The two snickered like a couple of schoolchildren, their laughter bubbling up uncontrollably. But, when Belabor, mid-giggle, let out a strange snort, it sent them into a fresh wave of louder laughter that eventually caught the professor''s attention.
"Ms. Impel," The professor''s voice rang out, sharp and commanding, "that includes you."
Belabor''s smile faltered, a look of disappointment flickering across her face as she stood to leave. Before she could go, Picayune snatched her wrist, stopping her. Picayune then whined to the professor. "Ah, come on, Ken. The whole class is here¡ or almost, can''t you just let her stay? She''ll just wait for the bell then come back in." Picayune silently cursed Laggard''s ability to always be late.
Ken replied, a note of finality in his tone, "I can''t give her any preferential treatment."
Picayune quietly grunted in frustrated annoyance. Ken always played the role of a strict, upright professor, but Picayune knew better. "But you can give me preferential treatment?"
Belabor stood frozen, half-upright, half-sitting, her eyes darting between Picayune and the professor, trapped in the middle of their tug-o-war. Picayune shot a pleading look at Ken, who seemed to be weighing the costs of giving him yet another break.
Just then, one of the doors creaked open, and the short Laggard, wearing his thick glasses, hurriedly scurried in. He paused, surprised by how empty the room was, but shrugged it off and sat at the front.
Ken let out a deep sigh and replied to Picayune in defeat. "I didn''t hear that¡ and I''ve told you before to call me Professor Ream. I can''t have anyone thinking that I tolerate you."
The class laughed agreeably, and Picayune grew a cheeky grin that cradled his entire face. Ken was never particularly good at hiding his favouritism and lenience. Belabor sat back in her seat.
"Now at the end of our last lecture one of you asked me about why mercurial essence was-"
Picayune quickly tuned out once he confirmed that the professor was just going over questions from the last lecture and turned to Belabor. The two whispered gossip and jokes with one another while the professor rambled on. Professor Ream certainly knew that the two weren''t paying attention, but they were quiet enough not to disturb the others, and he was confident that Picayune already knew all that he was covering. Midway through his explanation of the expanded aether model, the bell rang, and all of those kicked out of the room came rushing in, scrambling for an adequate seat.
They eventually settled, and the class continued. Picayune would intermittently tune in and out depending on whether the professor was sharing new interesting information or not. The professor often moved slower than Picayune would have liked since he had to accommodate the rest of the class.
About two hours into the lecture, Ken was interrupted by the loud chime of a bell; he turned around to face the class so he could find the source of the sound. Right in front of Ken, separating him from the stunned audience before him, was what seemed to be a small pink rhombus that grew out of thin air, or it was a rhombus, but its body would reject any stable state. It would shift and transform, shrink and grow, continuously morphing into other shapes. The pink shape finally locked into a form resembling that of a featureless human with two limbs. The limbs were extended out, one pointing towards the audience, the other towards Ken. Each arm held onto a glowing parchment.
Ken approached the strange creature and took the parchment facing him; he carefully read its contents and then pocketed the parchment; he then walked over to the second parchment and took it slowly, reading its contents. He glanced at the crowd in surprise and back to the parchment. He pocketed the parchment and cleared his throat. "Picayune Distingu¨¦, come see me after class."
When The second parchment was taken, the pink shape seemed to reverse its process, eventually turning back into a rhombus and shrinking out of existence. The audience exploded into whispers and conversations, which the professor silenced and then returned to his lesson. Belabor leaned over to Picayune and whispered into his ear. "Do you think that was it, the invitation to the Tournament?"
Belabor could not contain her excited glee, her entire body nearly vibrating out of her seat. She seemed so full of energy. Picayune, however, couldn''t help but shed a few beads of sweat.
The final hour of the class was unbearably grueling, time was frozen, and each minute felt like days. He felt like he was spending the rest of the lecture at the bottom of the ocean, any sound muffled and obscured into incoherent ramblings. Nothing was sticking in Picayune''s mind except the countdown to his conversation after class. Eventually, class ended, and Belabor took Picayune''s clammy hands into her own. She pulled him in and gave him a final kiss. "Good luck!" She cheered enthusiastically.
"Yeah." Picayune made his way down the stairwell of the empty room and stood directly before the elderly professor, their eyes both solemn and anxious. Without a word, he took a parchment out of his pocket and handed it over to Picayune. Picayune took the crumpled glowing paper and unravelled it: it read.
| You have been invited to |
| The Tournament |
| You are The Apprentice |
Chapter 31: What is Value?
The creature had egressed from Ingress. It had found a hole in a hidden recess near the dungeon''s surface; the hole was relatively small but large enough for an insignificant creature of its size to fit through.
The creature had egressed from Ingress. The outside world was a much more beautiful and brilliant grey than the dreary, drab grey of the darkened caverns. Trees and grass painted a lush silver nature that the creature had never seen before; there was a wonderous blue sky with an enormous yellow circle that hurt to look at for too long. It seemed like it could run in any direction without ever hitting a hard, stony wall, unlike those cramped caves it had spent its entire life in. Sometimes, the creature even thought it could see vibrant greens out in the distance; it could hardly remember another time it had seen such oddly luscious colours. Of course, whenever it approached, those magical greens would always reveal themselves to be that same dull grey.
The creature made itself at home in this new and bright place. Without ever having truly intended to do so, the creature had once again furnished its home with the usual decorum of statuesque stone creatures of all varieties. Anytime some animal wandered into its territory or attempted to investigate the unusual dungeon intruder, the creature would instantly freeze upon meeting its horrible gaze. The opponent would then flush of all colour and join in on the growing collection of statues.
The creature was very aware of the might contained within its eyes; it could almost be said that anyone who saw it would be petrified in fear¡ and in stone. The creature did not mind this so much since it was that very stone which was the staple of its bland diet. It was a constant conundrum that the creature faced between growing its immaculate garden of stone art and filling its peckishness. A menagerie of chomped stone stood sophist to the creature''s self-control.
It was only on exceptional days that the creature would sometimes smell unpetrified food from a distance before it was too late. The creature, prodigy amongst its race that it was, had developed an ingenious strategy where it closed its eyes and followed the scent of that enticing meal. Its unfailing nostrils would lead it to a new, never before explored taste of something other than bland stone, an unbelievable explosion of flavour and joy so rarely enjoyed by the creature.
Today, the creature was aimlessly wandering around the grey forest, searching for that wonderous smell. Sadly, although it had been walking a while, it had yet to capture anything of interest. It eventually caught the sound of rushing water in the distance, not quite as exhilarating as a meal with flavour but still an interesting event to excite the day.
The creature shut its eyes and followed that alluring trickling sonnet of water hopping over rocks. When its feet splashed into a cool, refreshing liquid, it expertly predicted that it had arrived at its destination.
It channelled all the willpower it could muster to restrain its eyes and carefully squinted its eyes open. It briefly witnessed a small waterfall that draped off a steep cliff and drained into a calm pool; regular swathes of waves washed out from the waterfall, slowly shrinking as they barely caressed the edge of the pool where the creature stood. A vibrant tapestry of moss thrived upon the slick cliffface; a doe and her mother peacefully lapped up the refreshing drink opposite of the pool, and a few iridescent fish danced across the twisting eddies under the pristine surface.
The creature blinked, and a dull grey still-shot greeted it. The disappointed creature threw its gaze up to the sky and listened for the sinking plate of stone to shuffle under the waterfall''s current. The creature focused once more on restraining its eyes before returning its sights to the pool''s watery depths. Within the water was a massive thin slab of stone nearly perfectly flat, if not for the slightly curved imprints of shallow waves. Far more interesting than the common grey sight was the thing atop the water''s surface.
A face stared back at the creature, a small head with large penetrating eyes and a thin beak led to a long neck connected to a plump, multicoloured feathered body. Two thick wings rested on either side of the creature''s body, and just like all those other stone things with two wings, it could not fly for long with them. Two thin, featherless legs poked out from under the creature''s body. The creature had remembered back when it was in Ingress a human had barked a laugh and called it a chicken. When the creature turned to see the human, it had only been met with another statue, a frozen snapshot of a life once present and then not so.
When the creature lost itself in the thought of whether it was a chicken or not, its concentration on its eyes dwindled, and the reflecting waters turned to a dull grey slab. The chicken quickly regained its composure allowing that growing slab to sink to the bottom of the pool for new unpetrified liquid to fill in its place. The chicken took this opportunity to enjoy a few soothing mouthfuls of the fresh liquid.
The chicken, having fully quenched its thirst, left the small pool and continued on its search for a meal with actual flavour. It lifted its head up in the air and tried to sniff out that delicious scent of actual food; it was such a shame that the chicken had a far worse sense of smell than it did of sight. Usually, any wafts that it could catch were just the residual teasings of a meal already turned. The chicken did not lose hope; it continued to waddle down the stony path ahead of it, sniffing for something, anything.
The second that appetizing scent chanced across its nostrils, the chicken immediately closed its eyes. It did not want to risk accidentally spotting the meal and destroying its only source of joy in life. The creature carefully wandered around, slowly trying to triangulate the location of that scent. The creature wandered aimlessly until it felt the scent dissipate, then readjusted and blindly walked in that new direction. The process was slow, but it was the only way to ensure that the meal remained untainted.
The creature was sure that it was close to its meal when its search was interrupted by the chime of a bell. Another animal must have caught that glorious scent and come to steal its rightful meal. The hungry chicken knew it could have easily felled its enemy with a simple opening of its eyes, but then it would also risk losing its meal. Thankfully, the creature''s hearing was vastly superior to its smell.
The creature darted between the sound and the smell, defending its meal from the new intruder. Yet, to have pinpointed the precise source of the scent, it could only hope it had maneuvered correctly. The creature listened for the enemy to make its move, but it was not making a sound.
Why was so much time passing without it hearing anything? Perhaps the enemy was a stealthy opponent, one that could move without the chicken''s sensitive ears catching notice. A sudden anxiety began to brew in the chicken''s empty stomach as it considered the prospect of losing track of its enemy. Not one to be dissuaded by a setback, the chicken moved on to another plan. If it couldn''t threaten one direction, it would have to threaten all directions!
The creature raised its neck high, stretched its legs tall, unfurled its puffy tail, and extended its stubby wings. Once the small avian had enlarged itself to the fiercest-looking threat it could, it violently flapped its wings and loudly cawed. It used its incredible powers of intimidation to warn any challengers of how dangerous it truly was. If the aggressive gestures weren''t enough, then its feathers'' bright and varied colours would demonstrate to onlookers that this creature had a deadly gaze and should not be approached. Indeed, when the enemy saw these colours and verbose actions, it would be scared off.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.
Then, the enemy moved. The poised creature listened to its opponent''s movement. As it strained its ears, it could tell its enemy was moving in wily, unpredictable motions; it was trying to throw the chicken off. The strategy almost worked, but the creature had one more trick, and just as it was starting to lose track of where its opponent was going, the chicken activated its final defence and opened its eyes.
There was a grey, featureless human standing before the chicken. The grey being had a single limb outstretched toward it and holding onto a dull grey thin sheet. Good thing the creature opened its eyes when it did, or else the humanoid would have attacked it with that thin weapon. Instead, it was joined as yet another statue that had fallen victim to its ocular might.
The featureless humanoid was unlike anything this chicken had seen before; it floated slightly above the ground, even when petrified, and had a perfectly geometric body with a long, thin arm and a small seven-fingered hand at the end of it. The last feature of interest was that perfectly round head with a flat divot where other animals tended to have their faces. The chicken was not unfamiliar with humans, or at least their statues, and was sure they did not look like this.
The surprises from this being did not just end with its looks. Beyond all belief, the chicken heard a slight crackling. The being was shifting and transforming, an undercurrent of impossible movements shuffling from under the petrified rock until, like tectonic seizures, it cracked apart. A piece of stone fell off, tumbling to the ground and revealing the enemy''s colourful body underneath. The chicken watched the pink exposure rapidly resolidify back to stone before breaking apart again, each repetition slowly revealing more pink. It had never seen something fight against its ocular oppression. The creature shut its eyes and turned for its food. If this enemy could somehow break free from its petrifying gaze, then the chicken''s only option would be to get to the food and eat it before the enemy could.
A loud snap echoed from the petrified statue. The enemy underneath must have freed itself; the chicken had little time remaining; it had to find the meal first. Its eyes were firmly shut, its ears only barely listening for its opponent; it was wholly focused on following the trailing scent of its decadent dish. It opened its beak, ready to take a euphorious gulp, that strong aroma deeply caressing its nostrils. It threw its beak down only to unexpectedly tap on to some soft, rubbery flesh.
The annoyed chicken irritably opened its eyes to see the grey hand of that wretched creature using its thin grey sheet to cover the chicken''s rightful meal. It was so close, it could practically taste the succulent dinner already.
The chicken darted its head upwards to petrify its opponent, but the vile rival acted just as quickly, blocking the chicken''s vision with its hand and, with a jolt, slapped it away. The poor avian crashed painfully into a sturdy tree, wings and limbs folding atop one another, its boneless body slowly sliding down grating bark and collapsing into the mucky forest dirt. Its head span in concussed disorientation. Having kept its eyes shut the entire time, it became horrendously lost. Its head hurt. Its beak ached. Worst of all, it was denied dinner.
The chicken threw its eyes open, unleashing its wrathful destruction, the unsuppressed fury so overbearing that the very air itself commenced petrifying, raining small pebbles to the ground. Fueled purely by the relentless rage of vengeance, it searched for its prey.
The enemy was not idle; the second the chicken caught a peek, they''d zoom out of sight. Every minute glimpse would petrify a piece of its opponent''s outstretched deflecting hand. As soon as it zipped back out of sight, that irritable crack would beckon its shucking. The chicken darted its eyes back and forth, twisting its body on a dime in feeble attempts to catch that ever-escaping pink blur.
The chicken''s terrifying gaze was so powerful at this point that the petrified stone began to petrify, an expanding feedback loop which caused stone victims to bloat into monstrous tumours. The entire forest calcified into a single stony mass as rocky trees merged, blades of grass grew into sharp swords, and petrified statues fattened into indecipherable blobs. The tranquil forest was gone, replaced by a constricting labyrinth of refuse and stone.
The battlefield was rapidly shrinking, choking itself, forcing the pink enemy to leap up the constricting forest. The once calming Eden of nature turned to a violent beast of congealed slag. The pink creature barely managed to sortie out of the rocky canopy before the entire woods unified into a single massive block of petrified rock.
The pink foreigner caught its breath, floating above the alien sight. A synthetic cube cutting a pestilent swathe out of the otherwise verdant ecosystem. Irritation overcame the being, and it gave in to its frustration. That flat, empty divot on the pink creature''s face opened, revealing a single gargantuan eye, a blinding orb shining like a blazing star blanketing the world in overbearing brilliance. It was an unfathomable light of blinding brilliance. The eye scanned across the horizon, and as it did so, it disintegrated all inorganic matter that befell its ocular assault.
Not even a minute ago, this place was a beautiful, lush forest; within a matter of moments, it had transformed into a homogenous blob of fossilized life and then, just moments after that, transformed again into a devastatingly flat expanse. Nothing had survived the climactic collision of wills, no homes, no trees, no statues, not even a lone bug. The angry chicken, alone in an empty wasteland, had an apprehensive sniff. The ultimate price had been paid.
Dinner was dead.
The chicken glared with death in its eyes. A single radiant eye stared back wholly unperturbed, not a single speck of stone gracing the entity''s pristine pink skin.
That monstrous pink creature slowly descended from the sky. The pink enemy landed next to a glowing parchment looking oddly similar to that dull grey one it held back when they initially met, back when they were in a forest. It certainly wasn''t the same parchment, given the clear luminous differences. For some reason, the parchment could not be petrified either anymore.
The pink enemy positioned its hand directly above the parchment and placed down a small heap of seeds. The brilliant glow of the parchment enveloped the seeds, and even when being stared at, the food remained unpetrified. The chicken was immediately taken by the prospect of reclaiming its precious dinner, there was still hope.
The pink enemy moved off to the side, leaving dinner to the chicken. The two kept their eyes locked, the chicken refusing to even squint a little against the painful brilliance of its opponent.
The pink thing held its arm outstretched toward nothing. It was as if the pink enemy was relinquishing its claim on the food.
The chicken was surprised by the enemy''s sudden kind gesture, but it would not look a gift horse in the mouth. They stared firm a little longer, and then, in an unprecedented moment of trust, the chicken slowly shut its eye before a living being. It faced the decadent smell of fatty deliciousness and waddled over to the seeds. Without preamble, it happily munched down on the delicious, non-petrified snack. The explosion of magical flavour, the slight resistance of a real genuine fibre shell, the glorious near, overwhelming assault of savoury oils.
The chicken shed a single tear; this had made all the death and destruction worth it. The deliciously fattening and mildly salty taste practically melted in its little beak.
Once the seeds had all been consumed, the chicken was filled with an immediate sense of longing. The sort of sadness that settled in after a delicious meal where one realized that they had just finished said meal and so could no longer eat said meal.
The chicken liked said meal.
Maybe the chicken had judged the pink entity too quickly. It was not an enemy at all. If it were an enemy, then why did it give the seeds away. The chicken felt around the area with its feet, trying to find any leftovers. Tragically, all the seeds were gone; the only thing it felt as it searched was the constant ruffling of that glowing parchment shifting underfoot.
The chicken tried pecking at the parchment in case it was edible. It swallowed a couple mouthfuls, but it did not taste particularly good. The chicken suddenly had a divine thought. "Should I consider that as you accepting the invitation?"
The chicken had never thought in such advanced terms before. The only way the chicken could think of coping with the sudden influx of information in its mind was to cluck.
"Good. Can you get to the arena of Utnapishtim on your own?" Once again, overwhelmed by an impossible flood of thoughts and ideas too vast for the small mind of the chicken to comprehend, it could do nothing but cluck.
The chicken then had a divine thought so bizarrely alien and dysmorphic that it shivered in discomfort. The thought was the odd expulsion of air in irritated dismay. Then, it had another thought.
"Fine, I''ll take you there myself. You have accepted your invitation to ''The tournament.'' You are the Cockatrice."
Chapter 32: Before the Dotage Please
It was customary to have a servant guide a guest to their host when explicitly invited, hence the beautiful lady in front of him. Scoria didn''t mind the company, especially when so pretty, though the pageantry was naught but a farce when it came to Bennu. Each hall was perfectly empty, devoid of the slightest ornamentation, lacking even windows to help orient the uninitiated traveller, only the oppressive corridors of bare metal. Yet still, Scoria had the path bridging his room to Bennu''s seared into his retinas by this point.
It was early morning. The day star had only barely started cresting the eastern horizon with its cloak of rose to glow the skies. To a fortress of pure iron, to a floor of panel metal sheets with nary a carpet, this left a frigid malice seeping into every hall. Without any shoes allowed under these metal rooves, the building was an acquired taste.
Scoria did not mind the chill; it had become natural at this point to adjust his own temperature to whatever state he preferred. However, the servant in front of him did not share in his refined control. Each step she took sent sharp stings through her bare feet, adding a short, painful skip to her every step. Scoria loathed how the very design of this fortress was oppressive to the lower bloods. The halls, crafted with such deliberate austerity, were a constant reminder to those of tainted lineage of their inferiority.
Scoria quickened his pace to match the servant''s and casually draped his arm around her waist. She flinched with surprise at the unexpected gesture, but Scoria heeded her no mind. With only a little more effort, he immersed her logoic body with his, and adjusted her body temperature as well, enveloping her in a soothing warmth that contrasted with the iron halls'' freezing ire.
The servant''s face flushed a deep red, and she squeaked out with a mild panic shaking her voice. "Prince Scoria, this humble servant does not deserve such consideration." Scoria did not recognize the servant. He tried to memorize every servant he encountered, so she must have been new. This would explain why she was unfamiliar with Scoria''s behaviour, even if surely she must have heard the rumours.
"Don''t worry about it." Scoria was dismissive of the entire endeavour; he was always uncomfortable with those malicious praises and apologies. The servant recollected herself, and the two weaved through the many indiscernible halls until they arrived at a large window, an arched opening in the metal walls allowing the howling winds to carry in more morning cold.
The servant, still new, took a deep breath, steeling her resolve and approached the window. Outside, just below her perch, a colossal steel link, thicker than her own height, was anchored to the fortress''s mighty walls. The immense chain of goliathan steel stretched out toward another distant spire, some fifty links away, its end nearly lost into a thick mist. The wooden door she knew to be somewhere near the chain''s end was not even visible.
The spire itself was swallowed on either end by the omnipresent smog of Hearth''s skies. To the right, a steel chimney spat a cloud of thick black smoke, which the wind caught, swirling it across the servant''s view before it sank lower, consuming the capital city hidden far below. On the left, more monstrous chains disappeared into the brume, their rusted lengths faintly alit with the eerie orange hue of the distant forest fires¡ªinvisible through clouded walls but undeniably present.
The servant choked back a cough of burning lungs. Scoria brushed past her and initiated the trek across the bridging chain. The wind howled fiercely, snapping at his robes and whipping his hair wildly, though the chain was so heavy it hardly fluttered. The servant only hesitated a little longer before she had to chase after her prince or else lose him to another descending black smog.
Scoria felt the clamp of a nervous hand into the back of his clothes. It was a massive breach of etiquette, but upon glancing back and seeing the servant''s raised eyes refusing to acknowledge the space below, he simply smiled and continued across.
When they finally reached the opposite end, the servant couldn''t rush for the door faster if she tried. The door swung uncomfortably outwards, forcing the two to divide bridge space with the moving door and shuffle their way awkwardly around it.
Stepping inside the spire, Scoria couldn''t help but smile when he felt the soft blanket of grass tickle between his toes. The inside of the separated tower was nothing like the rest of the fortress. The vast room stretched before him, its walls not of cold iron but of warm, smooth wood, and the ceiling arched with sturdy beams. The entire floor was a blanket of grass, not the ash and bone that littered the forests of the sodality, but actual lush green grass. Intermixed within the grass were a series of small flowers with small flames floating above their blossoming petals and flickering inspirations of growth to its organic support. This single room was an antithesis to the entire sodality; most nobles hated it, Scoria loved it.
The servant tried to announce her lines in the dignified intonation she was trained with, but the pressure of the powerful presences before her betrayed her practice. "Welcoming Prince Scoria Vitiate into the Abode of Bennu Patina the Phoenix."
An old man sat cross-legged in the center of the room. Two long tufts of grey hair jutted from the crest of his head, resembling the distinct plumage of an aging bird. His chin was smooth and well-defined, the result of a recent shave, and his round belly announced his eager indulgence of a charmed retirement. The old man''s face was compounded in an uncountable number of wrinkles, but any ill presence of his overdue age was outshined by his brimming smile and bright eyes. He nodded to the servant as she hesitated at the door. Her placid face strained anxiously, but against the elder''s disarming mirth, she knew she only delayed the inevitable. The servant bowed to each Phoenix Bennu and Prince Scoria, then turned and left, the weight of the looming chain bridge visible in her cautious steps as she closed the door behind her.
Bennu laughed at the miserable, disappearing servant. "Poor girl. she''ll get used to it." Turning his attention back to Scoria, he gestured with an open palm, inviting him to sit. "Scoria! Come have a seat. How have you been?"
Scoria gladly accepted the invitation, settling onto the soft grass across from the old man. The gentle cushion of the dirt was so comforting that he didn''t need to rely on his usual temperate manipulations to keep warm. "I''ve been doing pretty well," he said, a smile tugging at his lips. "I''ve been practicing some of those tricks you taught me. I think I can get them down by the time The Tournament starts."
The old man barked a hearty laugh, his voice rich with amused delight. "Ah yes, I had heard from some of the servants that you had run off yesterday to ''train'' in a ''secret'' spot with a girl." He emphasized the words train and secret with exaggerated air quotes, his grin widening with each syllable. The toothy smile was so unrelenting that it somehow seeped beneath Scoria''s confidence, planting a seed of uncomfortable guilt.
"I would like to have you know that I actually was training¡ this time. I was training with ¨¦p¨¦e. We try to keep our rendezvous hushed since her father would disapprove¡ of her training!" He punctuated his explanation with a pointed finger at the old man, hoping to cut off any further misunderstandings.
Bennu gave a knowing nod, stroking his freshly shaven chin. "Oh, you were with ¨¦p¨¦e. She is one of the few good influences around you, so I better not make too much fun. How is she anyway?"
Scoria shifted his posture, easing the weight off his legs. "Relatively well I suppose. She always has her usual complaints, as I''m sure you can imagine. We ended up talking about The Tournament at some point, and she wasn''t so confident that she would get invited. What do you think? If anyone knows, it would be you."
"That girl is very skilled indeed but the competition for The Tournament is tough. Only the Chauffer can really tell."
Scoria was taken aback by Bennu''s rare uncertainty. Times when Bennu had no answer were extraordinarily infrequent. To see him falter over what Scoria thought was a straightforward question was unsettling. Bennu''s doubt regarding ¨¦p¨¦e sparked a small seed of doubt within himself. Scoria masked his rooting anxiety with a veil of humour. "Why the serious face?" Scoria said with a smirk. "At this rate, you''ll have me second-guessing whether I''ll be invited to The Tournament."
Bennu''s immediate laughter was a soothing balm to the fluttering nerves in his chest. "You shouldn''t let yourself be so arrogant, Scoria; there are still many more people more powerful than you and even more so just as powerful. Don''t think you can just rest on your laurels because you''ve earned a little recognition from your old mentor here."
Bennu''s reply seemed to spur Scoria''s memory. He reached into one of his pockets and pulled out a paper and pen. "Speaking of you being old and ''recognition-worthy,''" Scoria said with a teasing smile, "could you sign this letter and leave a message like, ''Get well soon,'' or something?"
Bennu took the letter and pen, chuckling under his breath. "No need to pretend it''s for another. If you wanted my autograph, you could just ask directly."
"No, no, this is for one of Sanguine''s friends." Scoria explained, "She is terminally ill, and she''s a huge fan of yours. Sanguine asked if I could get your autograph for her."
"Well, if you put it like that," Bennu said with a grin, "then I suppose I have no choice but to oblige." He carefully positioned the letter on his knee, trying to find an angle to let him write without damaging the paper. But as he began writing his message, the tip of the pen pressed too hard, and with a small pop, it punctured the parchment. "Whoops."
"Don''t worry about it," Scoria said, brushing off the mistake. "I''m sure Sanguine''s friend won''t care." He took the pen and paper back, but despite his casual words, the irritation was clear on his face.
It might have surprised nearly everyone¡ªexcept for those closest to him¡ªbut Scoria secretly loved writing letters. He was fiercely protective of the correspondence he kept and the pen pals with whom he exchanged them.
Scoria pocketed the paper and continued. "By the way, I was thinking about Sanguine. I don''t know much about previous contestants at The Tournament, but do you think Sanguine could be the youngest person ever invited to The Tournament?"
Bennu raised an eyebrow, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Well, there was this one insect-like mokoi in the third Tournament. It was only two days old when it was invited. I think it was called a vernal bacillus mokoi."Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
Scoria''s eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets. "It was invited at that young of an age! How have I never heard of this?"
"They only have a three-day life cycle," Bennu explained with a shrug.
Scoria''s amazement immediately crumbled into disappointment. "So, it just died before the first round of The Tournament even began?"
Bennu gave a slight shake of his head. "No, it metamorphosed into a beautiful butterfly. Many who witnessed the fight said it was the most spectacular creature they had ever seen." He hummed thoughtfully, a distant look in his eyes. "Frankly, the literature describing that mokoi is absolutely spell-binding. I only wish I could have seen it in my lifetime."
"A creature that powerful even managed to evolve?" Scoria''s disbelief was palpable. "Did it win the third Tournament, then?"
"The butterfly form of that species has no combative capabilities." Bennu scoffed, "A pacifistic mokoi; what a thought." the elderly man waved the tangent away, "Anyways, It was immediately destroyed¡ªhorribly and painfully. The Chauffer never invited that species again. Surely, you knew it couldn''t have won. The three-armed dragon won the third Tournament."
Scoria nodded, realizing how silly it was that he had forgotten something so basic. The mention of the three-armed dragon triggered a thought in his mind¡ªsomething he had meant to discuss with Bennu. "Oh, and Bennu, one of the people I write to is a Tarragon Monk, actually."
Bennu leaned forward as his interest was piqued. "I didn''t know you were communicating with Tarragon monks. How does that even work? Surely there are no couriers under the day star mad enough to cross the cruor swamps."
Scoria furrowed his brows as he was swept into this superfluous tangent. "I don''t know actually. It does take forever for us to exchange letters. I usually only get a letter from him twice a year or so. That is a good question, though. I''ll ask him next time I write."
Bennu was saddened by the mild disappointment. "Shame, I was curious how that worked."
"Don''t worry about it. I''ll tell you when I get a reply. Just don''t expect an answer any time soon. Anyways, we are getting sidetracked. In the monk''s last letter, he mentioned something interesting going on with the dragons¡ªapparently, a young dragon visited the three-armed dragon at his lair. No fight, though."
A complex mix of emotions flickered across Bennu''s face¡ªexcitement at the thrilling prospect, a thread of concern at the potential danger, and what might have been a touch of regret or longing, though Scoria doubted it, dismissing it as a misread expression. "That could be troubling," Bennu murmured. "Could it be that the dragons are working together on a project? They''re usually so solitary, especially the Three-Armed Dragon." He paused, his brow furrowing as the weight of the situation seemed to settle in. "If they''re making moves like this, it could be more serious than we realize. You should tell your father as soon as you can. It''s best to be prepared. Dragons mobilizing is something we can''t afford to let catch us off guard."
Scoria shifted uneasily with an uncomfortable grimace, "It feels a bit wrong using the letter the monk wrote me in reverence of his deities to plan defensive measures against those very same beings."
Bennu placed a reassuring hand on Scoria''s shoulder. "I''m sure that monk was fully aware of how you would act. And while the dragons may be deities to the Tarragon, they have not disillusioned themselves into believing they are some kind of merciful protectors. Even the Tarragon monks understand that dragons are dangerous creatures, proud and self-serving, thinking of themselves above all else."
Scoria still felt a gnawing apprehension over how he had handled the delicately confided contents of the monk''s letter. However, he also found himself unable to argue against Bennu''s perspective. He sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly in reluctant acceptance. "I guess you''re right," Scoria murmured as he became increasingly aware of the conducting heat that radiated off the metal walls. The natural aesthetic of Bennu''s chamber helped mitigate the worst of the shifting climate, but the fortress''s internal clock was still announcing the sweltering rise of the day star. "Wow, we really got sidetracked, didn''t we? Remember when this was supposed to be a master calling for his pupil?" He shook his head, forcing a smile to re-energize his spirits. "So, what is it that you''re going to teach me today?"
Bennu responded, his voice unbothered, as if he hadn''t noticed Scoria''s subtle attempt to change the subject. "Why the rush? Let us talk some more."
Scoria startled, confused at Bennu''s unusual request and equally anxious about moving on with the lesson. He was in no position to argue with his teacher and knew it would do no good to resist. "Um, okay," he replied uncertainly. "What do you want to talk about?"
Bennu''s voice remained casual, his expression unreadable. "Do you still love N¨¦v¨¦?"
Scoria froze, completely taken off guard. His heart skipped a beat, and for a moment, he couldn''t find the words. The conversation had shifted from light-hearted to something much heavier, and Bennu¡ªof all people¡ªwas the last person Scoria wanted to question him regarding the girl. "N¨¦v¨¦?" he said, stalling, his tone defensive. "She was some girl who ran away from the Sodality of Rain, right? Why would I care about a water bug?"
Bennu''s eyes remained steady on him, unbothered. "Scoria, you need not lie to me. I am old and tired; I care not for rivalries nor dogma; speak from your heart. Do you love N¨¦v¨¦?"
Scoria could not speak for a while, his mind racing. He had a growing suspicion that this was not a simple conversation between master and pupil. He didn''t think he was here today to be taught more fire techniques. Nerves resumed their aching flutter within his chest as he readied to answer the question. But answer with what? "I don''t know."
He meant to say no, but somehow those were the words that came out instead. It wasn''t that the answer was yes, and he wanted it to be no, nor vice versa. It was just that the question was much more complicated than that. After all, this was a person he had not seen for eight years. Simultaneously, it was someone that he hadn''t forgotten for eight years.
"What will you do when you meet her at The Tournament?" Bennu asked, his face impassive. His voice gave nothing away. It was impossible to read what his intentions were. Even after learning so much more about his personality over the last few months, Scoria still had no idea what Bennu was trying to ascertain.
"How do you know that she will be invited to The Tournament?" It was a stupid question; it was obvious that she would be invited to The Tournament. Even eight years ago, she probably could have been invited. Even though Scoria knew the answer, he wanted to hear someone else say it.
"I''m sure you have heard the rumours. That N¨¦v¨¦ has been working with the White Witch." Scoria opened his mouth to try and explain, but no words came. There was nothing to explain with. Bennu raised a hand, stopping him in his tracks, and continued without hesitation. "These rumours have been confirmed, and we do not know for how long she has been with the White Witch in these eight years. I have no doubt that N¨¦v¨¦ will be invited to The Tournament. In fact, I have no doubt that she will be the most powerful human there. Bennu paused, his eyes locking with Scoria''s. "The real question is¡ªwhat will you do about it?"
Scoria was speechless, overwhelmed by a flood of questions. N¨¦v¨¦ was powerful, yes¡ªbut the strongest human? Even stronger than the Hero of New Heirisson conquest? Why was Bennu so certain? Beyond that, what could Scoria do against someone like that? How was he supposed to face an ally of the White Witch? What would the White Witch do to someone who dared defeat one of her allies? The thought alone sent a chill through him. None of this would matter if N¨¦v¨¦ had never left. Why, N¨¦v¨¦? Why did you leave?
Bennu continued, his voice unshakable. "I will not teach you a new technique today. In fact, I have nothing left to teach you; if you master all that I have taught, then you will know all that I have known and will do all that I have done." He paused, his gaze unwavering. "You''re a smart boy, Scoria. I''m sure you realize that I''ve been setting you up to be the next Phoenix.
A shadow passed over Bennu''s face, and his tone grew heavier. "The last thing I have to give you to fully relinquish my title... is the Phoenix ash."
Scoria''s breath caught, but Bennu carried on." Many believe the passing of the Phoenix ash is nothing more than a ritual, but in truth, it''s tied to the soul sea itself. The ash grows more powerful with each generation, imbibing its wielder with the strength of all those who came before. That''s the true nature of the Phoenix power. When you receive the Phoenix ash, save consuming it until your most dire moment, for its activation is spontaneous¡ªand comes with certain... advantages."
Scoria''s thoughts were stripped away from N¨¦v¨¦ as they scrambled to catch up with Bennu. "I didn''t realize it was such a big deal. That ritual honestly just weirded me out for the most part, but now I get it. But I thought the Phoenix ash only gets inherited when the previous Phoenix dies. It''s times like this when I''m almost annoyed at how healthy you are." He crossed his arms, faking a scowl. "I''m still not willing to accept that you beat me in that hundred-meter dash."
Bennu quipped back with a cheeky grin. "Just because I am capable of beating some soft boy like you does not change the fact that I am old."
Scoria, momentarily taken aback by the jab, scoffed. "What? Soft? I''m jacked! My muscles make all the girls swoon! Also, you''re not even that old. Ken the Preeminent is a hundred and twelve."
"I am not he. He boasts wonderous magic and profound essential knowledge to gather his vitality. Any other human in this world would be thankful to have lived to eighty-four; although, if I really tried, I think I could squeeze out another decade or two." Bennu paused, searching carefully for the right words. "Scoria, listen to me. I have done my duties in this world; it is time I pass my legacy. But I am a greedy person. I want to be historical. I refuse to die until I make that happen, and being the old guy that whooped the dude with the jacked muscles at the hundred-meter dash does not quite reach the heights I was hoping for."
Scoria raised an eyebrow at the Phoenix''s strange determination towards a goal that the entire continent would unanimously agree that he had already accomplished. "Historical? You already are. You could simply rest on your coattails for the rest of your life, and you would still be the most legendary person in this castle. Leave some world-changing feats for the rest of us."
Bennu shook his head, a wry smile flickering at the edges of his lips. "No, being part of Murugan Squad and fighting mokoi is not where I want my history to lie. Someday, in the far future, such trivial things will be forgotten. What I want... is something much greater¡ªsomething only you can accomplish for me."
Scoria looked at the Phoenix with a mix of perplexion and jubilation. "Something only I can accomplish? Well, well, of course, I would be willing to help. I cannot wait to tell everyone that the great Phoenix needed my help to do something."
Bennu remained unperturbed by Scoria''s teasing. "I want peace between the Sodalities, a reunion of Rain and Cinder. I want what only you and N¨¦v¨¦ can accomplish."
Scoria was at a loss for words. Within this bastion of nature, nestled within the iron fortress of Cinders, those words were nothing short of treason. Never throughout the entire history of either of the sodalities was peace amongst each other ever thought of as a possibility. Even more worrying was the implied solution for accomplishing this dream.
Bennu spoke again, his tone unwavering. "N¨¦v¨¦ is an extremely dangerous opponent and even I don''t fully understand what she''s capable of or what she''s willing to do now. But I need you to bring her back¡ªsomehow¡ªfor the sake of the Sodalities. For this goal, I will do all that I can to provide you with the necessary tools."
"Okay, sure, but even if I master everything you taught me, I wouldn''t be confident in my ability to beat her, and that was before you told me she would be the most powerful human in The Tournament. I could keep training to fight her again after The Tournament, but I wouldn''t even know how to find her; given that scenario, I don''t know if I would be able to accomplish your dream in time."
"You don''t understand."
Scoria wanted to say something, but just as he managed to let out his voice, he was interrupted by the chime of a bell. His vision of Bennu was obstructed by what seemed to be a small pink rhombus that grew out of thin air, or it was a rhombus, but its body would reject any stable state. It would shift and transform, shrink and grow, continuously morphing into other shapes. The pink shape finally locked into a form resembling that of a featureless human with only one limb. The arm was outstretched towards Scoria holding a glowing parchment: It read.
| You have been invited to |
| The Tournament |
| You are The Phoenix |
Chapter 33: Dream of the Red Chamber
Once upon a time, in a place far beyond the edge of the world, there was a mountain. At first, it may seem an uninteresting statement, but this mountain was no normal heap of stone. Its bottom stretched to eternity; it was an infinite mountain never declining to the mortal realm. Rising upward, the mountain did not have a peak, but it wasn''t infinite. Like it was sheared with a giant''s cleaver, the mountain did not cap but suddenly ended in a flat high-up mesa where snows and clouds blanketed in equal shares.
It is on this mesa, atop an infinite mountain beyond the edge of the world and above the mortal realm, where our story plays. Up here, there was a happy village built atop a giant cloud clinging to the mountain. To us of the mortal world, it was called the Divine Realm, but to the many animals of the mountain, it was simply called: home. And of all the animals in the world, Monkey was by far the most playful.
Every animal in the village followed their own rules and beliefs, and they continuously worked on maintaining their rigorous vocations. Not Monkey, though; Monkey was different. Monkey had no rules except for the rules of games, and he didn''t believe in much beyond the joy of play.
While wandering through the village Monkey found Ostrich idly sitting in a corner with nothing to do. Surely Ostrich would rather play than mope in a corner. Monkey ran over to Ostrich and happily called out. "What about you, Ostrich? Would you like to play with me?"
Ostrich did not even give Monkey a second thought. "I am far too busy to be playing with you Monkey, I must tend to my eggs so that the future generations of the village may prosper." She sat over her eggs, trying to keep them warm and comfortable.
Disappointed Monkey shoved his hands to his pits and snooted his nose as high as it could snoot. "Fine, fine, that is fine! I will just find someone else to play with!" Monkey stormed off angrily and went to look for someone else to play with.
While marching through the town, Monkey came across Pig, who was simply staring at a bunch of troughs laid before him. Monkey had no need for boring old Ostrich when he could play with Pig. Monkey ran over to Pig, excitedly waving and called out. "What about you, Pig? Would you like to play with me?"
Pig snorted. "I am far too busy to be playing with you, Monkey. I must manage all of the food supplies so that the village may be properly fed." Pig paid the bare minimum attention to Monkey while he calculated how long each trough of food would last.
Monkey''s smile twisted upside down, and he stomped his irate foot as hard as it could irritably stomp. "Fine, fine, that is fine! I will just find someone else to play with!" Monkey stormed off angrily and went to look for someone else to play with.
Monkey could not understand why no one ever wanted to play with him. He could not understand why they felt that any of these other things were so much more important than Monkey.
While stewing in his mind, Monkey came across Tiger playing with a ball. Monkey had no need for boring old Ostrich nor for fat grumpy Pig; he could play with Tiger, and best of all, Tiger was not doing anything important; he was already playing! Monkey ran over to Tiger and called out. "What about you, Tiger? Would you like to play with me?"
"No." Tiger did not even waste time giving Monkey an explanation. Tiger had always considered himself better than the other animals; even though he wasn''t doing anything important, he still wouldn''t play with Monkey. Well, that just would not be acceptable. If Monkey could do one thing, it would be to teach the other animals how to have fun. Monkey jumped over to Tiger and stole his ball.
"Come on, Tiger, why do you get to play all by yourself. Let''s play ball together." Tiger growled the scariest growl the world had ever heard, but Monkey was not deterred. Monky swiftly hopped away from the infuriated Tiger and teased him with the ball.
Tiger yelled out in a rage. "I was not playing Monkey! Now give it back. That''s a special ball!" Tiger then roared a ferocious roar that shook Monkey to the bone and made the nearby clouds cry their rain. This time, Monkey was scared, and as he leaped through his skin, so terrified he was, he accidentally let go of the ball.
Out from his fingertips, up into the sky, and right past some birds, the ball flew by. Monkey and Tiger, both frozen still, their necks craning grossly as they looked up and up. And then. A brief pause. Then, their necks started to crane down and down. Passed the birds and the crying clouds, and with the softest of puffs, it crashed straight through the cloud floor and rolled its way down the infinite mountain to the mortal realm. "Oops."
"MONKEY!" Tiger, in an unimaginable frenzy, jumped onto Monkey, sharp claws pinning him down and bloody fangs barely restrained a breath from his neck. "Monkey, you WILL go down to the mortal realm, and you WILL get my ball back! For if you don''t, I will personally tell Pig he won''t need to worry about my portions of food for a while. UNDERSTOOD!?"
Monkey''s once naive bravery wholly disappeared along with his soul and bowels, leaving only a petrified and now smelly monkey behind. It was all Monkey could do to feverishly nod his assent.
"Good." Tiger got off, but Monkey was so scared he did not even dare to stand up without being explicitly allowed. "Now go."
"Right now?"
"GO!"
Monkey quickly ran away from Tiger to the edge of the village. Monkey had never left the village before. Only a few animals like Tiger or Horse had ever gone down to the mortal realm. Monkey was not sure what would happen when he crossed through the clouds and down the mountain.
Monkey closed his eyes, and he took a step through the cloud. He was certain that he was still in the cloud after that step. He could feel the wet dew collect on his fur, the noise of the village silenced, and ozone bristled his nose. It was nice, crossing a cloud, like a little antechamber void of the world but yourself. Eventually, Monkey passed the threshold, and sound returned, but not the clamorous music of a lively village but the sharp whistle of whipping winds. Monkey''s dew-drenched fur turned frigid, his teeth adding a clattering to the mountain''s voice.
With a non-trivial hesitation, Monkey opened his eyes and saw the most beautiful sight. The entire world undressed for only him. The first light of dawn gently kissed the jagged peaks of lesser mountains while a serene stillness blanketed the world below, broken only by the sharp wind. The sky, once cloaked in the deep hues of night, had begun to unfurl in delicate shades of lavender and rose, painting the heavens with a breathtaking palette of soft, golden light while the distant valleys remained cloaked in a misty veil. An updraft of air, crisp and invigorating, had carried the faint scent of pine, a comforting nature that was foreign to him.
With each passing moment, the day star rose higher, spilling its golden warmth across snow-capped ridges, turning them into sparkling jewels that glimmered in the early morning light. Right above his head, the cloud that held aloft the divine realm was tinged with pink and orange. Parts of the cloud disturbed by his passing drifted off the main body like delicate cotton tufts. Shadows had retreated, and the landscape, once hidden in the obscurity of night, had come to life in vibrant detail, each rock, tree, and stream glowing with the soft radiance of the new day.
From that towering perch, the world had felt limitless, yet profoundly intimate, as if time itself had paused to honour the quiet majesty. It had been a moment that lightened his soul, to be able to catch that fleeting symphony of colours, light, and silence that would never be forgotten. In that serene solitude, broken from the divine realm, Addle felt his mind clear. He had hardly taken in his surroundings before a firm weight clamped down on his mind.You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
Monkey was inexplicably filled with an exciting sensation of whimsical adventure. Eager to depart on this journey, Monkey boldly took a step forward, but rather than planting his foot firmly on the ground, it twisted away, rejecting the mountain, and curled upwards, stretching to the sky. An immediate jolt of panic ran through Mokey''s mind, making him lose balance and causing Monkey to collapse to the ground. Or he should have fallen to the ground, but instead, he smashed upwards into nothingness and was suspended in the air. He glanced at his arm to see the fur and skin vanished entirely, replaced by a complex lattice of neural stems, buzzing and crackling with his own panic.
Monkey''s mind was buried in terror. He tried to curl into a ball, but as he did, he saw his flesh peel off and expand, enveloping the whole world until the mountains and valleys were all inside, and he was the outside. A panicked scurry away, and his body shrunk then twisted until he saw its underside. His heart and intestines ballooned unevenly until they were as large as he and unrecognizably mishappen. The still functioning organs, ignorant to his horror, peacefully pumped away unaffected. Monkey reached deep within himself for the strength to enact the only solution to this dilemma he could think of; he closed his eyes and cried.
Just when Monkey had relinquished himself to death, he felt a tug on the scruff of his neck, promptly dragging him back to the village.
Monkey euphorically gazed up to behold his saviour and was greeted by the sight of the brilliant golden glow of Sea Urchin. She, on the other hand, was not as happy to see Monkey as Monkey was to see her. "Are you insane!? What were you thinking going to the other side of the edge of the world?!" Sea Urchin scolded the delirious Monkey with a mixture of anger, astonishment, and worry.
Monkey pressed his fingers together, avoiding Sea Urchin''s gaze and penitently apologized. "I''m sorry, Sea Urchin, but Tiger told me to get his ball at the bottom of the mountain."
Sea Urchin was stunned for a second, its spines frozen in a way unbecoming to such a majestic beast. "Urchin? What are you talking about Addle? It''s me, Lenity. Are you okay?" Sea Urchin was speaking in a strange way about things that Monkey couldn''t understand. It kept berating Monkey with these odd questions. "Addle, do you know where you are? Do you know who you are?"
That was a question that Monkey knew, and he excitedly answered, "Of course, I''m Monkey, and you just brought me back to the animal village."
The bewildered Sea Urchin was muttering something to themselves, but Monkey could not quite make it out. Sea Urchin finally turned to Monkey with a stern resolution. "Okay, fine then, ''Monkey,'' why did you try going down the mountain?"
"No one in the village wanted to play with me, so I stole Tiger''s ball and accidentally dropped it. Then Tiger said I had to go get the ball or else he would eat me."
Sea Urchin resumed muttering. ¡°Tiger, Tiger, Ah Cicerone! Okay, Addle, I mean Monkey. Just wait here. I will go talk to Cicerone¡ uh, Tiger. I will make you better. Do NOT go down the mountain again, okay? If you really have to go to the mortal realm, take the Immersion."
Sea Urchin turned around and began storming off but stopped, twisting back to Monkey. "Did he really make me look like a Sea Urchin?"
"What do you mean? You''ve always looked like a Sea Urchin, and you always acted like a Sea Urchin. You''re all thorny and hard to approach; most people don''t like you and even try to avoid you. It''s just natural because you are a Sea Urchin, right Sea Urchin?"
"You-, I-, he-, I cannot believe that-. Addle, we will talk about this later. First, I have to give that tiger a piece of my mind."
The Sea Urchin then scuddled off on its prickly spines while angrily groaning about how they were in no way thorny. Sea Urchin was a nice animal, but they really were just too uptight.
Monkey didn''t want to disobey Sea Urchin''s command, but if he didn''t get that ball back, then Tiger would almost certainly gobble him up and use his bones to pick at the fatty bits that got stuck between his teeth! Monkey was too young to die. He was only four-hundred-fifty-five years old.
Sea Urchin did mention that if it were an emergency he could take the Immersion. It was challenging to go through the Immersion since it was heavily guarded by some of the bigger animals and only those with special permission were allowed through. Luckily, Monkey was a very clever animal and was confident in his ability to trick the simple guards.
Using his skillful craftsmanship and developed mind, Monkey had fashioned a disguise that looked exactly like Horse out of wood. Horse was one of the few animals who was allowed to travel back and forth through the Immersion without question. Monkey looked at their creation and was very satisfied.
Monkey wheeled his wooden horse right in between the two guards, Crow and Dog, with utmost confidence.
"Addle, what are you doing?" One of the guards, Dog, seemed to have mistaken Horse for this Addle character. Monkey was not too familiar with those who frequented the Immersion, but it would not matter so long as Monkey could successfully trick the guards into thinking the wooden Horse was the real deal.
"I don''t know what you''re talking about; I''m not Addle. It''s me, Horse."
The statement made Dog do a spit take and crow to fall over, stomach clenched, cawing with laughter.
Crow picked herself off the ground and wiped a tear from her eye. "Oh my goodness Addle, that is hilarious. I''m actually crying. You should probably go before Gelding shows up, though."
Somehow, Monkey''s disguise had not worked even though it looked so perfect.
A bitter voice came from behind Monkey. "What is going on over here?" The two guards froze into an upright position, all humour instantly wiped away as they stared worryingly at the unknown speaker.
Inside the wooden Horse, Monkey could not tell who it was. "Hey, Dog, can you turn me around so that I can see who is talking?"
Dog did not reply but the wooden Horse did begin to turn as the animal from behind twisted it for him.
"Hello Addle." It was Horse, and they seemed very unhappy with their long face.
Monkey put on a nervous smile as they spoke. "Oh, hi Horse."
"Do you think this is funny, Addle? Maybe I''ll feed you to my daughter; she''s about ready to grow up."
"But horses don''t eat meat."
Monkey could not see, but he definitely heard the two guards stifle a guffaw from behind him.
Horse, with their long, angry sneer, spoke through gritted teeth. "Even you''re not this stupid Addle. Did Cicerone do something to you?"
"Sea Urchin mentioned something about this Cicerone animal, but I have never met them before."
The guards in the back broke into laughter once more. "Sea Urchin! Do you think that''s Lenity? Oh, I''m still crying."
Horse glared menacingly at the guards. "If you think this is so funny, Lobo, then you can be the one to bring Addle back to Cicerone and get him fixed."
"Yes Gelding." Dog''s ears drooped down, and he started pushing Monkey and his wooden Horse away from the Immersion. Monkey kept trying to convince Dog that he was the real Horse and that the Horse they were speaking with was the fake one, but at some point in their walk, Dog''s expression went from entertained to pitying.
Eventually, they arrived back at Tiger''s. Dog rolled the wooden horse over like a sacrificial offering right in front of Tiger, who immediately broke into laughter. Dog was the first to speak. "He tried getting through the Immersion with this pretending to be Gelding." Tiger broke into even greater laughter. Dog continued to speak. "I thought it was funny at first too, but you really screwed him up this time; I hope you didn''t do any permanent damage. It''s time you bring him back to normal."
Tiger stopped laughing, grimacing at Dog and showing off his immense red-stained teeth. "He lost my special ball! He''s lucky I didn''t just eat him right there. Maybe I could prep him up for the visitor that the highers'' are going to summon; maybe that could get me a worthwhile reward."
"You had an arcane heart!?"
"Had. Now I have nothing but-"
Tiger was Interrupted by the chime of a bell. Right in front of Tiger there was what seemed to be a small pink rhombus that grew out of thin air, or it was a rhombus, but its body would reject any stable state. It would shift and transform, shrink and grow, continuously morphing into other shapes. The pink shape finally locked into a form resembling that of a featureless human with only one limb. The arm was outstretched towards Tiger holding a glowing parchment: It read.
| You have been invited to |
| The Tournament |
| You are The Illusionist |
Chapter 34: Together Forever
It was one of those nice, refreshing days; the kitchen window was left ajar to allow a soothing breeze to dance its way to me in the dining room. I waved my hand lazily through the cool currents, passing the time as I waited with the rest of the family for my little sister to prepare breakfast.
It was a little embarrassing to have my little sister take charge of all the cooking rather than me, but she had always been better at those sorts of things; besides, she wasn''t so little anymore. In fact, my little sister already had three wild munchkins of her own now, and they could wreak far more havoc than I or lil''sis ever could. I certainly didn''t envy the responsibilities of motherhood, but even I had to admit they were pretty awesome kids. The eldest boy was nearly an adult and was quickly filling out into the spitting mirror of our father; the middle daughter was fourteen and had begun her descent into ''that'' stage; and the youngest had not even reached ten yet, complete with the most pinchable cheeks ever. As much as I wanted to, my responsibility as a cool aunt forbade me from indulging in my pinching urges.
As I idly scanned the dining room, I couldn''t help but shoot the middle child a petulant glare. She had recently gotten her first growth spurt and was now taller than me. I know that I never managed to get my own growth spurt, but being shorter than a fourteen-year-old was just unfair!
The whole family sat around the warped homemade dining table, along with Lil''sis''s husband, who was play fighting forks and knives (read tridents and spears) with the youngest child. I liked the husband; he was a jovial, plump man, but most importantly, he was very nice to lil''sis.
Finally, Lil''sis called out, "Breakfast is ready!" signalling everyone to clear the table before the piping plates of succulent fast arrived. I could immediately hear in her voice that something was wrong. She lacked her usual chipper spirit. Typically, she was always a beaming ray of positivity, but once a year, on this day, she would turn into a bit of a downer. That kind of irked me the wrong way since today was such an important day; however, my duty as an older sister demanded that I be understanding and patient with her plight.
The family swiftly cleared the table to welcome the aromatic plates of delicious food. I was not given a plate; lil''sis understood that I wasn''t hungry today, and thus, my little allocated patch of table remained empty. I may not have been hungry, but that smell made me more than a little jealous.
The children and their father all chorused together. "Thank you, mom."
and they gayly chowed into their eggs and ham while lil''sis found her own spot at the head of the table. Somewhere in the far distance, a cloud parted, and the bright day star shone a brilliant ray of golden warmth to highlight the family''s beautiful smiles and glint off their sparkling eyes, and I couldn''t help the rise of my own smile.
For a while, no one spoke; they merely allowed the chipper clang of cutlery to answer of their pleasure. Silence would never run long in this family, and today it was lil''sis''s turn to break it. "We''re going to visit Aunt Ignis today, so I want everyone to finish their chores as early as possible, alright?"
The only daughter let out an annoyed grunt but quickly straightened to attention when she caught her father''s disapproving glare. I was always fascinated by how that man could control nearly anyone with just a simple stare; maybe he, too, had superpowers.
The youngest child gave the exact opposite reaction to his sister, almost vibrating out of his seat in excitement at this announcement. "Will Basal be there!?"
Lil''sis grew a bittersweet smile but seemed too lost in her thoughts to respond. Instead, her husband answered for her. "Of course he will be. Basal will always be with Aunty Ignis."
I could empathize with the young child; I really loved Basal; he was the greatest pet anyone could ask for. Sadly, Basal injured his eye while trying to save me from an accident when I was younger. I was too young to know how to take care of a pet with that kind of injury at the time, so I had no choice but to give Basal away. I would always miss having Basal as my special loyal friend, but with hindsight, I can understand that it was the best for everyone involved.
My meandering mind was returned to the table when lil''sis finally joined the conversation and responded to the youngest child. "And we have plenty of treats that you can share with Basal, but first, we have a lot of chores, don''t we?"
Unlike lil''sis, I was very excited for today. I always loved it when the whole family would get together. In that regard, the faster the chores got done, the faster, and hopefully longer, they could all visit. "I''ll go herd the sheep!"
I quickly rose from my seat, accidentally nudging the eldest child''s elbow in my haste. The sudden shove startled him and he sputtered, "What the heck?"
Everyone turned to him in surprise. The middle child spoke first with a devious smirk spreading across her face. "Are you talking to yourself again, Keen?"
"No, I wasn''t, you bat! Maybe if you weren''t too busy stuffing your face like a pig, you would''ve noticed what happened."
I quickly interjected between the two before their usual sibling bickering ran out of animal-based insults to fling at each other and escalated to more scathing attacks. "Sorry, that was my bad; I got a little excited and scared, Keen. I just¡ really like the sheep."
Before anyone could respond, I quickly left the room to commence my chores. I could hear the children continue their barrage of insults from back in the kitchen, but I was not going to be the one to reprimand them; that wasn''t the job of the cool aunt; sheep herding was!
I always rushed to get dibs on herding the sheep; it had always been my favourite task. I used to have to race the others to the field; but no one could outmaneuver me, so after a while, they eventually gave up and relinquished the role of de facto sheep herder to me.
I had overseen the sheep ever since I was a kid, back when Basal used to do all the hard work for me before he hurt his eye. I had always been shy and never interacted much with other people; that was probably why I enjoyed the sheep so much. I could always find companionship among them. The sheep seemed to truly see me for who I really was, and this simple friendship I had with them helped make sheep herding one of the best parts of the day.
Since we spent so much time together, the sheep were very receptive to my commands, which was a much-required ego boost since I often struggled to convey my thoughts to others. I herded the sheep to the best patches of grass for them to munch on while I enjoyed the great view of the town from this small hill.
Hey, I could see my home from here; it was just on the hill opposite this one. I never spent much time there, since it was so much livelier at lil''sis''s place.
Eventually, the sheep had finished grazing the land, and I promptly led them into the safety of their little gated abode. With the gate locked, and a hop in my trot, I made my way back to the house.
As I was about to enter, I noticed the eldest child, Keen, crouched on the floor, peering under the warped boards of the shed that rested next to the house.
"What are you looking for, Keen?"
"Where are the clippers?"
I could not help but giggle at my poor nephew; Keen must have been quite stumped over where the clippers could be if he had been driven to searching under the shed. Thankfully for him, Keen had me here for help. I could find hay in a needlestack in under a minute if I was trying really hard.Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.
"I''ll help you look." My confidence was proven well founded almost immediately as I found the clippers stowed away, far in the back of the shed, pushed in on the highest shelf. Somehow, even though I was one of the shortest members of the family, I seemed to be the only one to notice when things were lost up high.
I easily managed to reach over and grab the clippers, but rather than immediately handing them over, I thought of a devious little prank. I very gingerly placed the clippers on a short bench that was resting against a side wall. I then gave a light tap on Keen''s shoulders, causing him to turn around as I spoke. "Everything alright, Keen? They were just resting right there on the bench."
"No, they could NOT have been there all along?"
I beamed at my nephew, who grabbed the clippers in complete bafflement. "Maybe you were the bat all along, Keen?" I managed to make myself giggle with my own joke, but Keen seemed wholly unamused.
"Maybe I do need to get my eyes checked?"
"Don''t worry about it, Keen, I can check for you." I made a big show of getting close and looking into his dark brown eyes. "Yep, they''re still there."
My nephew and nieces were one of the main reasons why I spent so much time at lil''sis''s; I had always adored children. Lil''sis would probably say it was because I was quite childish myself. I was always of the opinion that it wasn''t me who was too childish but lil''sis who was always trying to grow up too fast for her own good. Although, just because I''m a goof does not mean I don''t take my job as big sister seriously.
When lil''sis first started dating her current husband, I was constantly subtly harassing and interrogating the man to make sure he was right for her. He even joked at one point that he felt like he was haunted, well half-joked, I did take my big sister role VERY seriously.
The family continued their daily chores throughout the afternoon, practically racing against the day star as it made its orbit. The specialty of today did not change the fact that they had important responsibilities to uphold. One of the things that had always saddened me was that lil''sis was only ever barely making ends meet with constant effort and dedication. Luckily, effort and dedication came in limitless supply when lil''sis was involved.
After a few more hours, the family finally finished their grinding workload and gathered around the lustrous garden around the back of the house. This garden was unique; it wasn''t like any of the fields of crops or orchards; in fact, nothing in this garden was edible. Or at least, there was nothing in the garden that someone would actually want to eat. No, behind the house, sequestered in its own little patch of paradise, was the most beautiful flowerbed that anyone ever saw.
The flowerbed bloomed with a grand assortment of stunning flowers of countless vibrant colours and every conceivable shape. The wonderous pageant of flowers was perfectly framed as if they were consciously aware of their unparalleled beauty, posing for the admiring masses. I was proud of the flowerbed; it was my little pet project at this house. Through my constant care, it began to attract the attention of our neighbours, which filled me with such a brilliant sense of accomplishment.
Lil''sis broke the silent admiration with her first command. "Alright, kids, we need to pick a bouquet to bring to Aunt Ignis. So, everyone choose one flower that you want to show her, and Keen will clip them for us."
Perhaps unsurprisingly, I adored flowers very much, and most of the tending I did throughout the year was in preparation for creating the most incredible bouquet today. I quickly blurted out my selected flower before anyone else could beat me to the punch. "Get some dove orchids. Those are my favourite!"
Keen turned to his mother in search of approval, and when she gave him a solemn nod, he snipped a pair of dove orchids and handed them to his father. The plump man held the two flowers in one hand and an elegant ribbon in the other.
The youngest was the next to call out their flower. "I want to pick the voodoo lily, they have a cool name."
After that was the middle. "We should give her some angel orchids, for like, symbolism¡ or something."
Keen then spent a little time thinking over which flower he would choose, eventually settling on a simple blue hyacinth. After handing all the flowers over, the father tied them with the ribbon, and the group was ready to go.
It wasn''t a long journey, a simple hop, skip and a short trek up the small neighbouring hill and they would be there. In fact, the place was close enough that they could see the hill where the sheep grazed from here.
The walk was mostly silent; lil''sis''s husband tended to the middle and youngest child while Lil''sis and Keen walked with a sombre hesitation. I tried striking up a conversation with lil''sis, but to no success, she seemed far too gone in her own head. Lil''sis was always so mopey when going on this trip.
Soon, they arrived at their destination. The youngest child immediately broke off ahead of the group squealing in delight, "Basal!"
Hearing its name called, the creature peeled its head away from the strange piles of dirt marring the green hill and toward the familiar newcomers. Basal was a large foxlike creature, aside from four legs, it had two more smaller appendages tucked under the centre of its body. The creature had a long, thin snout, making its head appear almost like a cone. Three pairs of small eyes were stacked vertically along the snout leading to a large closed seventh eye marked by a deep scar that tore under the right eyes. The creature had thin orange fur and a long, bushy tail that was more than thrice the length of its body, wagging happily at seeing the visitors.
Basal stood up and bolted over to the youngest child practically tackling him to the ground and licking his face clean. I was a little worried that Basal may have been playing too rough with the youngest, but the boy was laughing giddily, so it was probably fine.
Basal stopped its affectionate assault when lil''sis approached it. "Hello Basal, how is Ignis?"
Basal gave a courageous bark. I would never claim to be an expert in the language of bark, but I could understand enough from the sentiment in Basal''s voice that he was announcing a sense of security and comfort.
"That''s wonderful to hear." Lil''sis gave another one of those bittersweet smiles and handed Basal a treat with one hand while patting it on the head with the other.
The youngest child rapidly bounded back onto his feet, and after wiping off the thick film of slobber on his face, he exclaimed, "I want to feed Basal too! Can I? Can I?" Lil''sis handed the youngest child a bag filled with treats and then turned to Basal with burdened eyes.
Sometimes, I felt like Basal was a better people person than I was because Basal somehow managed to glean enough information from just that exchange of glances to understand what was asked of him. Basal clamped down on the youngest''s sleeve and guided him and the middle child away to play out of the way.
The husband handed over the bouquet of flowers to lil''sis, and with it in hand, she apprehensively made her way to a small stone plaque that jutted from the ground. The plaque had a simple inscription engraved onto its surface. It read:
''here lies Ignis Fatuus
3947-3960''
Beside the stone plaque, a small vase held wilted flowers, their colours faded and edges curling into frail death. When lil''sis saw them, her lips tightened into a frown, and with an exasperated sigh, she turned toward Basal. But her frustration quickly melted away as her gaze caught the sight of the children, laughing giddily as they played a terribly one-sided bout of tag against the creature. With a gentle shake of her head, lil''sis removed the withered flowers an carefully replaced them with the fresh bouquet.
The husband stepped closer to lil''sis, his hand resting gently on her shoulder. Keen didn''t seem to fully grasp the nuances of the encounter, but he, too, placed a comforting hand on her other shoulder, his small attempt at support. The gesture allowed a weak smile to pierce through her melancholy, and she pulled her eldest son into an embrace. She pressed a soft kiss on his forehead, holding him a bit longer than usual.
I decided to leave the three of them to their mourning and moved right on top of the grave. The water in the vase was a little dirty but I was able to quickly clean it with a simple wave of my hand. I reread the text on the gravestone.
''3947-3960''
It had been forty years since then. It didn''t really feel like that long ago to me, though. It''s interesting how time flies. Lil''sis finally spoke up. "I love you Ignis."
Almost as a response to her claim, a bell chimed. Basal immediately ended their playtime with the children and sprinted to position himself between lil''sis and the grave, growling at the empty air. However, the air did not stay empty for long.
In between Basal and the grave where I stood, there was what seemed to be a small pink rhombus, or it was a rhombus, but its body would reject any stable state. It would shift and transform, shrink and grow, continuously morphing into other shapes. The pink shape finally locked into a form resembling that of a featureless human with two limbs. One arm was outstretched towards Basal, and the other was outstretched towards the empty space above the grave. Each arm held onto a glowing parchment. I looked over the parchment in front of me: It read.
| You have been invited to |
| The Tournament |
| You are The Ghost |
Chapter 35: Keys Pt. 1
She had just returned from the human continent of Trammel. It was always a depressing event to return to her homeland after seeing the beauty that the world had to offer. They haunted her every nightmare, those sprawling forests, rushing rivers, magnificent mountains, laughing nobles gorging on limitless plates of exotic foods. Those nobles probably continued, even now, to gorge as she peered out her carriage window to see emaciated children rummage through spilt trash bins in search of even the smallest of morsels. The children were so malnourished that their stomachs distended with fluid build-up as if they were cannibalizing upon their own hopes and dreams to simply stave a day''s starvation.
This whole continent was a malignant wretch, a drowning grey of infertile lands and dying cities. It was this atmosphere that forced so many to relocate through the Immersion and try their fate in the Dungeon of Ingress. They were that desperate for even the slightest chance to experience some of Trammel''s resourceful splendour. Such was the state of the Mokoi Badlands, where blindly risking oneself in that dungeon where a human could pointlessly hunt you down at any instant was deemed a better life than remaining on this desolate rock.
This tragedy, an ever-present theatre in her mind, warred upon her conscience as harshly as the actual war did to her people. She could see it right now:
Her brethren massacred in the dungeon of Ingress,
Adventurers cheering a quest well done;
Children starving in the streets,
Humans tossing a bad cut of meat.
Her fist had clenched so tight she drew blood, crimson staining upon her velvet seat cushion, and the woman finally had enough. She pulled her long, blond hair out of her eyes and announced to the chaperone. "Stop the carriage for a moment, please." Her voice was soft as honey; it carried a near-hypnotic allure that enticed compliance.
Her lavishly adorned carriage stopped in the middle of the ruined street. Without momentum, the carriage sunk into the wet muck, the lands themselves hungry to taint any inkling of prosperity. Once the carriage had stabilized, she reached for a handful of the delicate confectionaries meant for the carriage''s guests. After a fleeting moment''s hesitation, she took more¡ªuntil her arms were full, clutching the entire bin''s worth. Her hands were too full to manage the door, so she deftly used her tail to swing it open.
A cold, angry wind whistled down, biting into her naked body; she shivered against the irritable weather. Her small pert nose shrivelled bitterly; rot was in the air. She certainly stood out in the dreary shanty, her soft, slender skin, full of colour and health, juxtaposed harshly against her surroundings.
Beyond her uncharacteristic life, what really made her stand out was her near perfectly human appearance. The only thing stopping the villagers from fearing they had been invaded by the damnable pests was her long-scaled pink tail that ended in a sharp barbed spike.
Many of the mokoi partaking in their daily routines stopped to stare at the oddly beautiful stranger. She had grown used to having many eyes bearing down on her, grown used to having stares eat away at her being, devour what she was.
The children in the trash, too, could not help but stop their fruitless tasks to study the detestably healthy creature that just exited the carriage. She turned to face the children, and a few reeled back, intimidated. It was rare for an adult to acknowledge their existence, let alone one so regal and stoic. The woman then cracked a blinding smile, squatted down, and revealed a bountiful harvest of delicious baked goods contained within her arms. "Children shouldn''t have to go hungry."
The children could not even entertain their suspicion of the stranger as their stomachs guided them over. Once the first few arrived and scarfed down a couple treats without repercussions, the dam broke, and children were flooding out from any and every nook. An explosion of juvenile life was unveiled from the grunge and joined the enlarging crowd. A few children tripped over the poor rags they called clothes in their hurry; they ignored any scrapes or rashes they received from this and quickly joined the crowd to collect their share of food. For the first time since she returned home, the woman smiled.
After the children had taken all the food, the woman reentered the carriage and recommenced their journey. This was the key to her drive; this was what she fought for: against.
A few hours passed, but thankfully, this was the last day of her trek across the continent, and the carriage arrived at the end of the road, facing the vast ocean and a single bridge. It was a bridge that dared to tame the ocean. It was a leviathan thing, its road wide enough for a full caravan to march side by side, goliathan bone arches pierced out from the blackened sea to hold the bridge aloft like a monstrous rib cage that followed the bridge''s length. Atop the bridge, a series of thick braided cables wound in an industrial silk, rose up high into the clouds above.
They couldn''t be seen on a murky day like today, but somewhere up there, the cables latched onto towering balloons the size of mansions that were filled with air lighter than air. The bridge seemed to stretch forever, going beyond the horizon and disappearing into the fog. The only indicator that the bridge actually connected anywhere at all was the ominous glow of three titanic clocks piercing through the veil of smog in the distance.
The bridge did not, however, connect to the mainland. The last segment of the bridge, which should have connected bridge and land together, had been raised, detaching itself from the rabble. Two guard towers rose from the waters, protectively flanking their precious bastion. She could see the mokoi within, readying their arms suspiciously at the carriage''s approach.
On the mainland, there was a small outpost, and as soon as the carriage got within view, a mokoi came out to await them. The woman needed not to say a word; the second the border man spotted her, his brows leapt off his face, and he hurriedly signalled the drawbridge down.
It was an arduous ride across the bridge. The bridge was tall enough to evade the crashing waves, but unimpeded by land, the howling winds nearly lifted the vehicle off its footing. The woman had long acclimatized to rocky rides and merely focused on the mammoth clockfaces in the distance consuming more and more of her field-of-view.
Eventually, they brokered the smog, and land revealed itself. They were heading toward an explosive metropolis. Buildings on top of buildings, lights of every colour, the clamour so great she could already hear it before even disembarking the bridge. The bustling Abyss was so energetic. It was like the city itself was a living creature.
As they finally entered the city, the sight outside her carriage window couldn''t be any more different than the sad village just a few hours away. Like a pathetic facsimile of Trammel, plump, gaudily dressed mokoi waddled across wide brick-paved streets, exchanging glistening coins for unnecessary vanity. She thought it was a truly sickening thing, the fact that this place was only separated from those starving children by a single bridge. She felt no urge to stop here, and the carriage continued toward the guiding beacon of the clocktower and the castle that formed its base.Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work!
The castle continued the Abyss''s trend of exhaustive gravitas, but of course, as the central castle, it had to epitomize the style. It was an overwhelmingly monolithic structure of Gothic architecture, complete with manifold arches and sharp, menacing spires. As its centrepiece, the unfathomably ever present clock tower loomed. Three behemoth clocks adorned the tower, so massive and so tall that they could be read from anywhere in the city.
As unwieldy as the castle may have seemed, there were a few practical functions hidden in its design. Many of the jutting spikes erected from the castle were actually ramparts for avian-like mokoi. Some of the ornate architectural flourishes concealed hidden tunnels interconnecting many castle chambers within and without the complex. The woman already knew all of this and wasted no time gawking.
The superfluous contrast merely fueled the war playing in her mind,
children in trash receptacles,
castles with indoor pools.
She entered the building.
The building''s main entrance was appropriately ginormous, grand enough to accommodate mokoi of any size. Each room in the castle followed the same design philosophy, every one of them ludicrous mammoth chambers. It wasn''t merely a function of vainglory but also a consequence of compensating for the incredible variety of mokoi species.
She ignored most of it and headed straight for the stairwell.
The stairwell, too, like every other aspect of the opulent castle, was a bizarre conglomeration of different designs. The room formed a large cylinder as wide as a dining hall. A ladder fabricated of precisely cut holes formed the quickest route up or down, while another section of the wall was plated with extra rough ridges to provide traction for climbers.
The castle was not designed for low-class mokoi and was outright hostile to humans, both of whose anatomies tended toward the similar, so there was no staircase. For someone who could only walk upon their own two feet, there was a set of jutting iron rods arms-length apart, spiralling around the circumference of the stairwell.
The blond woman suppressed a sigh and stepped on the first iron rod, balancing on the thin support by the ball of her foot and pressing her hand on the wall for stability. She gazed out to the distant second step and hopped over, landing on her other foot, muscles rapidly tensing to maintain balance. Once she stopped wobbling, she craned her neck up to the throne room entrance, one hundred floors up.
She made her way up the stairwell without complaint; other travelling nobles would slow their rapid ascent, eyeing the little lady struggling on the disused steps.
She ignored them.
When she finally made it to the top floor and returned to even flat ground, she did not allow herself to soothe her aching feet or address her cramping abs. She held her stoic visage and maintained a perfect posture as she continued forth. When the palace guards spotted her, they immediately opened the ornate double doors to the throne room.
Within the throne room, A magnificent purple carpet led down the massive hall to a large stone throne whose back climbed up to the multiple-story high ceiling that this room contained. The backrest rose all the way up until its stone frame curved and widened as it melded into the roof, becoming the ceiling and draping over the chamber.
The woman walked down the hall, sharing no indication of her silent relief for the soft carpet cushioning her aching bare feet. She reached the center of the room and knelt before the throne and the creature that sat upon it.
She kept her head lowered, eyes fixed on the floor as she spoke. "Colonel Arete, of the Surrogate Platoon, reporting back on behalf of the Surrogate platoon as well as for the Primary Corps in the stead of General Zeal of the Primary Corps." The honey in her voice had made way for a sharp, formal cadence, each word precisely measured for protocol and discipline.
Though she spoke so beautifully so naturally before, in this moment, too, it seemed as if she had been born as a gruff military leader; this was her talent and was the key to her success.
Arete had always been a chameleon, able to adapt to any situation, any role. Her unparalleled ability to conform to anyone''s wishes was her greatest strength... and her greatest weakness.
The silence that settled over the room was reply enough for her. She pressed on with her report. "The battle for Ark has concluded with a decisive victory for the Primary Corps. The Arena of Yu''s Director had posed some initial complications, but after diplomatic negotiations, she chose to remain neutral, and the city was easily secured from the humans afterward. With such, the mokoi army has a solid foothold within the Sodality of Rain.
Efforts to procure reinforcements from the Pleurothallidinae continue to be fruitless as they are adamant about not taking part in the war. They have, however, initiated some limited skirmishes with the Sodality of Rain for control of several Islands in the Pulchritudinous Lake, drawing some human forces away from our main campaign.
As for proceeding plans, It has been decided that the Fifth Ground Division and Second Aerial Division will be sent to assist in the Heirisson Theatre, while the remainder of the Primary Corps will redirect attention toward Proselyte."
She paused briefly to moisten her tired throat and organize the tangled threads of information in her mind. She had rehearsed this report countless times before herself in a mirror. Every muscle movement carefully practiced, each word purposeful, detailed but not too informative. This little caution was a requirement when dealing with the creature that sat atop the throne. She continued,
"Important developments within the human forces include the involvement of a freelance group of human adventurers known as, The Saviors, who have joined the conflict in the Heirisson theatre. They have proven to be a significant obstacle, disrupting our operations at every position they''ve occupied. Hence, the Primary Corps sending reinforcements.
Additionally, the Murugan Squad had successfully subjugated that bandit duo which had been so conveniently distracting the human forces in the Heirisson theatre. The bandit known as Sapphic has gone missing in action and is presumed dead, while Schlemiel, the other bandit of the duo, has been recruited into the ranks of the Murugan Squad. We believe that the loss of the powerful duo''s harassments, along with Schlemiel''s integration into the enemy forces, will have a dramatic impact on the theatre''s dynamics. Outside of these developments, the overall progress of the war remains favourable."
She paused once more to catch her breath. Perhaps her audience had no need to hear the last part of the report, but an irresistible urge to continue her dialogue subsumed her. It felt as if sharp needles stabbed into her mind, threading through her thoughts to weave the narrative into a tapestry she felt compelled to present, a brilliant cloth of grey matter dreams for her audience to admire. "The Surrogate platoon has successfully integrated into Parapet Island, and we anticipate completing a comprehensive framework of the Pangean Entente''s inner workings within two years. The Tabulate Syndicate continues to be cooperative, though their communications have dwindled considerably. As a result, we are currently reassessing their commitment to our alliance.
Additionally, we have verified the Whittler''s claims: it is confirmed that the Masks have not received any new masks in the past twenty years, which lines up with when he was asked to end communications before the war started. However, the Masks have refused to cooperate in any capacity regarding tactical espionage."
The words spilled out of her mouth like she had just wretched her dinner. A cacophony of details and specificities spoken to a degree she wished not have shared. Her greatest weapon, her key, was wrenched from her hold and forced against her. Her throat, pulled and played with, abused, turned sore from the endless soliloquy.
Since entering the room, she had been the sole speaker. The being before her never interjected nor asked questions. Even now, with her report completed, it remained silent¡ªmotionless, offering no response. That creature''s unshakable composure always grated on her, its arrogance as unyielding as its calm. This creature could read others with unnerving precision, yet even she¡ªwho prided herself on her skill in observation and manipulation¡ªcould not discern the slightest hint of what it was thinking. Uncertain of what was expected of her, she finally lifted her gaze to the creature on the throne.
Chapter 35: Keys Pt. 2
Even so far away, the creature loomed over her, its two long, thin legs forming the backbone of its towering five-meter frame, nearly three-fifths of its entire height. The legs led to a broad, muscular torso, armoured ribs confusing the line between endo and exoskeletal as they weaved in and out of its chest. It sported many spindling arms¡ªsix sprouting from its right side and the seventh from its left. One arm clasped a massive black scythe, nearly as tall as the creature itself; the blade ended in an even longer red whip that writhed ominously in the air, almost as if with life. Another arm gingerly carried a simple grey bell, engraved with the number four. Three more arms tenderly cradled a large red egg with a fourth fondly stroking the unborn thing. Its left arm rested casually on the throne''s armrest
The creature was draped in a gown of silver silk, tight at the neck and open at the chest until turning to a full dress whose fabric flowed like liquid moonlight, pooling at its hoofed feet. From the top of its body, a long serpentine neck arched upward to support a giant''s skull¡ªthree black, empty eye sockets glaring out from a jagged, elongated snout lined with thick, grinding molars: this was the Mokoi Khan. The ruler known as the greatest existence of the mokoi, a being of absolute power, absolute judgment. A guide that would cast light on the murky future, whose vision would unite the fractured remnants of its people and forge them into an empire capable of ruling the world. In the presence of the Khan, air grew heavy, suffused with the weight of destiny.
This was how most thought of the Khan, as a Khan. Arete knew better; it was not right to call this creature the Mokoi Khan; it was more akin to the mokoi itself. Its existence was the mokoi, and the mokoi, in turn, were it. The Khan was woven into the very fabric of the entire continent, a presence so absolute it completed the minds and bodies of every living thing. Deeply emulsed by the soul sea, it was everywhere, everyone. Even Arete, in this moment, could feel the Khan exerting itself within her thoughts, feel it at the tip of her fingers, pumping through her heart, brushing against her lips. A tapestry of grey matter dreams. She looked at herself on the throne, at the Mokoi Khan.
The Mokoi Khan spoke. She spoke, "Stand."
That word, as if it was a declaration of the future, not conversational, but definitional, guided her body up.
The Mokoi Khan spoke. She spoke, "Come here, Arete."
Every syllable stung; it crawled through her brain, toying and dancing upon her consciousness. It seemed as if the words themselves were the key to motion, pulling her, shaping her. She was like a puppet who followed the command of their strings.
She walked over until she was next to the throne. She stood so close, that her exposed bosom was practically pressed against the creature''s left arm. She stood, and it still towered over her while sat upon its throne. He locked her gaze on the being before her, but it remained focused, not on her, but on the egg it held so carefully within its arms. The skull was flat and unmoving; it was a skull with no muscle or flesh to emote, yet still, it smiled. Without a word, it handed the egg to Arete, who received it with the utmost reverence, cradling it as though it were the most fragile of treasures.
She found it nearly impossible to disentangle her own thoughts about the egg. The Khan''s emotions were so overwhelming, so singular on the object, that she could clearly feel it infecting her own mind. And yet, despite the Khan''s influence, she had spent decades with the egg, and perhaps, even without the Khan''s influence, she would still love it.
The Mokoi Khan spoke. She spoke, "Like that egg, you are something of the utmost importance to me."
The Khan did not even acknowledge her military report; the reason was obvious. It had already known everything. The report was merely a point of show for the populace, to placate their minds in the comfort that the Khan was actively participating in the war, to veil the lie that thoughts need be turned to words in its presence. They were unaware of how entrenched the Khan''s influence truly was. The real purpose of the meeting would soon be revealed.
The Mokoi Khan spoke. She spoke, "I want to tell you to stay here with the egg. I want to say that your work is over, that you can retire and stay under the protection of my amalgamation. But you are the key to winning this whole war; I have more that I need from you."
The Khan paused as a sadness washed over its hulking body. It took one of its free right arms and brushed it against Arete''s soft cheek. Even through its expressionless skull, it was clear to see the turmoil swimming through the Khan''s mind. It must have spent many hours trying to find any other possible way to achieve its desires, but in the end, it did not choose a different way.
The Mokoi Khan spoke. She did not speak, "I need the Surrogate platoon to infiltrate within the nobility of Bemean. I want you personally to get close to the Duke of Payola. I want the Duke to listen to you. I want you to infect him, your tongue will be his tendons, your fist his blade, your heart his toxin. Drag his soul into my ocean. Make it hollow so his body is but a suit for you to wear. Can I ask this of you?" The Khan asked, deeply sorrowful as if its questions were not its own demands, as if her answers could possibly be her own.
Her mouth moved without her mind and she remained expressionless. Another task, another puppet. More strings tied around her fingers just to be funnelled towards that Khan. She was the craftsman who built the dolls but was denied the right to be puppeteer. Instead she was but another doll.
The Khan''s hand gingerly stroked her soft blond hair. Its empty eye sockets locked with her eyes. "I am sorry that I burden you with so much, but once we do what must be done for the sake of all the mokoi, I promise that the Duke will bleed an unending river which shall drown his children for eternity."
The Khan shifted, its head lowering until it rested against her bosom. Arete did not respond to the action, though awareness flooded her, awareness of a cold breeze, awareness of a nude form. She wished, fleetingly, so fleetingly, that she could wish to dress. At least, she told herself, it was the breeze that made her think this.
The Mokoi Khan spoke once again. She spoke, "The day will come where the children will no longer need you to stop for them. The day will come when the mokoi can be free and healthy."
They stood like that for what seemed an eternity, unmoving. Arete had been planted like a tree. She wasn''t even sure if the Khan was aware of the power it wielded in that silence¡ªhow it anchored itself to those around it, subtly, relentlessly. What was once a final weapon to push upon the dire and force the immediate had slowly, over the years, become a casual and near unconscious manipulation.
Perhaps the Khan was aware; maybe the Khan had come to terms with being the only being alive. Maybe it understood itself as a soul with many bodies and merely entertained the concept of individuality. Arete understood firsthand from both directions the intoxicating power of strings and the futility once one had been strung.
She had no plans of being someone else. Many of the Khan''s strings had to flow through her before they translated to the Khan. She had noticed of late that some of those strings, once tethered firmly, seemed to stray, wandering to an unknown source. If she could find that source, perhaps she could uncover the key to unbinding herself.
Arete''s inner thoughts were then interrupted by the intrusion of two more beings in the room.
The Khan was up in an instant, its hulking form leaping between Arete and the intruders. With a shake of its hand, the Khan rang the bell inscribed with the number four. It let out the faintest chime, the wave of sound visible through how it warped the reality around it. The path which the sound travelled was left irrevocably damaged, reality itself twisted into indecipherable knots.
The sound collided against the two arrivals. There was no effect. The warped space between the Khan and its enemies slowly untwisted back to normal after a brief pause. The Khan then noticed who the intruders were and dropped its poised arm.
"Ardor I didn''t expect you to be such a sentimental. A woman, a child, and is that bell a trophy?" The intruder''s voice rang out, full of mocking laughter, as she clutched her stomach in mirth. Arete looked at the two intruders. One was a tall, striking woman who looked not quite human, but certainly not mokoi. Her hair, skin, dress, and wide-brimmed hat were all an unnerving, flawless white as if totally drained of colour.
Yet it was her eyes that drew Arete''s attention¡ªher right, a clouded, unsettling red, appeared unfocused, while the right, where a white eyepatch lay flipped up, was a vivid pink eye with four unnerving pupils. The pink eye seemed alien to her, a borrowed thing in need of returning.
The other intruder was an old man, elbow crooked with the white woman''s for support. The man had two sparkling blue eyes and a yellow headband that ran across his forehead.If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.
The Mokoi Khan spoke. The white woman spoke, "I have never seen a magical focus as powerful as this bell. It has value as a tool; I care not for trophies, especially those of human-organized events. And this is not my woman."
The white woman nodded, a look of understanding crossing her face. While all mokoi would reverently regard the Khan as an untouchable prophet or parent of the realm, this white woman regarded it with an air of casual disapproval, as if looking at a misbehaving child. The white woman smiled mischievously. "Yes, she too has value as a tool."
Neither the Khan nor Arete responded. Arete found herself strangely uplifted by the white woman''s words, despite their clear insult. To be called a tool¡ªthough undeniably negative in connotation¡ªwas, in some twisted way, a form of recognition.
The white woman continued, her voice dripping with amusement. "So how has my little pet project been doing? I''ve noticed you''ve been quite busy since I let you run free from your prison."
The Mokoi Khan spoke. The white woman spoke, "I am merely finishing what I had started nearly two thousand years ago." The Khan heavily emphasized the time, as though the spans of centuries declared its superiority over the white woman. The white woman contemplated for a few moments. A tense silence hung as the white woman paused to consider the Khan''s words.
She then moved past the Mokoi Khan, her steps measured and deliberate, and approached Arete. With a careless gesture, she reached out and took the egg, cradling it with a single hand, her grip almost dismissive.
"Is that your answer, Ardor?" The white woman asked, her voice laced with boredom as she idly rolled the egg around in her hands. Arete''s first instinct was to stop the woman from touching the egg, to rip it from her hands, but the Khan¡¯s iron grip on her mind held her in place. Any movement could provoke a deadly consequence. This tug on her string felt like the first in a long time that had been truly in her best interest. But even as that thought flickered in her mind, a deep, palpable fear began to settle over her¡ªa fear so intense it almost shattered the Khan¡¯s hold, threatening to break the invisible threads that bound her.
Ardor seemed concerned to see that egg so carelessly shaken about by the white woman, but Ardor did not act.
The white woman spoke. The Khan did not speak, "Even after all I have done for you, this is what you amount to? This is how you choose to answer my question?" She let the egg slip out of her hand, only barely catching it with the other. She heaved a deep sigh, then shrugged, "I don''t like it, but I''ll accept it. There is merit in simplicity after all. As thanks for your answer I will give you something."
The white woman turned to face the Khan. She lifted her hand balancing the crimson egg upon her palm. A crack suddenly snapped into existence, and the imprint of a shadowed hand appeared, pushing against its inner confines. Ardor moved swiftly, rushing to the white woman''s side. With a fluid motion, it dropped everything, and all seven arms enveloped the egg, cradling it with tender reverence. The Khan''s gaze remained fixed on the shadow working inside the egg with a blend of concern and boundless love.
The white woman spoke. "With this, we are no longer bound together; I am concluding our contract. Ardor¡" The white woman stopped in the middle of her sentence, there seemed to have been the slightest hesitation, but it was rapidly suppressed, she continued. "We will leave you with your daughter. Have this tool guide us to a room, the two of us plan on staying the night."
The Khan did not respond but Arete could feel the tug of the strings in her mind imploring her to show the guests out. Arete then guided the two strangers out of the throne room and led them through the castle. Arete had to stop by an office to procure two keys for the guest rooms they would be receiving. She then led the two to their first room.
It was a large room with a single poster bed; a gigantic wardrobe stood in a corner of the room, and in the other corner, there was a long iron desk that hugged the curve of the corner. The two strangers both entered the room before Arete even managed to introduce it to them.
The white woman cusped the old man''s cheeks and drew him close until their faces pressed against each other. The white woman spoke through gritted teeth, clearly in great pain. "Thank you, I needed that."
The two pulled away from each other and the white woman flipped her white eyepatch down so that only her one clouded red eye could be seen. Meanwhile, the old man adjusted the yellow headband on his head as a little blood leaked down from it. As if nothing had happened the two immediately made themselves comfortable. The white woman flopped down on the large soft poster bed, and the old man slowly limped over to a chair situated next to the desk. He spun the chair so that it faced into the room and sat on it. He pulled out a thick booklet and quill and opened to a page.
The man waited with his pen at the ready. The white woman stared blankly at the curtained ceiling, "Is your back alright? Sometimes, if you get an annoying weight on your chest, your back has to make up for it."
The old man began to scribble into his book. Arete stood there, unsure of what to do. She assumed the white woman was speaking to the old man, but leaving the room in the middle of their conversation would be disrespectful. She remained rooted to the spot, her gaze flickering between them, unsure whether she was expected to stay or if her presence was merely an afterthought.
The white woman continued speaking. "I understand that. I get quite the back aches myself you know?" The white woman sat upright on the bed and gestured to her chest while laughing. "By the way, I was curious. Do you always dress like that?"
As the white woman continued speaking, Arete¡¯s uncertainty grew steadily, but now, she was sure the words were meant for her. She glanced down at her naked body, her thoughts turning to the question the woman had posed. As her eyes traced her own skin, she noticed something unexpected¡ªa deep scratch running across her bosom, red streaks trailing down to her stomach. She wasn¡¯t sure when it had happened, but the jagged mark seemed to have appeared from nowhere. Perhaps it was from one of the sharp bones protruding from the Khan''s head, though the memory felt distant and unclear.
"Don''t think so deeply about it, it was just a joke. You almost have to feel bad for Ardor don''t you?" The white woman jumped from varying topics as if continuing to talk of Arete''s dress was never of any interest. The white woman slumped down and supported her head with a tired arm.
After a moment of silence, she spoke again, her voice low but deliberate. "Do you think Ardor will be happy at the end?" This time, the question was not addressed at Arete. The old man paused, his quill hovering over the page, and slowly lifted his gaze to meet the white woman¡¯s. He adjusted the yellow headband on his forehead. here was no further exchange between them; he simply returned to his booklet, resuming his writing.
The white woman moved her gaze back towards Arete. "You look awfully cold my child. It seems that Ardor really works you to the bone, huh? What a meanie. I wonder if you would give me a different answer?"
Arete had no idea of what the white woman was speaking about. She spoke of the Khan in an extremely familiar manner though. Arete didn''t think that she heard the Khan''s first name throughout her whole life as many times as she heard it from this white woman. It was unsettling, this casualness, this ease with which the white woman seemed to navigate the realm of the Khan. Arete finally braved to ask. "Answer what?"
The white woman¡¯s grin spread into a cheeky, almost mischievous smile as Arete¡¯s question hung in the air. That smile sent a chill down Arete''s spine. "A parent is stronger than a Khan don''t you think?" The woman mused, her tone light, "And when you can only be one, it''s best to be none, I would say." She paused, her eyes narrowing slightly, calculations clearly running through the mysterious woman''s mind. "Plus, I think you could sit much more comfortably on that throne."
A primal panic surged through Arete, her breath catching in her throat. This woman was speaking of treason right where the Mokoi Khan could hear. Yet, as the thought struck her, she paused, a cold realization settling over her. She could not sense any of the Khan within her. She could not feel any of those strings. Arete turned her gaze back to the white woman, a flicker of something else igniting within her. She studied her with a newfound intensity, her mind racing as the truth began to unfurl. She had found the source. This woman¡ªthe one who seemed to stand so casually in the Khan''s shadow¡ªwas the key to her freedom.
The white woman''s voice oozed with feigned concern, her words carefully measured, as if speaking of something deeply troubling. "That annoying bridge separating the wealthy nobles from the rest of the mokoi is such an eyesore. I bet that thing is driving many of them mad. I would not be surprised if civil unrest, improperly nurtured, eventually reached a boiling point. But if that happened in four years, well, that would be really bad. A distraction like that could allow an invading human force to sneak a wide-eyed little saviour right into the Abyss and kill the Khan." That would be a truly awful thing wouldn''t it?" Her words hung in the air, too calm for the gravity of what she was suggesting. "That would be truly awful, wouldn''t it?"
A wide, self-satisfied grin stretched across the white woman''s features, one so unsettlingly pleased that it sent a shiver through Arete. This woman was terrifying, but¡ "I''m not asking anything of you. You are but a key that opens a door. I simply ask you to think of what door you open."
She paused for a beat, watching Arete closely. "I, too, am a key; take the time to ponder over which door I open."
Arete placed her soft hand over her stomach, delicately scraping off the dried blood with her long, manicured nails as her mind raced. For a moment, she stood there, allowing the weight of the situation to settle into her bones. Then, with a quiet resolve, she walked over to the wardrobe. Her hand wrapped around the handle. It was warm. She opened the wardrobe. A series of empty hangers were strung along a crossbar at the top of the wardrobe. At the end, a single hanger carried a clean house coat.
Arete traced her hand down the fabric, it was soft. She twisted it between her fingers; it was thick, woollen. It was warm. She unhooked the clothes and draped the housecoat over her body.
Turning back to face the White Witch, she gave a soft, almost imperceptible sigh. "It would be horrible if all those things happened in four years¡¯ time," she said, her voice steady but tinged with a quiet seriousness. "I''m sure many would consider the year 3984 the darkest year for mokoi-kind if that happened." Arete solemnly shook her head, her mind never more clear, " I''m sorry, Ms., I don''t think I introduced myself to you. I am Arete, co-leader of the¡. mokoi surrogate revolutionary army."
She stuck her hand out towards the white woman. The woman smiled, "I am the White Witch, co-leader of the mokoi surrogate revolutionary army."
The White Witch took Arete''s hand.
Chapter 36: Choices
The baby was born, and the entire gruesome spectacle had unfolded before the white-haired boy''s eyes, no mystery left undiscovered. He hadn''t asked for this¡ªhadn''t wanted that kind of blood and chaos branded into his memory, but his friends had forced him. There could be no doctor, no witnesses, for the child''s existence had to remain a secret. And so, despite every instinct to flee, he was here, unwillingly part of a moment he could never forget.
The birth had taken place in Scrimp''s dilapidated bedroom. The place was a rotten heap, mushrooms home to the wall, mites neighbours in the roof. The structural boards were so warped that their status as an interior was often questioned. It was more a home emotionally than by any practical definition. Unideal for the birth of a child, perhaps, but Scrimp was the only friend they trusted enough. He was also the only friend who lived somewhere where the events taking place would never be noticed. A place where shadowed figures sneaking in the night and agonized shrieks splitting the skies parsed not as uncommon.
The white-haired boy was not a doctor. He had never delivered a child. He knew not of procedure or how to tend to a mother-to-be. His training had been focused on combat, his expertise in destruction, not creation. There were at least a few supportive magics that, with some creative use, could be used to bolster the birthing girl''s strength, clear her mind, and suppress her pain. This was a mother fit for war.
The three people in the room were frozen, paralyzed by the sudden presence of a fourth¡ªa life now existing, distinctly and separately, where moments prior it had not. Scrimp stood outside, his ear pressed to the door, straining to catch any sound, desperate to uncover the hidden results within. No one dared move as their minds struggled to process all that had happened¡ªand what would need to happen: then it cried.
The still moment screaming to life, a writhing form once an inside turned outside and looking every bit as such. A minuscule form slathered in clumps of waxy white goo, rough red skin; Its face all scrunched up in a rictus of overstimulated terror, eyes wide with the shock of being. Completing the nightmare was a thick, twisted white cord, solid and slimy, partly transparent to reveal two thick black threads coiled within. The tube was binding, shackled on one end by a tiny smooth stomach and trailing into... The white-haired boy snapped from his stupor with panic. "What do I do!?"
The other boy in the room, a taller and broader boy sitting next to the girl, hands trapped in her murderous grip, quickly replied. "Cut it!"
The girl interrupted in the same confused shouting as the rest of the group. "No, clean it first!"
The white-haired boy turned to look at the bloody thing in front of him. The concoction of fluids and stuffs was so much more varied and detailed than he ever thought it would be. Its head lolled over, and eyes dragged to his. He had been avoiding making direct eye contact, but it really did instill a horrendous discomfort within him. Suddenly, thing turned to baby, to a human. There was a human, and its eyes mirrored the hysteria of his mind, its throat shrieking enough for the both of them. The white-haired boy had been trained to operate through panic. His mind was stalled, but his body acted, casting a series of spells that purified the babe of all foreign substances, leaving it impeccably clean.
The girl cried out, panic reeling out her voice. "Not that clean!"
"You told me to clean it!" he snapped, his voice shaking with alarm.
"It needs to be a little dirty! To build immunity!" She was practically pleading now, her hands trembling.
The broader boy turned to her, his face twisted in confusion and worry. "Does it?"
The white-haired boy looked to her too, eyes wide, waiting for something solid to hold onto. The questioning gazes destroyed any certainty she once had "¡ I-I think?"
Everyone then turned to face the white-haired boy, who in turn looked down at the pristine baby. The white-haired boy felt like there had never been any living organism as perfectly clean as this baby currently was in all of history. He looked back up to his two friends and spoke. "It will be fine."
"IT WON''T BE FINE!" The girl screeched so loudly that the white-haired boy thought he could hear her voice tearing.
The white-haired boy turned back to the baby, heart racing. An idea formed and he knew what he was about to do was forbidden¡ªhe wasn''t supposed to take such risks. But those rules were meant for those less skilled than him, and these were... extenuating circumstances. His hands trembled as he reached for the baby, his breath shallow.
With a deep, steadying breath, he cradled the baby, pressing its infantile form firmly into his chest. He could feel the warmth of its skin, the faint pulse of life beneath that. He then immersed the baby''s logoic body with his. Still tied to the mother by the umbilical cord, he could feel her too, drained and weak and scared. He ignored her.
He took hold of a small portion of the child''s essential framework and used it as the medium to trace an intricate arcane rune directly onto the baby''s heart. He had never worked with such delicate ''material'' before¡ªnever applied his rune craft so precisely. The patterns he etched had to be absolutely flawless. He didn''t know what would happen if he made a mistake, but images of combusting parchments from his youthful training flared in his mind, and his stress redoubled.
The task took every ounce of focus he could muster, working every fibre of his brain, pushing his concentration and skill to its utmost limit as he carved the complex design into the vulnerable flesh of a being. His countless forays in violence and unmaking, trivial efforts, in comparison to the beautifully finessed work of life. By the time he was finished he was drenched in sweat, as much from the physical exertion as from the unbearable stress.
"There, he will never be sick again."
"He!?" His friends blurted in unison, their voices a mix of surprise and jubilation.
The girl''s eyes widened with frantic urgency. She began gesturing toward the white-haired boy, her words tumbling out in a rush. "Quick, quick, let me see him!"
The white-haired boy hesitated, awkwardly lifting the baby, ready to bring it to them¡ªbut he was immediately interrupted, "Cut it first!"
"IT!?" The white-haired boy''s eyes bulged in shock, his gaze dropping below the baby''s waist, and his heart ached with pity.
"THE CORD!" she swiftly barked in terror.
The white-haired boy was no doctor; he had never seen a birth before, he hadn''t even seen a baby before today. How was he supposed to cut the cord? Where was he supposed to cut the cord? His hands trembled as he grabbed the umbilical cord with one hand, the rubbery string surprisingly tough with a slight squish beneath his grip. He could feel a thick, gelatinous fluid shifting inside the tube. The unexpected sensation made him shudder, an icy chill creeping down his spine.
His heart raced, and his mind spun. He just needed to finish this¡ªto get it over with. Guided by panic more than confidence, he cast his spell, and the very fabric of reality wobbled and rippled around his grasp. Then, with a sudden jolt, the cord fell out of existence.
Where the cord had been, there was a thin strip carving into space, reality itself pinched and peeled away. For a moment, everything held still, then the gap slowly began to heal, reality twisting back into existence, and the space returned to normal.
"That is not a cut!"
"I didn''t know where to cut!"
"So, you obliterated me!? Do you know what that feels like? That was partly inside of me!"
The broader boy, his voice rising above the others, cut through the bickering. "Does it even matter? It''s gone now. Just bring the baby over to us."
The broader boy''s anxiety was palpable, his eyes fixed on the small child. As soon as the white-haired boy was within reach, both teens nearly yanked the baby from his arms and hovered over it. The instant the baby was cradled in the arms of its parents, the cries abruptly ceased.
The white-haired boy had honestly grown used to the incessant crying. But now, with the sudden silence, the absence of sound felt like a weight lifting off his shoulders. He exhaled deeply, a wave of relief washing over him. His gaze shifted to his two friends, who were already deep in an animated argument over what to name the little human now cradled in their arms.
It had been months, and that debate still wasn''t settled; they were truly hopeless. His eyes lifted from the baby to rest on his friends'' faces. They were hopeless, but they were so happy. The white-haired boy watched the ephemeral serenity of the family, a pang of unease settling in his chest.
He couldn''t help but worry. His mind flooded with the trials and tribulations that the future held for them¡ªand, by extension, for him. The white-haired boy already had enough problems to deal with; he wanted to protect their happiness, but doubt gnawed at him. He wasn''t sure if he could handle even more complications.
"I hope you don''t regret this." The words hung in the air, unanswered. He doubted they even heard him at all. It didn''t matter; his role here was finished. He had to leave soon¡ªbefore his absence was noticed. If he stayed too long, the whole point of keeping this event a secret would be wasted.
The white-haired boy turned to leave when his friends called out to him. "Thank you, Wish."
"No problem." Wish''s words were polite, but they didn''t match the grim expression on his face or the exhaustion in his tone. He didn''t mind helping out his friends through thick and thin, but what he''d witnessed in that room... That was something else. The dungeon of Ingress didn''t even hold a candle to that horror show. And they were his friends¡ªhis friends¡ªwhich made the whole situation so much more disturbing.
Wish left the room and was immediately accosted by Scrimp''s querying gaze trying to pierce through him and into the room behind. "You should probably give them some time to themselves"Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.
Scrimp''s disappointment was obvious. He''d been waiting for hours, his patience stretched thin, only able to hear the distant cries, shouts, and other panicked noises from behind the door, with no way to understand what was truly happening. Wish, however, wasn''t in the mood for lingering. He was ready to leave.
"... Also don''t let them leave this place until I get back. We need to go over some things before they go anywhere, and I''ve got some updates for them."
Scrimp tried to sneak out what information he could before his friend left. "What kind of updates?".
Wish wasn''t so forthcoming and responded dismissively as he cinched his sword and scabbard to his belt. "I''ve got to go, Scrimp. I need my schedule to stay intact, or this''ll have all been for nothing." Wish opened the door, already preparing to leave.
Scrimp jogged over to his friend. "Well, if I can''t go in and say hi to the baby, then I''ll walk home with you. We can talk, right?"
Wish glanced down at his shorter friend, his gaze sharp with suspicion. "Alright, but we''ll have to separate when we leave the district."
Scrimp shrugged with a half-smirk. "Yeah, yeah. Can''t be seen with some dirty slum rat."
Wish''s expression softened, his tone tinged with reluctant sympathy. "You know I don''t¡ª"
"I know, I know," Scrimp cut him off, waving it away. "It''s not your fault."
The two friends left the decrepit building, stepping out into the neglected streets of the poorest part of town. The surroundings were grim¡ªthin, sickly figures wandered the alleys, their hollow eyes glazed from wanton abuse. Mangy children fought over rotten scraps, while adults lurked in the shadows, eyes sharp for any unsuspecting passerby.
Neither of the two paid much attention to the familiar scene. Scrimp moved with practiced ease, his steps deliberate as he navigated the twisted maze of filth and danger. He''d learned long ago how to make his way through these parts such to minimize any run-ins with trouble. Wish, though, walked in silence beside him, his thoughts far removed from the chaos around them.
Scrimp finally chanced to break his reverie. "So, when you first arrived at my place, I noticed there was some blood on your sheath."
Wish''s hand shot to his sword sheath, fumbling nervously as he scanned it for any trace of grime. But before he could panic, Scrimp placed a calming hand over his, stopping the frantic search. "I cleaned it," he said, his tone steady. "While you were... busy with the others. So you don''t need to worry about that anymore. But does that blood have something to do with the update you mentioned?"
"I had a little run in with some assassins on my way over."
"Again?" Scrimp''s voice carried a note of disbelief. "I know you don''t want to, but shouldn''t you tell your dad about them now? This is getting out of hand."
Wish shook his head dismissively, his expression hardening. "No, this time they weren''t for me."
Scrimp blinked, confusion crossing his face. "What? Then who were they after?"
"The baby."
Scrimp stumbled over his steps, eyes bugged in shock. "How did they find out? Do they know where I live? Should we have just left them alone back there? What if there''s another group?"
"Calm down, Scrimp." Wish spoke, his voice steady, "I didn''t want to say anything because you all had enough on your minds, but this isn''t anything new. This was actually the third group just this month."
Scrimp froze, exterior totally still, but inside, his heart was pounding. "How long have they known!? Who even are they?"
"That''s why I didn''t want to tell you guys." Wish replied with a sigh, his gaze distant. "I wanted to find out who and how."
"And?"
"Well, there''s good news and bad news. I can explain more when we''re somewhere less public, but you should be safe for a few more weeks. I''ve got the culprit tied up at the moment, but they''ll be pretty tough to deal with."
"Tied up!?"
"Not literally. Don''t worry about it."
Scrimp exclaimed with frustration, "I just found out that people have been trying to murder my friends for months! And those friends are in hiding at my house! I don''t know if you''ve noticed, Wish, but my place isn''t exactly defensible."
"I''ll make sure that everything works out; I always do. Just so long as they don''t leave your house until I return. I can''t be seen with you from here on out, so how about you head back and lock them down? I''ll see you later tonight."
Scrimp needed a little more convincing, but eventually, Wish managed to calm him down, urging him to take care of things until he returned.
Without wasting a moment, Wish set off for the grand mansion at the heart of town. The difference in homes was like night and day. As he walked, the contrast between their worlds grew clearer with each step. Scrimp''s house¡ªif it could even be called that¡ªwas little more than a crumbling structure tucked away in the slums, barely hanging on. Wish''s estate, on the other hand, stood like a gleaming fortress, an architectural marvel that could fit Scrimp''s home hundreds¡ªmaybe even thousands¡ªof times over within its walls. The disparity was staggering.
Wish entered the mansion''s grand entrance hall. Two spiralling staircases ascended to opposite wings, their polished banisters gleaming in the dim light. Between them, a majestic grandfather clock stood, its pendulum swinging in a mesmerizing rhythm, the ostentatious ornament proudly displaying the time. The time!
Panic surged through Wish as he realized how late he was. He dashed through the mansion in a frenzy, racing from his room to the bath, barely pausing to acknowledge the flustered servants trailing behind him. As he tore at his clothes and struggled into his finest noble attire, he desperately hoped he''d get to supper on time.
He had been in such a hurry he nearly forgot his hat. he quickly shoved the large wool tuque over his head.
To his surprise, Wish arrived at the grand dining hall with a few moments to spare. The enormous table stretched out before him, its length seemingly endless. It could easily seat a hundred guests, yet the sheer scale of the room only heightened the sense of isolation. It took him nearly a full minute to reach the far end, where the only two other people in the room sat. The whole journey was accompanied by his steps echoing off the high walls, the distant bickering stilled as his parents awaited his approach.
His father sat at the far end of the table, looking impossibly young for his years. To anyone unaware of his father''s condition, the two might have been mistaken for brothers, as the man appeared scarcely older than Wish himself. By contrast, his mother looked her age, but she wore it gracefully¡ªher royal blood evident in every refined feature. While time had touched her, she was still a woman of unparalleled beauty, or so people wouldn''t stop telling her.
Before Wish had even reached them, his mother spoke without breaking her glare from his father. "Your hair is showing."
A wave of panic washed over him. In an instant, he scrambled to tuck his white hair back into his hat, ensuring not a single strand was visible. "I humbly apologize, Mother," Wish responded slightly, failing to keep the calm elegance he was trained to perfect.
Wish made his way over to the chair across from his mother and patiently waited. His father spoke. "You may sit, Wish. And Iatric, I am not joking, I will kill that white witch and end her curse." Wish apathetically took his seat and readied himself for another traditional Heirisson family gathering.
His mother, Iatric, kept a completely monotone expression on her face. "Sometimes I wonder if your mind has also stopped maturing, Doyen. You can''t kill all of your problems away."
A flush of anger crept onto Doyen''s face. "Don''t treat me like I''m the villain here; I didn''t want this to happen either. Sorry if you''re disappointed that I didn''t die back then!"
The sharpness of his words finally broke through Iatric''s stoic facade. "You know I would never think that."
"I know you too well to be fooled by your noble insincerity."
Iatric scoffed at Doyen''s pathetic response but quickly regained her emotionless composure. "How long will you cling to your inferiority complex?" she asked, her voice cold. "You''re a noble too, now. Or is being a Duke not enough for you? You just can''t be satisfied unless you''re the best at everything." Irritable taunting seeped past the facade of regality. "Would you like to kill my father and become king? Would that satisfy you? At least a fight for the crown might entertain your bloodlust a little longer."
Wish found himself absentmindedly counting the jewels on the chandelier, doing his best to distance his mind from the frenzied exchange. He hardly spared a glance at his parents, looking more like a child fighting a tantrum against a scolding mother. Instead, his gaze wandered down the hall, catching sight of a servant standing just inside the entrance, holding a platter of food. The servant seemed hesitant to step into the room with its oppressive atmosphere. Bringing the food in would be the perfect distraction, a way to at least temporarily stopper any argument. Why was the servant leaving Wish to suffer through this alone?
He silently cheered on the man to brave the tension and save them all. He didn''t hold much hope. When his parents would get agitated enough, they''d start to emit an essential pressure so strong that it would suffocate any normal human.
Doyen slammed his fist onto the table with a deafening crack. "It is not my fault our child is a monster!"
The words cut through the air, yanking Wish unwillingly back into the conversation. In moments like this, Wish noted that there were at least some things for which he was grateful to his mother. His ability to hide all emotion, chief among them. Thanks to that, he didn''t so much as flinch at his father''s venomous indictment. His face remained a mask of calm, the storm of his father''s anger sliding off him like water.
His mother snapped back, not missing a beat. "Yes, it is!"
Why did they have to eat supper together? His father turned to face Wish without even acknowledging his wife''s retort and ready to start an entirely new conversation. It was a very Doyen thing to do. "How has your training been going recently?"
"Magic and swordsmanship have been going quite smoothly with the help of the tutors, but integrating the two on my own is continuing to prove difficult."
With the conversation shifting, the servant seized the opportunity to bring in the meal. Too little, too late, Wish thought bitterly. Traitor. As the servant stepped forward, others followed, each bearing a dish as the family''s meal was finally served. The ritualistic pomp and suffocating etiquette of it all blurred together in Wish''s mind, his thoughts distant as he mechanically went through the motions, lost in a daze. He nearly found himself missing the chaos at Scrimp''s, nearly. Then, with that image reconjured, he lost all appetite.
The rest of their supper was uneventful; Doyen and Iatric would occasionally exchange political discourse and stratagem, their words more like those of cold business partners than a married couple. Wish managed to force his meal down, and finally, after what felt like an eternity, he was given permission to leave the table.
When Wish stood up to leave, Doyen called out to him. "I have faith that you will find a way to integrate the two styles. I believe in you."
"I will do my best, Father." That didn''t seem to be the response his father was looking for, but Wish left before any more could be said. On his way to his chambers, Wish stopped at a massive oil painting many times his size. An enormous mural depicting the battle of New Heirisson, and at the center, displayed in irritating grandiosity, was his father, Doyen, the Hero of New Heirisson Conquest. He was tempted to drive his blade through the mural and tear it to shreds, but he was interrupted by the ring of two bells. One of the bells echoed from down the hall, coming from the dining hall he just left; the other came from right in front of him.
In front of Wish there was what seemed to be a small pink rhombus that grew out of thin air, or it was a rhombus, but its body would reject any stable state. It would shift and transform, shrink and grow, continuously morphing into other shapes. The pink shape finally locked into a form resembling that of a featureless human with only one limb. The arm was outstretched towards Wish holding a glowing parchment: It read.
| You have been invited to |
| The Tournament |
| You are The Chosen |
Chapter 37: Before the Scratch Please
She groggily craned her neck atop her pillow, tilting her head to the side toward the hourglass she had set on her nightstand. But she hadn''t quite built up the courage to open her eyes yet; that hourglass was the potential death of her resting Elysium. Warm light poured through the window, its golden fingers brushing against her face while the weight of thick, quilted blankets wrapped her in the coziest cocoon. The irresistible lure of sleep''s cradle easily lulled her head back down, sinking deeper into the plush softness of the pillow, almost swallowing her whole in its comforting embrace. It was a perfect swaddle of blissful contentment¡ªone she never wanted to leave. It took the utmost effort to force her eyelids open, faintly squinting to gleam how much time she had left to enjoy bed''s arcadia.
All the sand had gathered at the bottom.
Her body shot upright. Her mountain of blankets sent careening across the bed. Any trace of fatigue vanished in an instant. As a seasoned tardiness veteran, she lunged out of her pyjamas in a single practiced motion and just as quickly donned her daywear. Without missing a beat, she dashed out of her bedroom to hurriedly tackle the day.
As soon as she left her room, she was sprinting back in. This skirt had no place being matched with the blouse she was wearing, and she HAD to wear this blouse; it was soooo cute! She briefly considered the green skirt, then shook her head. NO, the blue skirt with the pretty spirals¡ªit was perfect! With her outfit finally sorted and her vastly superior wardrobe choices now in place, she sprinted out of her room once more.
But then, just as she breached her bedroom''s entrance, she skidded to a halt, twirled in place, and sprinted back in. She''d almost forgotten the bow for her hair! After a few quick tugs and a perfectly tied knot, she was finally, truly, ready to face the day.
She bounded four steps at a time down the stairs, finally landing at the bottom with a loud thump. She pivoted on the ball of her foot and bolted down the hall and into the kitchen, where a woman was casually eating some scrambled eggs.
The woman paused, swallowing quickly before addressing her. "What are you still doing here Sanguine? I thought you said you were going to spend the day with Malady?"
Sanguine did not dare slow down in her rush, instead vaulting over the kitchen table and barely halting her momentum from crashing into the cabinets. She spared the briefest hum of acknowledgment for the woman as she threw the cabinet open "Uh huh."
The woman chuckled as she watched the frantic scene unfold. "Ah, the perks of being young," she said, shaking her head. "But one day, you''ll have to fix that sleeping habit of yours," she added, pointing a finger at Sanguine.
Sanguine luckily managed to find a piece of bread that had already been sliced. She swiftly swiped the delectable starch and bit into it as she spun on her heels to leave. As she turned, her eyes met the woman''s, and she knew there''d be no escaping without some sort of response. So, with the bread wedged between her teeth, she simply repeated her earlier reply, her voice muffled by the bready sound filter: "Mum hum."
She was just about to exit the house when the woman called out to her, tapping her cheek with a teasing smile. "Where''s my parting gift?"
Sanguine pulled the bread from her mouth and planted a quick kiss on the woman''s cheek. "Love you," she muttered before munching down on the bread again and bursting out of the house. She sprinted down the street, her footsteps quick and determined, as she used her limited control over elemental fire to toast the bread still in her mouth.
Despite the impressive purity of her cinder blood, Sanguine had never been particularly skilled at controlling fire. Over the past few years, Scoria had been kind enough to teach her a few training techniques during their rare in-person meetings, helping her improve¡ªif only a little. But Sanguine was never one for focus, training, or studying¡ªshe was an all-around terrible student¡ªso she had only managed to reach the level of internal temperature adjustment so far.
Although her fire control was subpar, her athleticism was anything but, as was evidenced by the speed at which she blurred through downtown, waving enthusiastically to friendly neighbours as she zoomed past. As she rounded a corner toward her usual secret shortcut, she collided with something solid, sending her sprawling to the ground. A surprised yelp escaped her, and the exclamation let slip the toast from her mouth and dropped it into the damp dirt. She couldn''t help but let out a soft whimper. "My toast..."
"I''m sorry, are you okay?" the familiar sound of a somewhat deep pubescent voice drew Sanguine''s attention up from her spilled breakfast to the boy she had bumped into.
Her face instantly turned beet red when she realized who it was. She jumped to her feet, flailing her arms in wide, eccentric motions as she tried to speak. "A-A-Amore hi, how are you? I mean, no, I am so sorry! It was totally my fault I wasn''t looking and was running because I''m late to see Malady but that''s not an excuse I know and I should really pay more attention when I''m walking or well I mean in this case I was running and I should definitely pay attention when running but that doesn''t mean I don''t pay attention when I walk and like I''m not saying that you''re not worthpayingattentionto." Her face reddened even more and she slapped her hands over her mouth as if that could restrain her cursed lips from betraying her any further.
Amore opened his mouth about to speak when Sanguine quickly interrupted him "Not that I AM paying attention to you, I mean you''re cool I guess not that I''d know since we don''t really hang out often and I don''t stare or anything so I''m just guessing or whatever or something it doesn''t really matter." She paused to catch her breath before continuing, the words tumbling out. "Did I ruin your clothes? Are you hurt? I''m not calling you weak or saying a girl could hurt you or anything, I¡ª"
"Sanguine." Amore interrupted, holding up his hands to calm her.
Sanguine stopped her self-sabotaging word vomit. "...Yes?"
"I''m fine," he said with a reassuring smile. "It''s okay¡ªit happens to the best of us. I just don''t want to make you late for your meeting with Malady."
Sanguine''s eyes widened in surprise as if she''d just realized the time. "Oh my gosh, I''m going to be soooooo late! Sorry, I gotta go!"
"Of course, no problem."
"Great, love you!" she called, waving as she dashed off.
"You said what to him?!" Malady burst into hysterical laughter, clutching her stomach as Sanguine recounted the events of her late arrival.
Sanguine didn''t find the situation nearly as funny as Malady did. "I just blurted it out! It''s just something I always say to Mom before I leave the house so it slipped out of habit." she lamented, her hands wringing through her hair. "Do you think he hates me now?"
Malady''s laughter only grew louder at Sanguine''s concern, escalating into an even more chaotic burst of giggles. But her laughter soon turned into a dangerous coughing fit, her breath wrenching in ragged gasps.
Sanguine rushed to grab a cloth, pressing it against Malady''s mouth as the coughing intensified, with a few wet, phlegmy cries escaping before Malady finally signalled that she was done, her face flushed but recovering.
Sanguine pulled the cloth away and looked at it, noticing faint spots of blood mixed in with the spit and mucus. She placed the cloth on the table next to them and gave her friend a concerned look.
"I''m fine," Malady reassured her, her voice light. "The healers actually said I''ve improved slightly since they started the new treatment. If I keep this up, I might even have a full decade."
But Sanguine''s face fell, the jovial dismissal in Malady''s tone tightening her chest with a wave of deep sadness.
Before she could say anything, her friend continued. "He''s not going to hate you just because you said you loved him. He probably knows it was just a slip of the tongue." Malady paused as she noticed Sanguine still focused on what she had previously said. "Or maybe that was the small nudge he needed to realize how much he loves you back, and he''ll propose by the end of the day."
That comment immediately snapped Sanguine''s attention back to the real concern at hand, and her face flushed a deep red.The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
Malady, seizing the opportunity, continued her teasing. "Yep, I can see it now¡ª the moon shining down, Amore kneeling on one knee, holding your hand against his lips as he¡ª"
Sanguine''s embarrassment peaked, a squeaky, tea kettle-like sound escaping from her as her face practically caught fire. She was so embarrassed that she could actually feel the overwhelming emotion tug from within. She could feel the desiring call of the soul sea, a great entity latching to her string and rising from within herself. She could feel it sprouting, and her body began to glow a faint purplish red.
Malady immediately waved her arms in front of herself, panic creeping into her voice. "Woah! Woah! I was just teasing, no need to transform over it!"
Sanguine was able to reject the influence before its hold grew too firm, the faint glow fading from her skin. "Sorry," she said, her voice quiet but steady. "I''ve been struggling to control it lately."
Malady''s concern was evident. "Isn''t that bad?"
Sanguine let out a hearty laugh, more out of nervousness than amusement. "Yeah, it really is." She placed a hand over Malady''s in an attempt to comfort her, but as her fingers cupped around her friend''s, a cold realization hit. Malady''s hand felt unnervingly thin¡ªfragile even.
A knot tightened in Sanguine''s chest as doubts crept in about the truth of Malady''s earlier statement regarding her improvement. Malady wouldn''t lie to her, but she was smart enough to know if the healers were downplaying her condition. Maybe Malady was simply choosing not to believe it herself. She may have lied, but it wasn''t intentional. They told each other everything¡ªMalady even knew about Sanguine''s ability. She was the only one who knew... well, her and Scoria. But he didn''t really count.
The quiet comfort between the two girls was shattered by a loud explosion outside, the force of it shaking the room''s windows. Sanguine shot upright, her eyes wide with alarm, and turned to look at Malady.
Malady offered an understanding smile, her expression calm despite the chaos outside. She raised her fist to her friend. "It''s okay. You can go."
Sanguine pounded her fist against Malady''s, and the instant their hands connected, a surge of overwhelming power coursed through her. She could feel the desiring call of the soul sea, a great entity tugging at her bond and rising from within herself. It sprouted from her core, and her body erupted into a blinding yellow glow. Her bones stretched and contorted, her muscles following suit. The shifting transformation making her body look more fluid than solid.
Her clothes ripped apart, dissolving into countless fragments that merged into a small cloth bracelet around her wrist. Then, Out of thin air, a new set of yellow garments coalesced¡ª a short skirt, a tight shirt, knee-high socks, and elbow-length gloves¡ª all materializing to fit her transformed body.
The glowing light gradually dissipated, leaving behind a taller, slimmer figure with long, bright yellow hair tied into pigtails, where the young thirteen-year-old girl had once been. The transformation was complete.
It took a moment for her to adjust to the new form, but this entity was no stranger to her. She had adopted this shape many times before, each time more instinctive than the last. She had long since come to know the name of this power: Friendship.
Friendship looked over to Malady and spoke with a much deeper voice that matched her more adult body. "I''ll be back as fast as I can."
Friendship moved swiftly to the window, opening it just wide enough to slip through. Without a moment''s hesitation, she leapt out and soared toward the explosion. Friendship''s flight put Sanguine''s running to shame. In less than a minute, she reached her destination.
As she landed, she quickly scanned the scene, her mind racing to make sense of the unfolding disaster. A towering inferno consumed a small house, its structure rapidly disintegrating under the intense heat.
Many bystanders stood at what they assumed was a safe distance and gawked at the baffling height of the flames created. There were other houses nearby, but the fire seemed to almost consciously avoid them and spread upwards rather than outwards.
Someone must have had a bad transfusion.
Friendship cloaked her body in a protective yellow aura, its glow kindling her skin with an ethereal sheen, and then she dove into the heart of the raging fire. The heat pressed in on her like a living thing, suffocating and relentless. She relied on the glowing aura surrounding her to filter out the toxic fumes that threatened to flood her lungs as she pushed deeper into the building.
In one room, Friendship spotted a pair of panicked figures huddled together in the corner of a small cage, their high-class clothing reduced to ragged, charred remnants. An older man was hunched over a young girl burying her face in his clothes as a feeble attempt to protect her from the venomous air. The man himself seemed barely keeping consciousness, and Friendship could see dried streaks running down from his eyes, perhaps vestiges of an accepted fate.
Without hesitation, Friendship flew over to the pair. Despite the man''s considerable bulk¡ªwell over a head taller than her and undoubtedly much heavier¡ªshe lifted both him and the girl with ease. With swift determination, she retraced her path, her body a blur as she maneuvered through the chaos of the burning building.
She could effortlessly barrel through the weak walls to escape the building with the most expedience, but the building''s integrity was already quite suspect, and she wasn''t positive these were the only people inside.
Once outside, she gently set the two people down on the street before diving back into the inferno. She quickly cleared the building of any trapped people. On her fourth trip through the burning building, she came across a heavy steel door, its surface glowing bright red from the searing heat. She pointed a finger at it, and a beam of yellow light sliced through the door, dissolving it in an instant and revealing what she had feared.
There was a wide open room and, at the center, atop a simple metal gurney, a black charred corpse rested. Monstrous tongues of fire lashed out from a deep gash on the corpse''s arm, rising out and forming the conflagration that consumed the building.
A disturbingly large syringe lay abandoned on the floor beside the gash. A long, twisted tube extended from its back, snaking across the room and connecting to another syringe still pierced into a severed arm lying on the floor. The severed limb was also charred black and created its own smaller pillar of flame.
Finally, not too far from the severed arm was the culprit who caused the incident, cowering in the corner barricaded behind a series of collapsed brick barriers. He wore a long white coat, its bottom torn open, the missing piece of fabric now wrapped around the stump of his arm. His arm, or what was left of it, had been plunged into a vat of water beside him. When he pulled it out and exposed the vicious injury to the air, it immediately combusted into flame. With a panicked gasp, he shoved it back into the water, the fire sputtering out as he desperately tried to steady his breath.
Friendship slowly made her way over to the man; she recognized the face as one of her frequent opponents. The insane scientist. Crave, obsessed with acquiring even a fraction of the phoenix flame. He had grown to hate Friendship, the usual form Sanguine took to thwart his plans; oh, how livid he would be if he knew that the person behind Friendship, Sanguine, had that very phoenix flame flowing through her cinder blood.
Usually, her encounters with the madman ended in a climactic battle, one that she would swiftly dominate and then hand him over to the authorities. She expected this time to be different as he was clearly in no condition to fight.
Sanguine shook her head in tired disapproval. "You really outdid yourself this time, Crave." Crave, however, was too absorbed in managing his burning stump to notice her. Friendship leaned over him, her expression unreadable as she grasped his arm. She channelled her yellow energy into him, forcibly extracting the foreign blood from his body. With a swift motion, she dropped it into the vat of water. The moment the blood hit the surface, the water boiled violently, sending a thick plume of steam rising into the air.
Sanguine spun around to see the charred corpse in the center of the room with a sudden terror and then turned to Crave with concern. "How potent is this blood? Who did you take? This won''t be as easily overlooked as your other escapades, Crave!"
Sanguine returned to the charred corpse and dragged her hands over the body''s empty eye sockets as if closing some imaginary eyelids. "I''m sorry you had to go through this." She allowed her yellow barrier to encompass the open gash on the corpse and sealed the wound. The corpse stopped producing fire once the injury was fully healed, and the preexisting flames quickly shrunk into nothingness.
She flew back over to Crave, roughly grabbing the scruff of his coat and led him out of the building.
The authorities were already there, tending to and questioning the other rescued civilians, when Friendship dumped the perpetrator by the sheriff''s feet. Friendship locked eyes with the sheriff, he was practically the closest friend that this Friendship form had. Typically, she would love to stay and share banter with the gruff officer, but Friendship began to feel her influence over the corporeal world slowly fading, so she quickly spoke to the sheriff. "There is one deceased still left in the building, probably a high noble. I have to go now!" Before the sheriff could even respond, she launched into the air and flew away.
She scanned the town below her, finding an isolated alley without any people nearby, and hurriedly descended. In the blink of an eye, Friendship popped out of existence, and the cloth bracelet unfurled into a set of familiar clothes that rebounded itself around Sanguine''s body.
Unfortunately, she transformed back before Friendship had managed to fully land, so she let out a panicked scream as she fell an uncomfortable distance splaying uncomfortably against the stone floor.
"Ow." Sanguine rubbed her reddened forehead when she heard the sudden chime of a bell. A cacophony of terrifying scenarios swirled in her mind at the thought that her ability had been discovered.
She turned around to find the source of the sound and saw what seemed to be a small pink rhombus that grew out of thin air, or it was a rhombus, but its body would reject any stable state. It would shift and transform, shrink and grow, continuously morphing into other shapes. The pink shape finally locked into a form resembling that of a featureless human with only one limb. The arm was outstretched towards Sanguine holding a glowing parchment: It read.
| You have been invited to |
| The Tournament |
| You are The Ardent |
Chapter 38: People
Amidst a formidable assembly numbering in the hundreds, they loomed, titanic and imposing, their forms fluttering and undulating, a celestial quilt shrouding the heavens in an endless expanse of sinister shadows. A gnawing dread gripped at his very essence, for he recognized that this forthcoming clash would transcend all prior battles. It promised countless sleepless nights, a relentless onslaught that demanded unwavering tenacity. He had witnessed the horrors of war and had spilled oceans of blood, yet this hallowed ground seemed destined to become his personal grave. To surmise that a solitary soul could prevail against such odds bordered on folly, yet self-doubt, he knew, was the harbinger of defeat. Although his inner demons had recently whispered doubts, he could not allow these insidious insecurities to barricade his path. He tightened his grip upon his formidable weapon, summoned the reservoirs of his strength, and fortified his resolve. With a daring dash into ink, his weapon was unsheathed, ready to thrust into his first opponent.
The behemoth glaive easily sliced through the soft flesh of the young revolutionary. The immense heat permeating from the large weapon cauterized the wound as it was made, denying any blood from dropping onto the field. A clean swipe to the side plainly dismembered the enemy, letting them fall lifelessly to the ground.
Even twenty years later, the mokoi had to bury his emotions deep within himself as he stared at his fallen opponent''s vacant, hollow eyes. This was not what he had envisioned when he carried the Mokoi Khan back to its rightful position. He had been promised that the mokoi would no longer have to turn on their own brethren for meagre scraps, that they would stand united in a glorious reckoning against the humans. That Trammel, lush and untamed, was theirs to claim.
Instead, here he stood, without a leader, his hands stained with the blood of his own kind. The betrayal of his Khan''s death had shattered everything¡ªfractured the unity of the mokoi, leaving them scattered and faithless. The dream of conquest had crumbled into a nightmare of infighting, his own brothers and sisters now the enemy. The continent had completely collapsed into disarray, an endless war of survival among those who had once stood together as a single, unyielding force, just like it had been before the Khan.
He was a broad, powerful mokoi; his skinless upper-half revealed his bulging muscle in impeccable detail, each fibre of centuries-refined tissue flexing in violent synchronicity. The heavy weight of his serpentine lower half crushed the feeble skeletons of the fallen soldiers he slithered over.
The enemy would try to steer clear of him as much as they could, but few could escape the incredible reach of his terrifying glaive. Its blade stretched far beyond the height of most mokoi, a lethal arc that struck down any who dared venture too close. Coupled with his immense size, he could engage enemies long before they had a chance to close in. On the battlefield, he was an unstoppable machine of visceral devastation, cutting through all who opposed him with ruthless efficiency.
Usually, he would spend most of his time in the war tents strategizing and planning for future encounters, but the expediency with which this theatre needed to close was paramount to reclaiming the Abyss. After hours of tense deliberation, the generals decided he would have to leave the safety of the command tent and join the front lines to ''encourage'' the tide of battle.
It took mere moments for his presence to crush the morale of the enemy. The tide of battle, once fierce and chaotic, had already begun to shift, and now it was less about engagement and more about hunting down those who scrambled to escape. His mere arrival turned the battlefield into a slaughterhouse, as the retreating forces were cut down with brutal efficiency. Within hours of his involvement, the field was all but empty, the last remnants of the enemy scattered and broken. The battle was a resounding victory, leaving plenty of time to spare.
Under any other circumstances, these would have been hailed as stupendous results, a triumph worthy of celebration for the entire war effort. But as the soldiers reveled in their victory, he couldn''t find himself as excited as his contemporaries. It was their own people that the soldiers were celebrating having killed, their own family, their own friends.
He had much preferred the simpler days when they were invading the pathetic humans. Now, everything was on hold, the real war stalled by this chaotic civil strife and this absurd Surrogate Revolutionary Army problem, and a problem it was.
He never understood what his Khan saw in Arete. From the beginning, there was something about her that didn''t sit right with him¡ªsomething cold, calculating, and disingenuous. He never trusted her, and, looking back, he knew he''d been right to doubt her loyalty. But he had chosen to trust in the Khan. He had chosen to stay silent, to let the Khan''s "special little project" unfold unchecked, believing that his leader knew best. He stood by as Arete received resources, support, and influence¡ªher poisonous tongue corrupting the mokoi army from within.
Now, he was paying the price for his passivity. The Khan was dead, the dream shattered, and Arete, alongside that monstrous White Witch, was defiling the throne. His hesitation had allowed this rot to spread, and he could no longer escape the consequences of his inaction. Every part of him wanted to scream at the loss, but all he could do now was watch as the mokoi''s legacy was tarnished beyond repair.
He stared down at the barren land below, his gaze falling on the soulless husks of his people lying dead¡ªhis enemies, yes, but still his people. Due to the nature of his weapon, they appeared bloodless, and he sincerely hoped that, at the very least, his strikes had been swift and exact enough that his blows had killed them without pain. It was a small mercy, but the thought that they might have died quickly, without suffering, was the only thing he could hold onto in the face of the devastation he had wrought. Still, deep inside, a cold voice whispered that mercy was a luxury now, and the world no longer allowed for it.
His eyes locked onto the face of one of the fallen, an oblong face marred by a distinctive birthmark that covered the right side. There was something unmistakably familiar about her, but it took him a moment to place it. His mind, worn and aged, searched through a long history of faces, names, and forgotten moments¡ªuntil it struck him with sharp clarity.
Not long ago, she had fought in his corps, eager and full of promise. A young recruit who had practically leapt at the chance to join the Second Human-Mokoi War as soon as she was of age to enlist, driven by a fierce patriotism.
He remembered seeing her fleetingly at the Rain Theatre one night¡ªher face alight with the fire of a cause she wholeheartedly believed in. He could remember her youthful enthusiasm shining through as she regaled him about her family''s failing farm that provided for their village, about her hatred for the lavish lives of the humans. She had despised their comfort, their decadence, and the way they lived while her people struggled.
She stood out so clearly in his memory because he remembered that despite all the disdain and hatred, she wanted not for vengeance. She had aspired for the war to end with a peace treaty in which humans and mokoi could live together in equality.
That didn''t happen.
Instead, the war was paused while the mokoi fought against each other for scraps once again. Arete and the White Witch would infect the susceptible minds of the young, including this girl, and lead them to their deaths on this battlefield.
It was a fruitless endeavour, this conflict among their own kind. A senseless cycle of bloodshed and betrayal, where idealism was used as bait and loyalty as a weapon. The war that should have united them was now nothing more than a farce¡ªa spectacle of death and despair. And in the end, all that remained was the cold inevitability of his glaive. With each swing, there would be no redemption, no victory¡ªonly death, swift and merciless.The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
He found himself pondering how Arete and the White Witch managed to convert someone like her to their side, how they could twist her mind and shatter her purity. She once had such a wholesome dream of saving all the mokoi, and that led her to rebel against and slaughter those same mokoi. The words from Arete''s mouth must have been a very sweet toxin to violate an innocent conscience so thoroughly.
He hunched his body over her fallen form, his rough hand gently sweeping over her eyelids to close them. The action seemed to sour the celebratory mood of some of the soldiers around him, but he ignored their concerned glances, he had a lot more work ahead of him after all.
The small and private gesture cast a shadow over the jubilant soldiers around him. Their laughter and shouts faltered, eyes flicking toward him with concern, but he paid them no mind. Their joy felt distant, foreign, something found in a noble''s gala, not atop the rotting death of allies mislead.
He ignored their concerned glances. He had a lot more work ahead of him, after all.
There were still many more extractions that needed to be organized for the mokoi still left abandoned in Trammel. He also had to be quick to capitalize on this astounding victory if they wanted to reclaim the Abyss. He definitely could not forget to increase the search efforts for Princess Vow since they would need her if they wanted the full support of the nobles and legitimize their claim to the throne.
It was obvious to any humble citizen that they were the original mokoi army and true representatives of the throne, but the seat of power often spoke more than honour. So long as the revolutionaries were strong and profitable, there would be no shortage of backers from the mokoi elite.
The work ahead of him was truly endless. He couldn''t help but wonder if he would ever live to see the mokoi peacefully settled on Trammel, free from war and strife. Well, mokoi aside from the Pleurothallidinae, of course.
The Pleurothallidinae didn''t count, though; they were nearly as bad as the revolutionaries. The moment they tasted Trammel''s bountiful riches, they abandoned their homeland without a second thought. They had refused to lift a finger when their people needed them, too busy basking in their newfound comforts. Even now, as their homeland faced an existential crisis, the Pleurothallidinae remained stubbornly neutral¡ªtoo self-absorbed to care about anything beyond their own indulgence.
If he ever got a chance to meet that pompous beach-obsessed, war-averse, duck-admiring, human-curious, blood-gourmet in person, he would personally execute him on the spot. Sadly, he probably wouldn''t get such a cathartic opportunity for an irritatingly long time, if ever.
Before he could entertain such fantasies, the civil war with the Surrogate Revolutionary Army demanded his full attention. A task that, for now, would be waged far from the bloodied fields and deep within the confines of the war room. The battlefield was no longer where the real work needed to be done¡ªat least not for him. There were plans to be laid, strategies to be crafted, and alliances to be secured. It was there where the war would actually be won or lost, not the battlefield.
He at least had the mercy of being so lost in his wandering mind that he reached the tent without recognizing any more past comrades among the dead. He nearly even walked right past the war room if it weren''t for one of its guards hailing him down.
He stepped into the tent, and immediately, he was met with the eager chattering of the small mokoi gathered there. Their energy was a sharp contrast to his own exhaustion. It was clear that these generals¡ªmore tacticians than warriors¡ªwould never be seen on the battlefield, at least not in the way he was. They were the thinkers, the strategists, the ones who sat behind desks while others spilled blood. In a line-up against knights, they would appear laughable, yet their actions were weighed in the thousands of lives.
One of the smallest of the bunch, a bulbous, toad-like mokoi no bigger than a thumb, bounced forward. His eyes gleamed with an almost manic excitement, and he was the first to speak. "Ah, General Zeal! It appears news travels faster than you do. A stupendous job, as usual."
A resounding chorus of agreement swept through the room as many nodded and hummed in approval. But General Zeal did not join in this celebration either. He stood still, his face stern, and his silence spoke louder than any words. The other generals quickly sensed his displeasure and the room fell silent, the energy draining out of it as they awaited his response.
Zeal handed his glaive to a gangly servant standing nearby, who hurried off with the weapon to have it cleaned. Without a word, Zeal approached the round table at the center of the room. His eyes immediately fixed on the map laid before him, its surface now marked with symbols and lines that told the tale of battles fought and territories lost and gained. He stared at it for a long moment, the silence of the room pressing in on him as he took in the dramatic changes that had occurred in his absence.
The map, once a symbol of their controlled expansion, now seemed to reflect a war that was spinning out of control. There were gaps in the territories, sudden shifts in positions, and marks that hinted at defeats he hadn''t yet heard of. It wasn''t just the land that had changed¡ªit was the very nature of the war itself and, with it, his own place within it.
Perhaps it was due to his toxic partnership with Arete from the Second Human-Mokoi War, but he wondered if they had purposefully sent him out into battle so that they could change the plans without him. He tried to mask the bitterness in his voice, but it slipped through, unmistakable. "Why are we sending troops to claim the vernal nest? Hadn''t we decided we would need our full force to claim the supply routes to the Abyss bridge?"
A rotund mokoi at the back of the room bristled at Zeal''s confrontational tone, his expression twisting into one of barely restrained annoyance. He did not take kindly to the challenge. "We received an update from the thirteenth scouting squad," he snapped, his voice laced with spite. "It seems that the Surrogates were planning on forming an alliance with the nest and flanking our forces from behind."
Zeal ignored the bitterness from his contemporary, he was too distracted by the news itself. "But we formed a treaty," he said, his voice tight with disbelief. "We agreed that using the nest was a war crime; they''re just children."
"The Surrogates are criminals, General Zeal," the rotund mokoi said, his voice dripping with disdain. "Do you really think they would hesitate for a second to break that treaty once it benefits them?"
Zeal''s gaze hardened as he glared at the generals around him, the weight of their expectations pressing down on him. "If we respond to the Surrogates by stooping to their level, then why not just join them?" His voice was a low growl, filled with simmering frustration. "We will not be claiming the nest¡ª"
"But the¡ª"
Zeal cut the mokoi off with a sharp motion, raising his hand to silence the interruption. The room seemed to freeze for a moment, the sharpness of his gesture enough to make even the most vocal generals hesitate. The mokoi fell silent, lips twitching with uncertainty. Zeal''s voice was colder, harder now as he continued.
"We will not be claiming the nest. But we can''t let the Surrogates claim it either. We can send some troops to intercept them before they arrive. The Vernal Bacillus will not be involved in any aspect of this war."
"The nest is an impeccable fortress," the fat general interjected, his tone insistent. "It would be far easier to defend from within."
Zeal glared at his queriless ally. "The Vernal Bacillus will not be involved in any aspect of this war."
The short toad was about to intervene before the two generals erupted into a shouting match, but they were interrupted by the chime of a bell. All the generals except for Zeal retreated away from the sound while guards poured into the room with weapons drawn. Zeal, however, remained rooted to the spot, his expression unreadable as he watched the sudden intrusion unfold.
In front of Zeal there was what seemed to be a small pink rhombus that grew out of thin air, or it was a rhombus, but its body would reject any stable state. It would shift and transform, shrink and grow, continuously morphing into other shapes. The pink shape finally locked into a form resembling that of a featureless human with only one limb. The arm was outstretched towards Zeal holding a glowing parchment: It read.
| You have been invited to |
| The Tournament |
| You are The Commander |
Chapter 39: One Mushroom
There was a mushroom. One mushroom, a minuscule inconsequential thing, forgettable. One mushroom, under the root of that tree: it spoke. One mushroom, recycling the moulted skin of a reborn serpent: it spoke. One mushroom, illuminating the quiet of an empty cave: it spoke. One mushroom, a booming yield to a thriving ant colony: it spoke.
There was a mushroom. One mushroom, woven together, mycelium hand in mycelium hand. An interconnected blanket networking through the underground framework of the entire Cruor Swamps. Two hundred Kilometres wide, six hundred kilometres long, a total elevation of eight thousand ninety meters, one mushroom. Unnoticed and untended, millions of fruiting bodies all across the region ate, grew, spread, formed symbioses, overtook and betrayed, aided, cursed, watched on, intervened, died, birthed, and most of all: spoke.
In a single moment of time, one snapshot of history, instantaneous to most mortal beings, the mushroom spoke: this is its story.
Border of Aegis
Latitude 10.47023 Longitude 76.953414 Elevation 811m
Geography: The divide between Aegis and the swamps is harsh. It''s like an oceanic maw splitting from the ground and consuming the southern border. An otherwise vibrant field of fertile farmland suddenly dips down, and the soil so suffused in water becomes unmanageable for crops. The stagnant waters turn to a canvas of lichen and reeds, and a stench of rotten eggs fills the air.
Humans, never the kind to be dissuaded, have sporadically constructed peers along the border of civility and wilderness. A series of short, rickety wooden roads testing the early depths of the hazardous wetlands. The few platforms still tended by stubborn veterans are home to lit torches near the bottom of their support beams to burn any building methane.
Climate: Cloudy, predominantly nimbostratus, bulbous and dark. Light rain of approximately 0.4mm per hour, pH of 5.
Sociocultural Dynamics: A white lily blooms in a shallow pool, the first of the year and a beacon of approaching summer. Its metamorphosis into an adult is the declaration of death for a gold-touched fish now trapped in a shrinking pool.
The day star evaporates at the fish''s territory every day. It had missed the final flood of spring, which would have bridged the pool with the deeper swamps where the rest of its kind would spend the shallow months. The gold-touched fish had not partaken in the final crossing with its brethren as it had been distracted at the time.
In this isolated pool, dominated by the comparatively leviathan gold-touched fish, there is a delicate truce among its inhabitants. There is a corpse, its body preserved by the toxic concoction of the waters but not by its occupants. Little flesh remains, and the gold-touched fish may turn its invasive hunger into the typical population of the tidepool once the corpse is cleaned.
This is an unlikely result. A woman, Nice, with a peculiar limp and rough demeanour, will probably come to investigate. When she finds her friend ravaged and destroyed, his bloated face painfully preserved in pickled agony, she will likely hunt the only beast large enough to be the culprit.
The act will return the ecosystem to managable stability even if her ire would be misplaced. She knew not that her small-town compatriot was a veteran. She knew not that winter seasons would bring with them images so perfectly burned into memory that his sickened bile frequently joined the shallow tides.
He remembered a fellow comrade in his ranks. It was a young child who had lied about their age to enlist and get vengeance against the mokoi that killed their mother. The child died simply and commonly.
The veteran remembered more; the veteran remembered things so dark, fears so complete that only chemical abuse carried him through battle after battle, and then the troubles twisted. Anxiety turned to power and fear to bloodlust, and an addled mind brought misguided courage. A man was sickly transformed into machine of violence too tortured and tired without recompense. A machine then thought that perhaps a sword and a will sneaking out of camp to the local farms in the dark of night could be reward enough to ease its torment.
And maybe a child enlisting in a war shouldn''t have been seeking a mokoi.
A mother slain, a child lost, a monster finding humanity too late, a fish hunted unfairly, a white lily blooms. The cycle continues.
The foot of the Serpentine Mountains
Latitude 10.194622 Longitude 76.821578 Elevation 1077m
Geography: Though the swamps continue to sink ever deeper like a rot eroding the very land feasting its way down to the planets core, the Serpentine Mountains rise from the vile and muck. Monstrous teeth of stone bursting from the fetid marshes and reaching for the skies. The top of the continent living right next to the bottom of the continent.
An alcove exists. It is partly up the mountain above the shrines of the Tarragon monks but still low enough to be in the territory of the Cruor Swamps. Not quite a cave, it drills into the side of the mountain, floor and walls formed in oversized fungi. They are spongey walls pulsing with a life of their own, and their breath chokes the air with plumes of sticky spores. Nothing lives here save for the monstrous decomposers that feed off the rock and iron of the mountain itself. In the middle of the alcove, a pool of blood stands unperturbed.
Though unperturbed, the pool moves. Of only its own influence, the pool bubbles and dances. Flowers bloom and grow from the sanguine liquid, crimson orchids forming atop the surface for but a brief instant, and then collapse back to liquid. Blood is blood, and without a body, it should not live anymore: though it really really wants to.
Climate: High in the mountains, it is thin with oxygen yet thick with clouds of spores. It is a dangerous area and avoided by all but one mushroom. The skies are dense with draconic activity but their movement continues to appear unrelated to the swamps.
Sociocultural Dynamics: Currently, the pool is full of blood. The blood is only strong enough to attempt floral transformations, and it cannot maintain these shapes. It is weak blood harvested from a weak dragon.
Dragon''s blood is still dragon''s blood and continues to be tempting to steal. As always, this temptation will not be satisfied. M¨¦nage the Blood Dragon will tolerate defending the Cruor Swamps from reckless dragons but is highly protective of her family''s blood. On her last visit, she warned that she would unleash the wrath of Rancor the Power Dragon if it was discovered that blood had been hoarded for the swamps.
To preserve the delicate balance of peace between the swamps and mountains, the dragon''s blood will remain untouched and guarded here for M¨¦nage to retrieve.
The time of retrieval is uncertain as the dragons are in a state of excitation and M¨¦nage occupied.
While the dragons mind themselves above, the Tarragon Monks, in their effervescent pursuit to reach the dragons, have discovered the alcove. They dare not approach; they see the alcove as a temple to their dragon gods.
Although having humans be aware of a semi-replenishing source of dragon''s blood is concerning, the Tarragon Monks have proven themselves friendly folk. The swamp''s involvement in sustaining the alcove has helped ease tensions between the monks and the swamp''s ambassador. This has been particularly beneficial as the ambassador has been in negotiations with the monks regarding passage through the swamps so that some may view the upcoming Tournament.
The Depths
Latitude 9.507281 Longitude 77.17314 Elevation -1532m
Geography: The swamps exist in layers. There are a few gargantuan trees that breach the surface of the swamp, their branches spidering out in every direction to create a blanket of solid ground for land dwellers.Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.
Below, there is a separate marsh; waters dense with salt and sulphur form rivers kilometres below the surface of the river, rivers in rivers. Toxic vegetation thrives off the poisonous underwater flows, and an alien forest flourishes. Trees with leaves of corral, fishes that nest in trees, goliath monstrosities circle the skies, claws reach out of sulphur depths.
Every light, food or hunter, night always reigns; it is an abyssal place.
Climate: Underwater currents carry the volcanic spew of the western fissures into the forest. The currents collide with the freezing cold of a depth untouched by the day star and create violent columns of rushing water, hot jets flying upwards and chilling funnels plummeting down.
A cloud of warped plankton is swimming with the fissures, their digestive system illuminating the depths in a deep green. There is a forecast of heavy rains, perhaps 5mm per hour of volcanic slag, as the plankton feed on the volcanic nutrients and dispose of the leftover magma.
Sociocultural dynamics: The titanic battle that has been disrupting the entire ecosystem has finally ended. An aneurysm claimed the inverted whale. A reef of anemones instigated the cerebral failure when the opposing crustacean strategically sacrificed one of its limbs, still wielding the anemones and fed it to the inverted whale.
The life and history of the ancient whale will not be wasted. There will always be a mushroom to return what was taken back to the swamps.
From the crustacean, to the anemone, to the whale: there was one mushroom. Sequestered within the dying creature, mycelium arms reach out and wind through the whale''s brain matter. The final neural cries of a failing brain are stolen by the fungal creep, and a memory is collected.
They are a millennium''s worth of memories. They are memories of beyond the Cruor Swamps. They are not, however, memories of a whale but of a parasite hiding and leeching within the curls of its brains.
It remembers, three hundred years ago, when the parasite inhabited another creature that prowled upon the tree canopies and knew of the blue of the sky. It remembers the mountain residents energized over an announcement. Rancor, at the time just off from his legendary victory over Muse and touting its new title as the three-armed dragon, had been invited to compete in the third centennial Tournament. The skies, usually a serene canvas of stillness, had never seen such frenzied activity. Typically, the mountain dwellers kept to their caves, content with their trinkets and the quiet rhythms of their secluded lives.
The parasite had been curious by this infamous three-armed dragon and saw potential in acquiring an even greater host. With a few simple manipulations of its current host''s endorphins, the parasite convinced the creature it inhabited to leave the safety of those murky waters it called home and go see the last few rounds of the Tournament.
What it saw was so much more terrifyingly destructive than it could imagine. From rumours, the Tournament was supposed to be an honourable duel of equals, but the ''fights'' that the parasite saw had been so disturbingly one-sided that even it, a creature that thrived off the slow, painful cannibalism of life-long partners, found itself feeling queasy.
The three-armed dragon obviously won the Tournament, but the parasite was too afraid to try to infest it.
It headed home to the swamps, but not without drawing attention. The humans did not take too kindly to discovering the swamp creature''s existence and were especially unhappy with the methods it had used to abscond into the Tournament arenas. Apparently, the wake of bodies it would leave was not taken as casually in the human world as it was in the swamps.
The humans immediately took it upon themselves to initiate a series of highly organized crusades against the swamps in an attempt to completely eradicate it. These assaults obviously went horribly as humans were ill-adapted for traversing the swamps. This had the small silver lining that at least their countless sacrifices supplied the swamps with many nutrients.
The parasite considered the human crusades as a bonus to the swamps and the consequences of its troublesome pilgrimage as a positive influence on its society. One mushroom was not such a selfish being; it saw the crusades for the malus that they were. It attracted more disdain from the humans, which would inevitably cause problems in the future, as was proven in the incident that would occur one hundred years later with the fruit.
At the bottom of the world
Latitude 9.522916 Longitude 77.187757 Elevation -5395m
Geography: The Serpentine Mountains funnels the Cruor Swamps into a spiral, the mountains ever rising and the swamps ever sinking. The spiral delves so profoundly deep that it scarcely resembles a swamp anymore. It tunnels so deep that none of the impossibly tall trees can reach high enough to even approach its surface. Similarly, the depths are so heavy with pressure that not even the underwater swamps can survive. Yet, at the very end of this winding descent¡ªat what was said to be the lowest point on the entire continent¡ªa small mound protrudes from the water''s surface.
It is a quaint mound dressed with light evergreen grass. On this island, at the bottom of everything, there is a tree.
The tree has long since passed its prime. Its bark, once vibrant, is now a sickly grey, and its limbs hang so brittle that, were it not for the protection of the surrounding mountains, the wind would have surely torn them asunder. There was a time, though, when this tree had been the crown jewel of Trammel, a towering beauty that outshone all others. In its prime, it had even borne a fruit, and all were confident that the fruit would be a boon for the swamps, a catalyst for change.
The fruit had been entrusted to a caretaker, but that caretaker had failed, and now both the fruit and its guardian were gone. A human, of course, had stolen itself into the swamps. Against all odds, this human had accomplished a feat no other had ever before¡ªtraversed all the way to the tip of the swamp''s spiral, to the bottom of the world.
Certainly, the human was not expecting to be rewarded with such a wonderous existence at the end of its horrific trek, but the human was; and, without hesitation, they took it with them as they departed.
Climate: Still skies. This small nook of reality is so ensconced within the surrounding mountains that there is never any weather for which to be concerned. The forecast here is told in the attention it garners from the mountains.
As the Tournament nears, the dragons have become too inwardly focused for any more to try and kill the tree once and for all.
One mushroom can happily report: Clear skies.
Sociocultural dynamic: Lonely.
Here, so far from anything else in the world, there is only a single tree and the one mushroom that tries to keep it alive. Their roots are intimately entwined, but the tree does not speak anymore.
They, together, long for the return of a stolen fruit. Sometimes, the mushroom even wishes to leave the swamp and seek the fruit, just as the caretaker had done, but alas, it has too many responsibilities and too many other children that still need its care and attention. The fruit''s mother¡ªthis once beautiful tree¡ªwas one of those children. Once the pride of the entire swamp, it has become a frail, geriatric burden requiring constant tending. Lately, most of the mushroom''s efforts have been devoted to keeping the tree alive. Without its child blissfully tied to its branches, the tree was self-destructing in sorrow.
The mushroom is doing all it can to ease the tree''s suffering, but even it is starting to doubt the chances of the fruit ever returning. It had been two hundred years since the fruit left the swamps, and the caretaker ventured off to find it. Two hundred years without anyone to share a conversation with. Two hundred years without the brilliant insights of the fruit. Two hundred years without the kindly pleasantries of the caretaker.
There was, of course, the rest of its family, the other swamp denizens, but they were not the same. The fruit and caretaker were not just kin; they were friends. They had been the sole beings capable of engaging with one mushroom on an honest level. Well, them and the tree, but the tree was a shadow of its former self.
Instead of being out and exploring the wider world with its friends, the mushroom has to suffer the disapproving gazes of the mountains while labouring for a wholly unappreciative tree.
As time tolls, it becomes clear that without the fruit, the swamp''s current equilibrium is but a temporary affair. The fruit was the swamp''s last chance to break out of its desolate confines, to reach out and become a true faction and respected member of Trammel. One mushroom can try what it can, but it is no longer the young sporeling it used to be. It is no longer just one mushroom.
A new authority is needed to watch over the Cruor Swamps, an authority that could enact more change and instill more of its will to manipulate the waves of the soul sea, more so than one mushroom ever could.
Compared to the fruit, one mushroom is past its prime, one mushroom is old, one mushroom is stagnant, one mushroom is weak, and one mushroom is hearing the chime of a bell.
There was a pink rhombus. One rhombus, an incomprehensible otherworldly thing, unforgettable. One rhombus, under a sickened tree: it appeared. One rhombus, in the office of a tired knight: it appeared. One rhombus, at the bottom of a well by the edge of the world: it appeared. One rhombus, in a temple of gold: it appeared.
In a single moment of time, one snapshot of history, the pink rhombus appeared: this is its story.
Everywhere, all around the world, sixty-four times over
Geography: N/A
Climate: N/A
Sociocultural dynamic: What seemed to be a small pink rhombus grows out of thin air, or it was a rhombus, but its body would reject any stable state. It shifts and transforms, shrinks and grows, continuously morphing into other shapes. The pink shape finally locks into a form resembling that of a featureless human with sixty-four limbs. Every single arm reaches all throughout the universe and arrives exactly where it needs to be.
One limb in particular ends in front of only one mushroom holding a glowing parchment: It reads.
| You have been invited to |
| The Tournament |
| You are The Mire |
Chapter 40: Everything is Okay pt. 1
Espy was going to end the century with a bang. He was going to make 3999 the year of Espy. After months of gruelling applications, countless tests, and relentless interviews, he had finally earned an internship at the Tournament Corporation. The day he received his acceptance had been the happiest day of his life. Up to that point, everything had come so easily for Espy; Even Ersatz University had courted him with a full scholarship, but the Tournament Corporation had never been so accommodating. No, to join their ranks, Espy had fought tooth and nail, and now, his victory felt all the sweeter.
Espy was looking forward to a nice relaxing morning to properly prepare himself for his first day of work; however, Espy wasn''t the only one with an exciting life shift ahead of them.
A sudden jolt interrupted his thoughts as a burst of energy slammed into his chest. "Wakey, Wakey!" His younger sister, Patsy, was bouncing on top of him with the kind of exuberance only a young teenager could muster.
Espy groaned as the air snapped from his lungs under the weight of his sister. The abused brother struggled to rise from his bed from under the pressured weight of his overly enthusiastic alarm clock. "Alright, Patsy, relax. What''s got you so wound up today?"
Patsy''s face split into a Cheshire grin as the moment she''d been waiting for finally arrived. "I got accepted to Ersatz University!" she announced, her eyes gleaming with excitement. "I''ll be starting next year!"
Espy''s fatigue evaporated in an instant, replaced by a surge of energy that matched his sister''s. With a joyful grin, he leaped out of bed and enveloped her in a massive hug. "Patsy, that''s amazing! I told you that you''d make it."
The praise brought a blush to her cheeks, and her gaze fell down to her navel. "Well, it wasn''t a scholarship like you got."
Espy gently set her down, his hands firm on her shoulders. "Nonsense! Getting into Ersatz is an achievement, scholarship or not." Patsy''s excitement quickly returned, and she eagerly followed him around the house, chattering animatedly about every detail of her acceptance letter and what it would mean for her future as Espy went through his morning routine.
The two of them eventually made their way to the kitchen. While Espy prepared sandwiches, Patsy eagerly rattled off the classes she''d chosen for her first year. "Which does bring me to a favour I need from you."
Espy flashed her a teasing smile. "Of course. It always comes back to a favour. I should''ve known¡ªmy sister would never wake me up just to share her happiness with me."
"Hey, don''t be like that!" Patsy huffed, poking him in the arm. "You owe me a favour anyway."
Espy raised an eyebrow, a playful glint in his eyes. "Do I now?"
"Yeah," she said with a dramatic sigh. "I''m gonna be a brand-new little lost sheep at Ersatz, and you''re just going to abandon me for your fancy internship!"
Patsy''s hyperbole made Espy chuckle as he responded. "Oh, don''t be so dramatic. I''m not quitting school; I''ll still be around."
This time, it was Patsy''s turn to laugh. "Come on, Espy, after twenty years of dealing with that neurotic disaster you call your brain, you should have learned by now. Once you step into the Arena of Empedocles, you won''t come up for air for at least a week. Watch."
Espy finished making the sandwiches and handed one over to his sister. He paused before taking a bite. "Harsh. But fair, I guess. Alright, what''s the favour?"
"Before you disappear off the face of the planet for your oh-so-wonderful job, can you give me a tour of the university?"
Fortunately for Patsy, Espy needed to go to the university anyway to handle some last-minute details before heading to his internship. While Patsy had visited the campus countless times with him over the years, this was different¡ªshe wanted a thorough, insider''s tour of the places she''d need to frequent. Espy was more than happy to oblige, eager to share the little secrets he''d learned over his time at Ersatz. He pointed out the best spots for studying, the hidden food stalls with the tastiest snacks, shortcuts that saved precious minutes between classes, and other little gems that only someone who had spent years scouring the school could know.
As they walked down one of the quieter hallways in the larger buildings, Espy and Patsy crossed paths with Professor Ream. The renowned figure, as always, was surrounded by a gaggle of students and admirers, each clamouring for his attention with trivial questions and requests. The professor''s expression, however, was one of clear annoyance¡ªhis patience seemed nearly spent as he fended off the constant barrage of nonsense.
But the moment his eyes landed on Espy, his mood shifted entirely. Professor Ream called out, uncaring or even purposefully interrupting one of the nobles in the midst of requesting an autograph. "Espy! If it isn''t the great Tournament Corporation intern himself!" Professor Ream laughed wholeheartedly, both from his own comment and at the gazes of his lackeys, who eyed Espy with newfound interest.
"Actually, Professor," Espy said, his voice taking on a more serious note, "I do have a few questions for you that I''d prefer to ask in private."
"Of course," Professor Ream replied, turning to his crowd with an almost theatrical gesture. "Could all of you please allow my student some privacy?"
The group of followers grumbled in disappointment, but they eventually dispersed, respecting the professor''s wishes¡ªthough clearly not without some reluctance.
Patsy looked over to Espy, her brow furrowing in concern. "Should I also give you two some privacy?"
Both Espy and Professor Ream burst into laughter. Espy shook his head, still chuckling. "No need, Patsy. I don''t have anything private to ask him. I was just helping him get rid of his¡ enthusiastic fans."
Professor Ream added in. "I''m sure it is that sort of consideration that won you your internship at the Tournament Corporation, my boy."
Espy laughed. "That must be it. Speaking of which, Professor, I got into the Tournament Corporation at pretty much the best time possible. You know, with the actual Tournament commencing next year and all, but I''m guessing that means things are about to get pretty hectic for me."This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
Professor Ream waved off his concern with a casual flick of his hand. "Don''t worry about it, Espy. I''ve already spoken with your professors. As of last night, you''ve officially graduated for the year. Just hand in your final research paper by the end of the next academic cycle, and you''ll be an official grand-wizard of Ersatz University."
Espy blinked. "Just like that?"
"Just like that."
"But don''t I have to get all my professors to approve my research proposal first?"
Professor Ream smirked, clearly amused by the question. "I''m sure whatever you come up with will be entertaining enough to earn their approval."
Espy found his emotions whirring in a strange mixture of confusion, apprehension and excitement at this unexpected news. "Well, thank you very much, Professor."
Professor Ream smiled genially. "It''s the least I can do for my little burgeoning prodigy. Just don''t waste this opportunity; I expect to hear great things from you the next time we meet."
"I won''t, sir..." Espy muttered, unsure how to handle such high praise from someone as esteemed as the professor. He shifted uncomfortably on his feet, at a loss for how to respond.
Ream''s smile softened, clearly amused by Espy''s awkwardness. "Well, I think I''ve kept you and your sister occupied long enough. I''ll let you two get back to your day." With a final nod, they waved each other off, and the siblings turned to continue their tour.
Patsy looked at her brother with renewed admiration. "Wow, you were right. Working at the Tournament Corporation really did open all kinds of doors."
Rather than reply, Espy ruffled his hand through Patsy''s hair, watching with mild amusement as she squirmed away, irritated.
It was true, though, that he had been going through a few interviews at Ersatz to see if he was eligible for an early graduation, but it would never have happened without having the Tournament Corporation under his belt.
Eventually, Espy bumped into his friend Picayune and managed to pawn off the task of touring Patsy off and allow him to get to his internship. Patsy herself had no complaints of being cast away so suddenly as she had always held a fondness for Picayune and looked forward to her new guide. Picayune did not seem so similarly amused. Something that was easily ignored by Espy as he abandoned his best friend to the unrelenting ball of energy, which was his sister.
Espy didn''t do this because he was in a rush or going to be late. It was simply that Espy had always been an eager person, always bounding at the opportunity for another discovery, another job. He wasn''t late at all for his first day of work; in fact, he had arrived at the Arena of Empedocles three hours early, much to the annoyance of his supervisor, Mark.
It was clear that Mark considered himself far too important to deal with pesky interns¡ªespecially not one who wasn''t even on shift yet. With a dismissive wave, he told Espy to walk around and familiarize himself with the building.
The Arena of Empedocles was an amazing construct, a colossal sphere only held aloft by its own vomitorium steps that circled its base. It was the second-largest building in all of Proselyte, beaten only by the unfathomably massive Ersatz University.
Inside, the arena was no less impressive. The central combat area lay within a vast hollow, surrounded by rows upon rows of seating. Between the seating and the arena floor was a narrow gap, filled by an elevated platform that circled the entire combat zone. The floor itself was a dazzling tapestry of intricate runes, which, during the Tournament, would activate in conjunction with a team of staff members standing by, ensuring that any magical or physical attacks from contestants would never endanger the audience. This would be one of Espy''s tasks once the Tournament started.
In addition to the main combat area, the Arena of Empedocles was comprised of a single giant spiralling hallway that wound its way about the entire circumference of the arena, from the bottom of the building all the way to the top. The hallway naturally varied in size, growing either larger or smaller depending on its proximity to the vertical center of the sphere or its height. Thankfully, there was also a series of staff access ways that functioned as shortcuts to avoid having to spiral the entire megastructure just to reach a room directly above you.
The closer rings, nearer to the bottom of the sphere by the combat zone, housed the basic amenities for guests: wide hallways, washrooms, food stalls, and, of course, gift shops. But for Espy, the true intrigue lay in the outer rings.
It was in these outer rings that the true heart of the arena''s bureaucracy lay¡ªthe back offices, the paperwork, the endless corridors of administrative tedium; all of that beautiful data that Espy would have the joy to peruse throughout the next couple of years. Supposedly, Empedocles himself was situated at the very top offices of the sphere. Espy knew he lacked both the clearance and the time to venture there¡ªor to meet the man himself.
Three hours passed, and Espy still felt he hadn''t even scratched the surface of his curiosity. But time, as it always did, marched on, and soon enough, he found himself heading back to report to Mark.
To his disappointment, the reality of being an intern was nothing like the prestigious, dream-like position he''d imagined. Instead of the exciting challenges he''d expected, he was quickly buried under a mountain of menial tasks. He spent his days shuttling files across the building, running errands for other so-called "more important" people, or¡ªin a particularly demeaning moment¡ªpicking up lunch orders for the staff.
Unfortunately for Mark, Espy was as athletic as he was energetic. No matter how many benign tasks he threw at the boy, he could never be held down for long, his motivation and verve unflagging. Finally, Mark had enough, and so he brewed up a machiavellian strategy to hand over an impossible trial to Espy. He would give Espy a task so daunting, so endlessly tedious, that even someone as eager and relentless as him would be bogged down for ages.
Thus, Espy was assigned the legacy files in the storage room¡ªa mountain of paperwork that had been left untouched for centuries. It was a job so monumental that it had become the stuff of legend in the arena''s halls. Mark was certain that this would keep the boy occupied for far longer than he could possibly imagine.
Unbeknownst to most of the public, the Arena of Empedocles had a basement¡ªa vast, sprawling space that was far more warehouse than crawlway. Inside, it contained a staggering archive of detailed reports chronicling every activity at every moment that took place within the arena, as well as some sporadic records imported from other arenas, stretching all the way back to the beginning of the Tournament five hundred years ago.
The basement was a living history book, its walls lined with papers documenting even the smallest events. Old relics, forgotten trophies, and discarded armour lay scattered about, evidence of long-gone fighters who had either left their gear behind¡ªor, in some cases, never returned for them. Among the forgotten relics were ancient rune tablets; their inscriptions faded with time, still holding a trace of ultimate power or the inane ramblings of a too-bored scholar. Who was to tell until they were all deciphered? For any overzealous Tournament fan, the basement was the ultimate rabbit hole, an endless treasure trove of history waiting to be devoured.
The strategy had worked. Mark hadn''t heard from Espy for months. The boy, weighed down by his monumental task, had never bothered to check in¡ªtoo embarrassed, perhaps, to admit he''d been swallowed whole by the work. Mark had assumed Espy had quit in shame.
Currently, Mark was buried in paperwork in his office. He hated that his desk was low enough in the arena that, on busy days, he could hear the stomps of obnoxious tourists. At least it came with the perk of a private room. A small comfort amidst his frustrations.
As he sifted through yet another pile of reports from his superiors, a rustling sound broke through the monotony¡ªa strange, unsettling noise that seemed to come from beneath the floorboards. At first, Mark dismissed it. Rats, no doubt, had finally made their way into the storage room below and were finally finishing off its dusty tomes.
But the sound continued. A faint scratching, almost rhythmic¡ªtoo deliberate to be the random scurrying of rodents.
Chapter 40: Everything is Okay pt. 2
A weak, pale hand, whiter than freshly fallen snow, slithered across the table toward its unsuspecting prey. The victim, caught entirely off guard by the hand''s cold fingers clamping around its neck, was captured in a vice-like stranglehold. With a sudden, relentless movement, the prey''s contents were drained directly into the hand''s owner''s mouth.
Espy had long since lost count of how much of that stale coffee he had drained, nor was he aware of how long he had stayed awake because of it. What he did know was that there was no way he was going to leave this basement until he solved the maddening conundrum before him. His mind was as jittery as his hands, the caffeine-fueled haze only sharpening his sense of urgency.
It seemed like another simple and malign task when he was first ordered to reorganize the legacy files, but he could not be more wrong. The oddities slowly crept up on him. They started small, easy to dismiss as mere clerical errors, nothing unusual. But as hours turned to days and days to weeks, the discrepancies grew more frequent, more glaring. However, the issues compounded, and more inexplicable mistakes appeared with concerning consistency until he could no longer deny it. A conspiracy was afoot.
To put it humbly, the records of the Tournament Corporation were the most disgusting cataloguing heresy he had ever seen.
The first red flag was that the Tournament was not even run by the Tournament Corporation! That''s right¡ªhistory''s most revered and celebrated event, the one the corporation had built its name on, wasn''t managed by the people who publicly oversaw it.
It seemed that the Tournament was organized by a single individual: some mysterious entity simply labelled as the Chauffer.
Even more unsettling, The Chauffer never interacted directly with the corporation. No, it only communicated with two other parties: the arena Directors and a cryptic figure referred to in the records as DG¡ªor, disturbingly, Dead God.
From there, the rabbit hole only went deeper.
As it turned out, despite their position as the de facto rulers of the Tournament Corporation, the Arena Directors weren''t actually part of the corporation at all. Instead, they reported directly to The Chauffer, bypassing the corporation''s established hierarchy.
But it grew stranger still. The Directors weren''t even citizens of any nation. Espy scoured the records, but there was no trace of their birthplaces¡ªnot even a record showing they had ever set foot in Trammel. It was as if they had materialized from the void itself.
Except for, of course the Director of the Arena of Thrones, Thrones himself. The only reason the files for that Director existed in this arena was that Throne was once a contestant in the second Tournament. Upon winning the Tournament, he was granted a position as a Director to fulfill his wish of becoming a devadoot.
That then led to the whole issue regarding the devadoots and ''Dead God.'' As Espy dug deeper into the files, he became increasingly convinced that the title ''Dead God'' was an in-house mocking name for the devadoots themselves.
But that didn''t add up. The Tournament predated the White Witch''s usurpation of the devadootian church and the subsequent refutation of their divine status. The timing was all wrong, yet the connection was still undeniable; it felt almost prophetic.
The idea that the devadoots might be Tournament investors did make a sort of odd sense. It would certainly explain the strange rule that allowed mokoi, monsters, and mutants but forbade any devadoot from entering the Tournament. After all, it would raise more than a few eyebrows if the largest investor competed only to win the Tournament outright.
But that still left more questions than answers. Why were the devadoots funding the Tournament in the first place? And why had Throne''s wish to become a devadoot been granted through a directorial position? Were all Directors devadoots? Espy didn''t think so, but the records in this arena alone didn''t offer nearly enough data to draw any conclusions.
Once Espy had discovered that Throne was once a contestant, Espy just HAD to search over all the past contestants to see if there were any other characters of interest.If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.
Espy was not disappointed.
The winner of the first Tournament had no wish granted at all, and the fact that someone capable enough to win the Tournament was a complete unknown who left no historical mark behind was a whole other level of suspicious. A mokoi in the third Tournament had a life expectancy of three days, but invitations were always sent out a month before the first round. The Mokoi Khan was invited to the fourth tournament, but if the devadoots were the Tournament''s biggest investors, why would they allow their greatest enemy to ever enter? The Mokoi Khan obviously won, but then its wish wasn''t for world domination or anything like that, but instead for a child?
After all of the discombobulating unease, it was nice to be able to read about his professor''s escapades in the fifth Tournament. It brought a much-needed smile to read about his professor being a young, wide-eyed twelve-year-old traipsing through this world of giants. Professor Ream had been the first contestant''s file that Espy meticulously read cover-to-cover. Unfortunately, such a keenly detailed review had him stumbling onto whole new layers of discrepancies.
There were data entries¡ simply missing. Every contestant was usually documented in painstaking detail for each of their actions within the arena. But in Professor Ream''s log, there were several moments where he seemed to vanish entirely¡ªhis actions completely unrecorded, as if he''d never existed in the arena at all.
Intrigued and now on high alert, Espy began combing through the data logs of other contestants, and what he found only deepened his unease. Not all the logs were like this, but a disturbingly large number of them contained similar gaps¡ªbrief, eerie stretches of time where the contestants seemed to cease to exist.
It took hours of searching, countless cups of coffee, and careful analysis, but Espy finally uncovered the common thread linking all the contestants with missing entries in their schedules. The answer lay within the fights themselves.
The Tournament Corporation kept extensive records detailing every minute action of each fight. Espy hadn''t thought they would contain any information pertinent to this conspiracy, but he read them nonetheless. He perused them more out of curiosity, a way to unwind between gruelling hours of work. After all, they were fascinating to read.
Thanks to this "light reading," Espy noticed a pattern. The schedule gaps always appeared among contestants who fought in a way that was entirely unique to any other fighter in the Tournament''s history. And the blanks themselves? They always occurred one day before a scheduled fight.
Another finding was that each one of these contestants only had a single schedule blank, except for two¡ªProfessor Ream and the three-armed dragon.
These schedule blanks reminded Espy of back when he was reading up on the Directors. The Directors were not technically a part of the Tournament Corporation, and a large majority of their activity was accomplished off the books, a fact that greatly concerned Espy.
A quick double-check of the Directors'' schedules confirmed his suspicions: there seemed to be a direct link between the Directors'' disappearances from the records and the contestants'' own missing moments.
It was hard to draw any definitive conclusions, given that this storage room only held extensive data on two Directors¡ªEmpedocles and Throne. Though most of Throne''s information was regarding his time as a contestant, and details of his life as a Director were slim to none. But even still, just comparing their schedules revealed enough overlapping gaps to raise serious questions.
Espy was certain that if he could access the schedules of the other Directors, he would find more blanks¡ªones that aligned with the few contestants whose disappearances didn''t coincide with Empedocles or Throne.
A theory began to form in his mind: the Directors, and by extension the mysterious Chauffer, and perhaps even the devadoots, were after something from these unique fighters. The Tournament, it seemed, was merely a tool to gather them. This would explain the rule that no contestant could participate in more than one Tournament. It was a convenient way to ensure they didn''t waste resources on those from which they had already extracted what they needed.
Espy shivered at the thought. Of course, he didn''t need to take it to apocalyptic extremes. It could be that the Tournament itself was still the primary objective, with whatever they were collecting from the contestants merely a side benefit.
What sort of conspiratorial nonsense was he talking about? He needed some more coffee.
Espy shuffled back to the bags of stale coffee beans, intent on brewing another cup. The coffee tasted horrendous, probably because these beans were centuries old, but there was no time to venture to the surface.
Sadly, and also confusingly, the bags were empty. There were enough bags to last an entire family half a year, how was it empty? Espy decided to cast a small scrying spell to check what day it was, and to Espy''s bafflement, it had actually been half a year!
Espy decided to leave the basement for the first time in six months. He had no idea that he had spent so long down there. He had only ever slept a dozen or so times; perhaps his body-enhancing magic was more potent than he thought. It was probably for the best to stretch his legs, get some proper coffee, and maybe ask Mark a few questions.
Chapter 40: Everything is (Not) Okay
Mark nearly jumped out of his seat when he saw Espy approach him. "My goodness, you''re alive?"
Espy certainly didn''t look alive; his strong build was betrayed by pale skin that hadn''t seen daylight in months and the heavy dark bags under his eyes. His clothes were dishevelled, his shirt was partly untucked from his pants, and his vest seemed to decide which buttons to be buttoned at random. His hair was a bird''s nest striking out in every direction.
Espy flinched at the harsh sound of Mark''s voice, his bloodshot eyes barely focusing on his superior. The actual words Mark spoke didn''t register at first; instead, Espy''s gaze was locked on the warm mug of a delicious-smelling drink sitting tantalizingly on Mark''s desk. Espy''s voice came out thick and slurred, making it difficult for Mark to even understand. "Is that coffee?"
Mark''s usual annoyed glare softened into genuine concern as he took in the sorry sight of the young man before him. He couldn''t help but feel a pang of guilt for the state he had contributed to. "Yes, it is."
"Thank you." Espy''s voice was barely a whisper as he took the cup off Mark''s desk, lifting it to his lips with a look of quiet desperation. He drank deeply, savouring each sip as if it were the most precious thing in the world.
Mark didn''t even know how to react. An intern had just stolen his coffee! He opened his mouth, ready to berate Espy for his insubordination, but the words died in his throat. What froze him wasn''t the act itself but the pure, unguarded bliss that washed over Espy''s face as he drank. It was as though he had tasted something far beyond mere caffeine¡ªsomething that transcended the exhaustion and isolation, a mother''s hug taken liquid form and unleashed now to save this poor lost intern.
Espy let out a deep, satisfied sigh, his eyes closing in pure contentment. "Real coffee." There was an almost affectionate note in his voice, and, as if in reverence, he kissed the warm cup in his hands, savouring the moment.
Mark hesitated. He was afraid of the answer, but the question burned at him. "Espy, where have you been? Are you okay?"
Espy''s eyes suddenly lit up, wide and excited, as if someone had just asked about his greatest passion. "Oh, I was reorganizing the legacy files as you told me to. I wasn''t able to finish. Frankly, I think it may be literally impossible, given the state of things. Speaking of which. I have some questions regar-"
Mark quickly cut Espy off before he could dive deeper into his rambling. "Espy I can barely understand a word you''re saying with that lisp. Go take a nap in the staff lounge or something. Here, if you really have a desperate need to work, then you can mull over the list of contestants for the next Tournament; we just got it last week. Give it a look over, but only after you sleep, got it?"
Espy had a thousand questions swirling in his mind, but the offer of a nap was far too tempting to refuse. He shuffled toward the staff lounge, and his eyes instantly locked onto the most welcoming couch he had ever seen. It seemed to practically glow with comfort, the soft outline of jumping sheep and floating Z''s beckoning him to relax.
Still, the list of contestants burned a hole in his pocket. Mark had clearly told him to wait until after his nap, but how could he sleep with his curiosity gnawing at him like this? Espy pulled the list from his pocket and unfolded it, his eyes already scanning the names.
His mind was swimming. There were both devadoots and previous contestants invited to this Tournament! Though the Noumenon was invited again as a previous winner, the three-armed dragon was not? And the White Witch was invited to the Tournament even though she was explicitly avoided in previous Tournaments!
But beyond the outlandish contradictions that shattered every rule and regulation he had just spent weeks studying, there were also the normal anxiety-inducing things like his best friend Picayune being invited to the Tournament.
Espy''s eyes drifted from the list, the words now a blur. He stared at the inviting couch just a few steps away, its comfort seeming more like a distant dream. But then his gaze shifted. A steaming pot of coffee sat on the nearby counter.
Espy found himself in Mark''s office. His body sort of just moved on his own. He did want to nap on that couch, but he grabbed the coffee instead and made his way back here.
Espy burst into the room, barely giving Mark a chance to react. "Mark, what in the world is going on here?" He nearly shouted, waving the list in his hand as if it could somehow explain everything. "Why are there devadoots on this list? And why wasn''t the three-armed dragon invited? Is he not useful anymore? What even is the Tournament?! I just need a few things cleared up!" He took a breath, his panic rising. "Could I speak with Empedocles? Or better yet, could I have just a few moments with this Chauffer character, please?"
Mark stared at Espy in utter confusion while defensively protecting his new cup of coffee. "Listen, Espy, just relax. You''re an intern. I know you want to work hard and show the big boss up high that you''re not just some stuck-up nepo baby and that you deserve to be hired for real, but you''ve already reached the point where no one doubts your dedication or ambition. Just calm down, do as you''re told, and don''t ask questions."
"But¡ª"
Mark cut him off, his tone firm. "Don''t ask questions," He watched Espy, waiting for him to argue, but when he saw the boy''s deflated expression, he couldn''t help but feel a small, satisfied smile tug at the corner of his mouth. "Good. Now, if you really want to work, I need you to come up with meal plans for the contestants. We want them to feel comfortable when they''re in the arena, and that means satisfying their stomachs, no matter how bizarre their diets might be."
Espy''s heart sank, but he knew there would be no answers for him now. He was quickly banned from entering the basement and, as a precaution, sent to a healer to check if the old coffee had poisoned him.
Once the healer cleared him as fit for work again, Espy was set on a routine of relatively minor tasks¡ªnothing that required real thought or effort. He even found some time to resume his studies.
Now armed with the knowledge he had acquired in that accursed basement of how the greatest fighters and magicians operated, his research was significantly easier. Many new insights and perspectives came so easily. Yet all that new progress felt like a distant, trivial concern in the face of what he had recently uncovered. Nothing in his coursework could compare to the weight of the secrets swirling in his mind.
He also found it increasingly uncomfortable to be at Ersatz University. The thought of running into Picayune made his stomach churn; he couldn''t look his friend in the eye with the knowledge he held.
His interest in school had faded, and instead, he found himself obsessively seeking out any opportunity to confront Mark, pleading¡ªbegging¡ªto speak with the Chauffer or Empedocles. Each time, his requests were swiftly rejected, but Espy''s determination only grew, even as the walls around him seemed to close in tighter.
Espy had many questions he longed to ask Professor Ream, but with Picayune constantly nearby, the opportunity never seemed to present itself. That was until the Tournament was just one month away. Invitations would soon be sent to the sixty-four candidates, and Espy''s schedule would be consumed with preparations. His time for research groups would be limited, and he would have to submit his final research paper to the university ahead of time.
In any other circumstance, the paper he had prepared for Professor Ream would have been his magnum opus. It was the greatest discovery he would ever make¡ªan insight that would reshape the way magic was understood by the world. But despite its potential, Espy couldn''t find a shred of excitement within himself. The weight of everything he had uncovered, the dark truths lurking behind the Tournament, overshadowed any academic achievement. His passion for the research he had once considered groundbreaking now felt hollow.
Espy waited outside Professor Ream''s office when the door opened and one of the king''s attendants angrily stormed off. Well, that was another question that nibbled at Espy''s curiosity, but he was already filled up with questions to ask.
Espy entered the professor''s office and, as usual, was accosted by an unparalleled cacophony of extravagance and flamboyance. Professor Ream''s love for intricate carvings, trinkets, and lavish gifts was well known, and there was never a shortage of people eager to donate to the professor in hopes of earning his favour. Yet, despite the mountains of ornate items that filled the room, Espy knew that none of them seemed to hold the same significance as one object¡ªa rotten, gnarled crossbow sitting on a shelf to the side of the room. It was that crossbow, of all things, that was the professor''s favourite gift, though why remained a mystery to Espy.
Espy never understood what the professor saw in that thing; there was nothing unique or grand about the crossbow other than that maybe at one time, it was of better than average make. The professor did not display any other trinkets of past Saviour members with anywhere near as much reverence as this one. It was clear that whatever this crossbow was, it must have once belonged to Forgo Miff, whose massive portraiture was displayed above the crossbow in a golden frame. Espy never took Professor Ream as the sentimental type, but then here he was.
"My goodness, Espy you look awful." Professor Ream exclaimed as Espy entered the room. Espy could not even see his professor through all the smoke in the room, and the second Espy took a breath, he was inundated with a fit of coughs. "What are they doing to you over there?" The professor queried with a laugh.
Espy took control of his lungs while cycling through all the questions he needed to ask when his professor''s words finally registered in his mind. "What? Oh sorry, I''ve been running around a lot these past few days. There''s been a lot to do, but I''m nearly done now. The Tournament Corporation has been keeping me busy." Espy tried to smile, but it came out as wholly unconvincing.
While pretending to smile as if everything was under control, his mind ran over all the ways in which it wasn''t. "I hope I''m not interrupting anything too important."
Professor Ream glanced down at his overcrowded desk, and for a moment, a dark expression crossed his face¡ªone that clearly suggested Espy was, in fact, interrupting something important. But without acknowledging it, the professor smiled and looked back at Espy. "No, no, nothing important. I''ve just been going over some University applications." He tapped on the sheet before him, "You know this applicant did have a very memorable interview, but unfortunately, not quite the right kind of memorable."If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
Espy laughed, "Poor girl, she the stage fright kind?"
The elder simply smiled, "Something like that."
Espy''s humour quickly vanished as he slapped his palm to his forehead, "Oh crap! I still need to submit the One-armed Dragon''s dietary plan to Empedocles! I need to do that when I get back." He was sad to admit it, but he found himself so preoccupied with trying to put all the information from the storage together that he was beginning to lag behind on his actual ordered duties.
Professor Ream, noticing the tension in Espy''s shoulders, manipulated his magic through his pipe to cast a spell to soothe the young man. The magic flowed like a gentle wave, calming Espy''s nerves. The relief was immediate¡ªa much-needed boost that reminded him, with a start, that it had been almost an hour since he last had a cup of coffee.
Espy felt bad that he was confronting his professor in such an obviously weak-willed state, but he didn''t have the time or energy to be picky. He quickly pushed forward with their conversation. "Sorry, just have a lot on my mind. It is super exciting to be working for the Tournament Corporation during the year of The Tournament, but it is also really stressful. I just wanted to hand in my assignment on theoretical cabalistic abrogation early because I won''t be here when it''s due."
Professor Ream took the thick booklet from Espy with a smile. "Thank you, Espy. I can always count on you to give me a good read."
Espy murmured a quiet, "Thank you, sir." but his mind was clouded with doubts. Maybe he shouldn''t burden his professor with his frantic questions. What if he dredged up painful memories? What if he was asking for too much? He turned toward the door, his instincts telling him to leave, but something steeled his resolve. He paused and turned back. "You were in the fifth Tournament last century, right?"
Espy was relieved to see that the professor did not act negatively in any discernable way as he spoke. "Well, mentioning how many years it has been was unnecessary; you''ll hurt my old ears. But yes, I was in the fifth Tournament. Those were exciting times."
Espy hesitated but pressed on. "Your Tournament title was... The Apprentice?"
The professor''s sudden outburst of noise initially scared Espy, but once his tired mind identified it as laughter, he relaxed.
The professor merrily entertained his strange student''s questioning. "Yes, that''s right; it has been a little while since I''ve heard anyone refer to me as an apprentice of any sort, though."
But now was the time for the real questions. "What were the arenas like?"
" They were fairly large-"
Espy quickly corrected his previous statement. He wasn''t sure if the professor was purposefully misinterpreting the question, but Espy had already decided to commit. "no, I mean the private areas for the contestants. How were the Directors? Did they ever ask you strange questions? Did they make you take a test?"
Professor Ream''s previously jovial attitude relented a little as he took Espy''s questions a little more seriously. A good sign, Espy thought, but Professor Ream''s answer was not so helpful. "Well, I never visited all of the arenas, nor did I even meet all of the Directors of the arenas I did go to. But the Directors never made me take any test."
His answer seemed so dismissive. Was Espy paranoid, or was it just him who thought the professor''s word choice seemed strange? He decided to push the matter. Enough was enough, and Espy had deemed it about time for him to get some answers. "Did you take tests?"
Any illusion of a cordial student speaking to his teacher had dissipated entirely, and Ream paused for an uncomfortable time before answering in a distinctly lower register. "No, I did not."
The answer surprised Espy; his leading theory was that the unique contestants were posed with some kind of test in that schedule blank, but perhaps he was wrong. Then it hit him; maybe it was the reverse. There was still a test, but Espy was thinking of it the wrong way.
To test his new theory, he asked again. "Did someone else?" Espy was waiting with bated breath; he felt so close to attaining some kind of answer that he could take even a tiny step toward the truth.
Then Ream spoke. "Espy¡ I have a class I need to teach now." Espy''s mind had blanked; he was waiting so absolutely on an answer to his question that when Ream spoke the way he did, Espy could not understand how it fit into the equation. Espy''s brain spun through hundreds of simulations of how Ersatz University fit into the conspiracy. Then, it suddenly dawned on him that Ream was not answering his question but dismissing it.
"O-oh, of course. Surely you are very busy. Sorry for taking up so much of your time."
"No, no. It''s of no hindrance. I always enjoy speaking with you Espy. It''s just that I have my duties to attend to."
Embarrassed by his train of thought, Espy was ready to end the interrogation as well. "Of course, of course. I will see myself out first then." He gave the professor a respectful bow, then quickly turned around and walked out of the room.
He pondered over their conversation and realized that it was not a total waste. Ream''s refusal to answer was in itself a sort of answer. The question was what answer. Was it that, yes, someone did have some kind of auxiliary test aside from the Tournament itself? If so, who? Or was it that the answer was no, but Espy was unknowingly getting close to a different answer that he hadn''t quite caught onto yet?
"Hey, Esp, we were just talking about you!" The sound of his nickname pierced into his self-query and dragged his attention up to see Picayune. He could not help but feel happy and relieved to see his friend, but then he was reminded of the Tournament. He wanted to just turn around and leave, avoid the confrontation entirely, but when his best friend opened his arms wide, Espy''s heavy soul could not hold back and took it. He stepped forward, and the two embraced, their connection firm and reassuring.
Such a menial thing somehow just sapped so much stress and tension from Espy, and for a short moment, he forgot about everything else. "Good to see you, Yune! What is up? How are you?"
Picayune happily replied, "I''m doing great, Esp; we just finished giving Patsy a brief tour of Proselyte''s wild market district."
Another soft feminine voice resounded from beside Picayune. "And, next time you meet your sister, let her know that Picayune already has a girlfriend." The startling new voice drew his attention, and Espy only then noticed that Picayune''s girlfriend Belabor was there the whole time.
Espy couldn''t help but stifle a laugh at his own deteriorating mental faculties but quickly responded to her hoping that neither of the two noticed. "Patsy has always been fond of you, Yune, but I hope you can still help her out every now and then since she''s never been the most¡"
"She''s very awkward, yes." The three gave in to silly giggles at the curt response.
Picayune was the first to break the giggling with a slap on Espy''s shoulder to redirect the conversation. "But enough about us. What about you? Big Tournament employee now! I haven''t seen you for months, man. Are they running you ragged over there?"
Belabor couldn''t help her own interest take over, "Invitations should be coming out soon, right? What''s that like?"
With that simple question, it all came back, the weight of his knowledge bearing down on him. It felt like a deadly anchor that he could not escape from. A burden he could not share with Picayune. Espy tried his best to give a dismissive answer. "It is such a mess, man, I can''t say much because I''m under a nondisclosure agreement, right-"
"Sure."
"-But there has been a lot of... there''s been a lot. And it''s¡ it''s just weird. I can''t really get into it."
Picayune fist-bumped Espy''s shoulder in a failed attempt to lighten his sombre mood, "Sounds pretty rough, but I guess that''s what comes with the most prestigious job in the world." Picayune then jested, "Just make sure to save some front-row seats for us."
Picayune''s comment petrified Espy. His best friend was joking amicably while completely oblivious to the fact that he wouldn''t be in the front-row seats but in the field. Picayune seemed to notice Espy''s reaction and tried to comfort him, but none of the words managed to break Espy''s mental stupor.
It was Belabor who finally managed to break Espy out of his stasis. She rubbed his arm reassuringly as she joked, "Maybe he can''t get you a ticket, Picayune, since you''ll actually be invited to the Tournament. You''ll get to compare your genius with the Hero of New Heirisson conquest."
Espy couldn''t hold back his terror at how accurate her comment had just been. She seemed to notice as well. "NO. WAY. Picayune WAS invited to The Tournament!? That''s insane!" Belabor bounded into Picayune, arms wrapped about his neck in a crushing hug. "Congratulations Picay!" She pressed a deep kiss into his lips, but he did not return the kiss.
As a disciple of Professor Ream, Picayune had grown much more knowledgeable of the world and the scale of power within it. Picayune understood the gravity of an invitation. Whereas Belabor saw his name on a list, Picayune saw his odds of surviving.
Picayune forced some pathetic optimism to fumble out of his mouth. "That''s... great; maybe instead of asking Ken to get an autograph for me, I can just- ask the hero himself as he beats me blue." He followed his stammered sentence with a hollow laugh.
Espy was riddled with guilt as two pairs of defeated eyes met each other. Espy could only give out a weak "Sorry¡. Sorry. I have to get back to work." before walking off.
Espy felt horrible for the next couple of hours. He returned to the Arena of Empedocles and continued his work in a half-comatose haze. Finally, Espy collected himself and decided to confront Mark one more time. Maybe he could change something; maybe he could cancel the Tournament because of how many rules were being broken in it.
Espy opened the door to Mark''s office without even knocking and declared. "Mark, I have some important answers that I need to get from the Chauffer. I know I''m just an intern, but this is important, and I think the Chauffer would want to know if the Tournament got sidetracked this badly. I-"
Mark''s eyes were growing larger and larger as Espy continued to speak. Finally, he couldn''t stand any longer, so he interrupted Espy with his own declaration. "Espy, you are going to drop this. Believe it or not, Espy, I actually like you. You were a bit annoying at first, but you''ve come to grow on me. But you have to keep in mind that the Tournament Corporation is a machine. Each member a cog that does its part and that is all, no less, no more. Part of my job is to report on what the people who work under me are doing, so I have been mentioning that you want to meet with the big boys. They have been listening Espy, and you don''t want them to be listening."
Espy was overjoyed for a second, but his hopes crashed with that last sentence. Mark continued to speak. "People are starting to hear you, Espy, and they''re starting to notice you, and not in a good way. I would seriously advise you to keep your head down and appreciate the job you have, or else-" Mark was interrupted by the chime of a bell, and his face paled.
Espy recognized what the bell chime meant, and then all of his concerns disappeared; the Chauffer was here, and they could finally straighten things out.
Espy faced the small pink rhombus, or it was a rhombus, but its body would reject any stable state. It would shift and transform, shrink and grow, continuously morphing into other shapes.
Espy couldn''t wait for the Chauffer to finish its movement and exclaimed. "Thank you so much for coming Chauffer. I''ve been going through all the legacy files and discovered some things I think you''ll want to hear about."
The pink shape finally locked into a form resembling that of a featureless human with two limbs. One limb was outstretched towards Espy and holding a glowing parchment, and the other towards Mark, holding a normal piece of paper. Mark took the paper with a confused look; he read it and spoke out, confused. "Well, I wasn''t expecting this; it''s a revised list of the Tournament contestants." Espy grabbed the glowing parchment that the Chauffer pointed at him: It read.
| You have been invited to |
| The Tournament |
| You are The Obstacle |
Chapter 41: An Accomplice to the Friendly Mind pt. 1
The merchant had just finished assisting a fellow caravan member with lifting a particularly heavy crate of iron nails into the back of his wagon. As the lead rider, he felt he had a responsibility to the other members of the group and took it upon himself to personally ensure the entire caravan was ready to depart. His gaze swept over the line of wagons, confirming everything was in order before he turned and returned to his cart at the front.
The merchant peaked through the canvas covers of his wagon for one final inspection, checking that his goods were securely packed and ensuring the adventurers that he was transporting were settled. The compartment was cramped, but the adventurers didn''t seem to mind much. Most of them were simply relieved to find a caravan travelling in the same direction. Still, out of courtesy, the merchant decided it was best to ask. "Everyone comfortable?"
One of the more extravagantly dressed adventurers shot the merchant a sharp scowl, but another member¡ªa stout woman in her mid-twenties¡ªquickly chimed in with an infectious grin. Her perkiness easily overshadowed her companion''s glare. "Oh, don''t worry about us," she said, her voice cheerful. "We''re just glad we don''t have to walk the trip. Now, that would have been uncomfortable."
It always worried the merchant when the adventurers he was grouping with were the casual sort. To him, their easygoing attitudes spoke of unreliability. In that sense, he found more comfort in the company of the scowling, well-dressed adventurer¡ªat least he seemed to take things seriously.
He decided to subtly prod the group a little just to be safe. "Does anyone in your party have any abilities to spot mokoi or monsters before they come, or should one of you ride up front with me to keep an eye?"
The fancily dressed adventurer sneered, clearly seeing through the merchant''s intentions; but to the merchant, that sharp perception from the only miserable party member only confirmed his preconceptions. A merchant was always more comfortable with enemies.
The annoyed adventurer was unable to vocalize his disdain as the woman spoke before any sound could escape from him. "You don''t need to worry. Our friend here-" she patted the fancily dressed man on the shoulder. "Is a very skilled auspex; there''s nothing around here whose soul string can escape his sight."
The news eased much of the merchant''s worry. The ability to peer into the soul sea, even in the slightest, was an incredibly rare skill¡ªand one that made him feel significantly safer with these adventurers.
Now that his concerns were alleviated, the merchant smiled at the group. "Well, in that case, we''ll be heading off now; enjoy the ride, and please ¡at least ask before stealing some of my produce." The adventurers chuckled at the jest, and with a nod, the merchant made his way to the coach''s seat.
There was one last interruption waiting for the merchant before the caravan could finally embark. A little girl was standing at the head of the frontmost wagon, sharing a half-rotten fruit with one of the horses. She was a tiny little thing; the merchant couldn''t imagine that the girl could be any more than eight years old. She had a long tangled web of knotted, curly black hair that tumbled over her shoulders, and the child wore a long silver silk gown, which at one point must have been an extremely valuable article of clothing. Once valuable, it had gotten old, dirtied, tattered, riddled with holes, and stained in countless unsavoury colours. The original shade of silver was naught but a memory save for the few hidden, untouched crevices of the robe, which hinted at its long-lost lustre.
The merchant suppressed a sigh, his eyes drifting to the rising day star, which seemed to mock him with every precious minute that slipped away. He forced his cheeriest, most insincere smile and approached the child. "Excuse me, little lady," he began, his voice laced with polite urgency. "I''m grateful you''ve shared your fruit with my horse, but we''re about to depart soon. I''ll need to ask you to step aside now."
The little girl turned toward the source of the voice, and it was then that the merchant saw her face¡ªor rather, the thing that had taken its place. Her features were obscured by a strange porcelain mask, crudely adorned with what looked like finger-painted drawings. The mask was uneven, the colours smeared, as though it had been crafted in haste or out of some unsettling whimsy.
A giant handprint in yellow paint marred the surface of the mask. The base of the hand rested over the porcelain mouth, while six yellow fingers stretched to the right, crossing the eyehole and ending in six distinct fingerprints, each outlined in purple. A yellow thumb crossed over to the left, leaving its own purple-accented print next to the left eyehole. Beneath it, an upside-down purple triangle hung, adding to the strange markings. From the palm, a purple, headless snake seemed to wriggle up toward the mask''s forehead.
But the mask wasn''t just a face covering¡ªit extended further. A horn-like protrusion jutted from the top left, its bone-white colour fading into pitch-black at the tip. This horn was a three-dimensional cylinder, curving out to cover a sizable portion of the side of her head, adding an unsettling dimension to the already bizarre appearance.
What fascinated the merchant most, however, was how the mask stayed affixed to the girl''s face. There were no visible strings or fastenings of any kind. It simply seemed to be glued on, and it never shifted, no matter how much the girl moved her head, as though it were an inseparable part of her.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
The little girl spoke softly, nearly a whisper; the voice was soothing like a calming song, or it would have been if her dialogue wasn''t so stilted as if she were struggling to form them in a language not entirely her own. Her thick accent was unfamiliar, one the merchant couldn''t place. "Um, sorry, Mister," she murmured, "but I... waiting. For you."
The merchant cocked an eyebrow to the strange child before him. "And why were you waiting for me?"
The girl stroked the horse a few more times while she let it finish eating the rotten fruit. She pondered a while in search of the right words to answer the merchant. "I. want go with you. To¡ different place."
"Do you even know where I am going?"
The little girl shuffled in place avoiding making eye contact with the merchant. "No¡ but it not important. I can pay."
The merchant found it humorous how her saying she could pay had been by far the most fluently well-spoken thing she had said so far. "Little lady, what is your name?"
The girl hesitated for a while, unsure how to respond before her mask faced the merchant head-on in a way that he could only assume was an attempt at eye contact, and she answered. "Vow."
"Okay Vow, can you tell me where your parents are?"
The girl shifted slightly, the silence stretching between them before she spoke, each word coming slowly as though carefully chosen. "Daddy is dead...but not, maybe?" she seemed unconvinced by her own words, repeating words without comprehending their meaning. The girl continued, "And I meet never... Mommy. Daddy say, I not having Mommy."
The merchant mentally facepalmed at his blunder. As a native of Bemean, he often forgot that he was no longer in his homeland¡ªhe was in Aegis now. The country was still reeling from the devastating mokoi invasion; starving families and wandering orphans had become an all-too-common sight. In Aegis, it was customary to avoid questioning such things; it was simply how it was now.
Now that the merchant thought about it, that was probably why the girl wore her mask. She was likely trying to cover a scar, maybe a slave brand, or an injury from a run-in with bandits; in Aegis, the possibilities were unfortunately endless.
The merchant shook his head, trying to stay focused. "Well I still have a seat up front available if you can pay."
The girl''s eyes lit up with excitement. "I can!" She rummaged through her oversized robe and pulled out a staggering number of gold coins, shoving her hand eagerly toward the merchant.
The merchant stared at the coins, bewildered. "What do you want me to do with this?"
Vow replied with nearly shouted enthusiasm. "It pay!"
"Little lad- Vow, you can''t pay with gold. No one will accept gold as a currency around here¡ probably not anywhere, for that matter. I don''t know why you thought it would."
Vow''s shoulders slumped in disappointment, her voice heavy with defeat. "Explains very much..." She looked up at him again, searching for some kind of answer. "Why... gold not money?"
The merchant''s heart nearly shattered. To see such a young girl, unaware of something so fundamental, struck him deeply. She must have lost her family when she was just a child, gone without education or care for who knew how long. He sighed, a pang of sorrow in his chest. "Ever since the Golden Country transmuted a limitless supply of gold in 3980, twenty years ago, gold has lost its value as a currency."
The girl''s face fell in obvious distress at the revelation. The merchant''s heart ached for her, but if he helped every destitute waif he came across, he would have gone destitute himself years ago. As he was about to make up some excuse to shoo the child away, a rustling from the back of the cart caught their attention. The cheery female adventurer leaned out and called over, "Let the poor thing on. I''ll pay for the kid."
Despite the mask, Vow was an open book, her face lighting up with the news. "The thanks! I pay you back in footar, fyuter?" the girl played with the butchered word, the cogs visibly turning in her mind, and like a light bulb, it hit her, "In future time."
The adventurer sported an infectious smile. "Sure thing, kid, no problem."
Vow eagerly clambered onto the wagon, needing a boost from the merchant to make the tall clearance, and found her seat in the front. As Vow was bundling the overhanging cloth of her oversized silver cloak on her lap, the merchant took the carriage bridle in hand and with a lurch of the rope, the horses set off.
It wasn''t long until the cheery adventurer poked her head through the wagon covers, catching the attention of the merchant and the girl.
When the small child saw the woman, she extended her hand and spoke with that odd halting cadence. "The thanks for save! I name Vow. And. You name?"
The woman easily accepted the offered hand with a firm shake. "No worries, little Vow. You can call me Consanguine."
Vow''s mask lifted slightly, a clear indication of her bright smile beneath, and then she exclaimed with delight. ¡°Consanguine is friend!¡±
Consanguine gave Vow a warm smile, but a sudden jab at her side made her flinch. "Sorry, Vow, give me a minute, will you?" She slipped back into the cart to confront her finely-dressed companion, who had nudged her. When she turned to face him, she was taken aback to see his usual sneer replaced by a look of anxious worry. "What''s wrong?"
Her partner was unfortunately shoved in a tight corner between stacked crates of fruits that obscured his view of the front of the carriage. He leaned in close to Consanguine''s ear, his voice low as if he hoped no one else could hear. "Whoever just boarded the carriage... they''re dangerous. I can''t feel any soul strings from them at all."
Consanguine couldn''t help but laugh at the worry on his face that was brought on by that little girl. "What are you talking about? It''s just a kid."
The man''s eyes bulged at the revelation, but his concern did not waver. "What! How young?"
Consanguine shrugged, her voice light. "I don''t know, seven? Maybe eight? What do you mean you can''t feel her soul strings?"
"I''m not claiming to have the deepest sight into the soul sea, but there''s no normal human who can get this close to me without me catching at least a glimpse of their soul string. For devadoot''s sake, I can''t even detect a fate line on her."
Consanguine didn''t really know how to respond. Her partner spoke like he was describing an all-powerful evil, not a hungry child. "What does that mean?"
"I don''t know; the only thing I can think of that can evade me this well is either a spirit, a high-class mokoi, or maybe a devadoot."
Consanguine''s usual smile found its place back on her face. "Or a child. You must be getting really rusty."
Chapter 41: An Accomplice to the Friendly Mind pt. 2
The long carriage ride was either made delightfully shorter or achingly longer depending on who was asked, as Vow had managed to entrap Consanguine in an endless interrogation regarding her job as an adventurer. Vow''s soft voice came out in her usual, slow stunted flow, each word requiring much deliberation and thought to say correctly. "So, people. pay you to. hurt?" Or as correctly as she could manage.
The merchant had no idea how Consanguine still held that amicably welcoming smile. He wasn''t even the one talking with Vow, and he was getting exhausted from her incessant and tragically basic questions.
Consanguine responded. "It''s not about hurting someone but about protecting others. Monsters and mokoi are very dangerous, so people need us adventurers to go out and stop them before they hurt anyone."
Even from behind the mask it was obvious to see that Vow was very confused by this, her head tilting slightly as she processed the answer. "But. if you job is to hurt, before they hurt. Then that mean you job is to hurt... people who haven''t done. Emyfang.. um amyfing? anything bad yet."
"Well, the only reason that there is a request to stop those creatures is because they have already been spotted doing bad things."
Vow was mulling over what apparently to her seemed like a very complex answer. "Why would thing hurt. different thing?"
Consanguine shrugged dismissively, "They probably just want food or to expand their territory."
"No sharing?"
Consanguine chuckled softly. "Well, food for them would be little girls like you, so that probably would not be for the best." she accented her statement with a little finger poke to the child''s nose, or at least where Consanguine assumed the nose to be under that mask.
Vow''s eyes widened with concern. It was hard to tell through the mask''s eyelets, but Consanguine briefly thought she had made out an eye colour that was not brown. It was a concerning thought easily dismissed under the cuteness of Vow pondering over Consanguine''s words. "No. I... agreement. It not be for the best"
Consanguine waited patiently, allowing Vow the space to digest this new information. It was adorably obvious when she was lining up for another question. "So, things bad because... they hurt other things, because it good for them. And you good, because you hurt other things, because it good for you?"
Consanguine let out a soft laugh, reaching over to gently pat Vow''s jet-black hair. "It''s not the same. They''re not human. Of course, you shouldn''t kill other living things without a care in the world, but we have to do what is best for our species before allowing others to do what''s best for them. There''s a hierarchy to these things. Some life is just more important than others."
Vow was wholly unconvinced by this argument and released a disapproving grumble to show it. Consanguine tried to hide how cute she found the child''s annoyance, but failed miserably which only made the child even more annoyed.
Before their conversation could continue anymore, Consanguine''s fancily dressed companion urgently shouted, "I can sense a really potent sou-"
His words were abruptly stopped short when a solid cloud of swarming Arcana blew through the cloth cover of the wagon and eviscerated any crate or good it contacted into a fine mist. The cloud barreled further and, upon contacting her companion, completely dismantled his body into a red powder, which mixed along with the swirling cloud of nightmarish death. The magical haze went uninterrupted in its trajectory and surged past them, whipping through the air and bursting out the side of the carriage.
As the cloud of Arcana escaped, it ate through one of the wagon''s wheels, tearing it off its axle and dropping the entire carriage to skid across the dirt road and lurch to a jarring halt. The horses screamed in panic, struggling under the sudden weight that pressed them down, their hooves skidding on the dirt road as the wagon''s motion ceased entirely.
Consanguine''s mind raced with a million cries of horror and fear, but there was no time to mourn her companion''s brutal demise. With steely focus, she shouted at the top of her lungs, "Magical beast southeast!" Without hesitation, the other adventurers leapt from their carriages and readied for the incoming threat.
Consanguine looked through the tear in the side of the cart, her gaze following the direction from which the attack had come. She first noticed that they had been caught by a wide open field, so there would be no cover save for their carriages. Despite the open surroundings, she saw no sign of the enemy, nothing but the endless stretch of grass and sky. But then¡ªshe paused, narrowing her eyes.
A small blur on the horizon caught her attention, faint but unmistakably moving. She squinted, focusing with all her might, trying to make sense of the distant shape. The creature was far too distant for any details to be clear, but one thing was certain: it was coming. Fast.
The blur accelerated, charging toward the caravan with an alarming, nightmarish speed.
The other adventurers had also spotted the approaching enemy. A few of the wizards saw something in the air no one else could, and the more reactive of them swiftly raised their hands and conjured shimmering barriers. The air grew thick with magical energy as their arcane shields materialized, their glowing surfaces tense with anticipation. The barriers were completed just in time as a following volley of arcane clouds struck.
Three separate clouds of seething, corrosive magic whipped through the air like a storm of venom and slammed into the hastily erected barrier. The clouds easily dissipated with an anticlimactic whiff, leaving only the faint smell of burnt ozone in their wake. The entire exchange was eerily silent and demonstrated none of the terrible force that Consanguine knew those clouds were capable of.
As the monstrous foe, still little more than a blur, closed the distance, the archers loosed their arrows. The creature, relentless and unshaken, retaliated with terrifying speed¡ªhurtling its own missile through the air with a whistling shriek. It soared much faster than the arrows, being fired after but arriving at its target first.
Despite the wizards reinforcing their barriers, the spear punctured through the magic effortlessly like the shields were mere paper. The weapon plunged straight through one of the wizard''s chests and gently landed on the ground behind him. The man crumpled to the ground dead, but the spear remained upright, balancing on its tip without piercing an inch into the soft dirt.Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.
This was no ordinary weapon. The spear pulsed with unnatural life, its surface rippling like something breathing. Beneath the outer layer of viscous flesh, shifting limbs twisted and squirmed in a grotesque dance.
The movement inside the spear grew more frantic, jerking violently as its limbs fought to break free of their fleshy prison. In moments, the spear transformed, growing a twisted imitation of legs and a single arm. The creature¡ªpart spear, part something so much worse¡ªlurched toward a nearby adventurer, its movements erratic and unpredictable.
Four more of the organic spears followed suit and pierced the crumbling barrier. They, too, upon landing, balancing impossibly by their tips, started to morph into grotesque fleshy amalgams.
Chaos immediately erupted throughout the caravan.
Adventurers scrambled to react, but the damage had already been done. Consanguine sprang from her cart, her sword drawn in one smooth motion as she charged toward the nearest spear-creature.
The grotesque weapon swung around to face her, and she was confronted with what looked like a crying goat''s face, trying to push through the veil of the spear''s flesh. The horrifying monstrosity leapt at the woman, but it was too slow. With a swift, clean strike, Consanguine sliced through the spear''s fleshy body, cleaving it in two. The creature writhed violently on the ground, its form contorting and attempting to reshape itself into two smaller, twitching versions of its original self.
Consanguine''s mind raced as she observed the creature''s unrelenting transformation. Was it even possible to kill something like this? The thought flickered, but there was no time to dwell on it. As the creature began to stir once more, preparing for another attack, she reacted instinctively. With ruthless aggression, she hacked into it again, cutting the writhing mass into smaller and smaller pieces until, hopefully, it was simply too small to cause damage.
A sudden pressure from behind pulled at Consanguine''s attention. Spinning around, she saw the charging monster bearing down toward their magical defences. It would have looked like a normal buck if it hadn''t been for its behemoth size and ludicrously long teal fur that blanketed it like a long coat.
The creature did not slow. It barreled right through the magical barrier, the incredible magical defences shattering without a sound. The monster continued charging forth and plowed over one of the carriages. The wooden structure splintered and exploded under the monstrous force, torn to smithereens in a single, unstoppable charge.
The creature finally stopped its charge and turned to face its stunned audience. That corrosive cloud from earlier oozed out of the monster''s antlers, piling at its feet and oozing across the battlefield.
Without any hesitation, Consanguine charged towards the gargantuan opponent with her blade raised. She leapt over the pooling cloud with a vengeful cry, blade swinging down toward the monster''s exposed neck. Time felt to slow down, and she could see the cloud consciously rise to meet her.
She knew what the cloud could do. She had seen it melt stone and flesh alike. This attack would kill her; she was certain of it. But there was no turning back now. All she could do was focus on her strike and pray that she could land it before the deadly mist reached her.
To Consanguine''s shock, the cloud never touched her. As it neared, she saw something strange¡ªthe fabric of reality itself seemed to warp and twist around the cloud, bending and distorting, until it simply fell out of existence. But she had no time to process this unnatural event.
With a fierce grunt, she swung her blade downward, intent on striking. But just as the steel neared its target, her arm stopped¡ªheld in place by an unseen force. Her muscles strained, her body fighting against the invisible restraint. The sword hovered inches from the monster''s neck, frozen in a moment of impossible stillness.
Consanguine was no master of the mystic arts, not like her elegantly dressed comrade, but he had taught her one thing¡ªthe ability to sense her own soul string. Now, as she struggled against the invisible force, she could feel it being tugged, like a thread being yanked from within her very core.
Something¡ªsomeone¡ªhad seized hold of her essence, gripping tightly onto her identity. The connection was cold and invasive. Her actions, once her own, were now shared with this other presence, this soul-bound hijacker. Every movement she made, every thought she had, was no longer hers alone. The entity forced her to freeze in place, her body paralyzed by its will. More terrifyingly so, she found that she wanted to be frozen, that she didn''t want to kill this beautiful creature, even though she knew that moments earlier she certainly did.
Now that she was forced into stillness, Consanguine could finally take in the chaos around her. Where the cloud had wobbled out of existence, there was a wound in the world, the assuredness of reality itself destroyed. The injury in the universe''s fabric was slowly reversing its unnatural distortion, but it was a process that took time, and the cloud that had once been there was nowhere to be found.
Her heart raced as she watched the rip in the world close. It wasn''t just the environment that had been affected, though. The creature had also been frozen in place, its monstrous bulk now locked in time. Perhaps the same entity which gripped her soul strings had taken hold of it as well.
Consanguine''s attention was suddenly drawn to a soft, stilted voice¡ªVow''s voice. "Please stop!" The child appeared between her and the creature, her small arms raised in a halting gesture. Vow''s gaze locked onto Consanguine''s, and even through the unreadable mask, her urgency was clear, "No fight! We can share goodness."
She then turned to the creature and spoke in a language that Consanguine couldn''t recognize, a strange fact since there was only one commonly used language in Trammel. Vow was much more fluent in this other language, and the creature, although not perfectly, did seem to comprehend a few of the words spoken to it.
The hold on the creature''s soul strings must have lessened as its muscles obviously relaxed and its breathing more regular. The monster angrily chuffed at Vow, and she responded kindly in that impossible-to-place foreign tongue.
After a bit of back and forth in what appeared concerningly like negotiations, the creature gave a nod. With such, Vow left Consanguine''s sight and returned with a large crate of food and bandages. The grip on the creature''s soul strings fully relented, and it cautiously willed one of the spears to take the crate.
Then a bell chimed; the creature suddenly startled and took into a frantic sprint along with its spears away from the caravan.
Next to Consanguine there was what seemed to be a small pink rhombus that grew out of thin air, or it was a rhombus, but its body would reject any stable state. It would shift and transform, shrink and grow, continuously morphing into other shapes. The pink shape finally locked into a form resembling that of a featureless human with only one limb. The arm was outstretched towards Vow holding a glowing parchment: It read.
| You have been invited to |
| The Tournament |
| You are The Child |
Chapter 42: Romeo & Juliet pt. 1
Atop a hill of verdant green pastures sparkling with the morning dew, a little girl knelt in the soft grass, her eyes fixed on a tiny ladybug climbing the slender blade before her. She could almost hear her mommy¡¯s voice warning her to keep her dress spotless, but for now, she ignored the thought.
The delicate fabric of her bouffant gown brushed against the cool morning grass, its pastel lace staining with the wet roughage of nature, but she didn¡¯t mind. She tilted her wide-brimmed hat to shield her face from the day star so she could better watch the ladybug crawl, entranced by its slow, purposeful journey.
The sudden movement of her hand sent the ladybug fluttering into the air, its beautiful polka-dotted carapace shifting aside to reveal four delicate crystalline wings that whirred into action. Undeterred, the girl sprang to her feet, her determination burning brighter than her frustration. She raced after the tiny creature, her bug-catching net waving wildly in the air, each swing a hair¡¯s breadth from victory. Her short legs struggled to match the ladybug¡¯s swift, erratic flight, and her breath quickened as she tried to keep up.
She chased the ladybug all the way to the edge of the field, her tiny feet clumsily barreling through the tall grass, her puffy dress trailing with the breeze, but even the fervent energy of youth was not enough. The nippy insect beat her to the shadow of the forest, and she screeched to a reluctant halt.
She wasn¡¯t allowed to go into the woods¡ªMommy had always said it was too dangerous. She lingered at the boundary, her breath coming in short gasps, watching as the ladybug flitted deeper into the gloom. Just before the tiny thing disappeared into the undergrowth, it was suddenly engulfed in a small green light, shocking a surprised EEP! from the little girl.
The green light lingered, its glow casting strange, flickering patterns on the nearby foliage. Curiosity peaked, the girl squinted, trying to make out what might be hidden within the tiny luminescent sphere, but the brightness stung her eyes, blurring any details.
Slowly, the light drifted toward her. As it got closer, the radiance grew less bearable until she eventually had to shield her face with a small hand and retreat a step back. Yet, with her eyes squeezed shut, her ears took focus. She could hear it¡ªa faint, melodic humming that grew louder as it approached, both soothing and strange.
A not-so-human-like squeaky voice caught the little girl¡¯s attention. ¡°Hiya there! I haven¡¯t seen you before. Are you new here?¡±
The little girl hesitated, then slowly spread her fingers to peek through the gap. The green light had drifted closer, hovering just a few steps away. It was as close as it could be while staying within the boundaries of the forest. It glowed with a peculiar intensity¡ªpainfully bright, yet strangely ineffective at lighting up its surroundings. She felt an odd duality stir within her: the instinct to turn away, like when staring too long at the blazing day star, and an irresistible allure to keep looking, as though the light itself held a secret meant only for her.
Within the glowing light, she could now make out a tiny figure¡ªa human-like creature with delicate, shimmering insect wings and a pair of fuzzy antennae that twitched curiously. Its eyes, however, were like nothing she had ever seen, as if borrowed from some strange bug. Instead of the familiar inward curve, they jutted outward from its face, each a brilliant, iridescent dome of countless hexagonal facets. Among the kaleidoscopic array of tiles, two small circles of brighter hexagons stood out, like pupils, giving the alien eyes a strangely human quality. These luminous pupils shifted within the compound eyes, tracking her every move. At that moment, they were fixed on her, wide and eager, as though the tiny being found her just as fascinating as she found it.
What struck her as even stranger was that, despite the tiny figure being entirely naked, she couldn¡¯t tell if it was a boy or a girl. Its body seemed to blur the lines, defying the distinctions she was used to, and it sported no genitalia and a flat chest It didn''t even have a belly button.
After a moment of hesitation, the little girl responded, her voice soft but curious, ¡°I¡¯m m not new; I just haven¡¯t ever been this close to the forest before. My Mommy says the forest is dangerous.¡±
The tiny flying human let out a peculiar snicker, a sound like the clicking of cicadas on a summer night. ¡°That¡¯s funny,¡± it said, its voice lilting with amusement. ¡°I never left the forest since my Mommy says that it¡¯s the outside that is dangerous.¡± It tilted its head, the iridescent pupils in its strange compound eyes darting playfully. ¡°What¡¯s your name? Do you want to play with me?¡±
The little girl found herself liking this spontaneous new friend. Everything about her¡ªthe delicate wings, the glowing light, and those strange, captivating eyes¡ªfelt so whimsical and otherworldly. The glow certainly added to the effect. ¡°My name is Surcease,¡± she said with a shy smile. ¡°What¡¯s yours?¡±
¡°Nymph!¡± the tiny being replied with a delighted chirp. ¡°Come on, follow me! I know a really pretty place in the forest that¡¯s absolutely full of ladybugs. Like, I mean, full!¡± Nymph flung her arms wide in an exaggerated gesture, her wings fluttering for emphasis. ¡°Like this full!¡± She strained, stretching her arms as far as they could go before pausing to add with a mischievous grin, ¡°I know it doesn¡¯t seem impressive because I¡¯m so tiny. But trust me, it¡¯s like the whole sky is made of them!¡±
Surcease took a small step back, her brow furrowing with apprehension. She glanced at the shadowy trees, then back at Nymph, her voice wavering with uncertainty. ¡°I¡¯m not supposed to go into the forest. Mommy says it¡¯s dangerous.¡± She hesitated momentarily before offering, ¡°How about you come to play with me in the field instead?¡±
Nymph pouted, hands placed firmly on her hips, and let out an exaggerated huff. ¡°My home isn¡¯t dangerous! Your field is the dangerous place! A bird could swoop down and carry you away in the blink of an eye!¡±
Surcease giggled, her voice light and amused. ¡°No, they can¡¯t. Birds aren¡¯t that big, Silly.¡±
Nymph grumbled cutely, ¡°For you maybe...¡± Then she thought for a moment, her fuzzy antennae twitching as she considered. She grabbed her antennae in a soft hold and tugged as she searched for a solution to their dilemma. Then, her eyes lit up with an idea. ¡°How about we play a game of rock, paper, scissors? The loser has to play in the winner¡¯s territory!¡±If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.
At first, Surcease didn¡¯t like the idea. She thought Nymph should just come over to her side and play. But after a moment of thinking, she realized that wouldn¡¯t be fair. Nymph was in the exact same position as her, so it wouldn¡¯t be right to demand that things only go her way.
She took a deep breath, her expression softening. ¡°Okay,¡± she agreed, her tone reluctant but fair. ¡°But only one game. No best two out of three nonsense.¡±
¡°Deal.¡± Nymph hid one hand behind her back, and Surcease did the same.
"Rock¡"
Their eyes locked, and for a brief moment, all cordiality vanished. The air between them crackled with the silent intensity of the greatest battle of wills ever fought.
"Paper¡"
Two master strategists, each carefully calculating countless possibilities as they narrowed down their chosen move. Surcease¡¯s fingers curled into the shape of her chosen weapon, her gaze unwavering.
"Scissors!¡±
Surcease threw out scissors just as Nymph simultaneously revealed rock. Their timing was flawless¡ªthere was no way anyone could claim cheating.
With a victorious laugh, Nymph flew in a delighted circle, her wings fluttering with excitement. ¡°Yay, I win!¡± she cheered, her tiny hands thrown high in the air. ¡°Don¡¯t worry. The forest isn¡¯t dangerous, and the place I want to show you isn¡¯t even that far from the edge anyway.¡±
Surcease was still a little scared to go into the forest, but a promise was a promise, and if all the other things in the forest were nice like Nymph, then maybe there was nothing to be afraid of.
Nymph, full of confidence, grabbed hold of one of Surcease¡¯s fingers with both of her tiny hands. She tugged eagerly, her wings fluttering as she pulled, trying to lead the way. Nymph¡¯s hands were so small that even using both, she could hardly manage to grasp more than a fraction of Surcease¡¯s finger.
Surcease wasn¡¯t sure if it was rude to ask, but her curiosity got the better of her. ¡°Why are you so small? What are you, and¡ are you a boy or a girl?¡±
She hadn¡¯t meant to ask so many questions at once, but once she started, her words tumbled out, one after the other, her curiosity running wild. She winced, a little embarrassed by her lack of restraint. She hoped Nymph wouldn¡¯t be offended by her barrage of questions.
Nymph snickered again, the sound echoing like the hum of cicadas. ¡°I¡¯m a fairy, a spirit of the woods!¡± she exclaimed, her wings fluttering with excitement. ¡°And I¡¯m quite tall for a fairy, thank you very much.¡± She paused midair, her antennae twitching in a mock huff. ¡°As for boy or girl, we fairies don¡¯t really have those kinds of things. You can just call me whichever one you want!¡±
¡°Wow, so fairies are real,¡± Surcease said, her voice filled with wonder. She felt like she was living inside a fairy tale come to life. ¡°I think I¡¯ll call you a girl since I¡¯ve always wanted a girl friend. And how are you supposed to be tall? My cat is way bigger than you, and he¡¯s the smallest thing I know.¡±
Nymph¡¯s flying grew erratic, her wings buzzing with speed as she zipped around like an irritated fly. ¡°That¡¯s not fair!¡± she huffed, darting in every direction. ¡°Cats are giants!¡±
Surcease tried to stifle her giggles, but Nymph still noticed, causing her whole body to turn a shade redder. Her blushing was so apparent that Surcease could have sworn it tinted the green light that glowed around her. The two continued to joke and laugh as they made their way to Nymph¡¯s special spot.
It had taken longer than Surcease had expected. She¡¯d started to doubt Nymph¡¯s claim that the place was close to the edge of the forest, but all of her doubts vanished when she finally saw it.
Before her stretched a vast clearing, round and open, where an ocean of blue flowers covered the ground, each one alive with thousands of ladybugs, nibbling and fluttering in a mesmerizing display of synchronized movement. The sight was nothing short of magical.
One might think that the flowers would have been picked clean long ago with so many bugs, yet the clearing appeared untouched, as though the scene existed in a perfect, eternal balance. The colours swirled together in a breathtaking dance of red and blue, a harmonious blend of life and beauty that Surcease could have never imagined, even in her wildest dreams.
Surcease was at a complete loss for words. She had never seen anything like this outside of the forest. It was a sight so breathtaking, so otherworldly, that she knew she would never forget it. She hadn¡¯t even realized she¡¯d dropped her bug-catching net; she was so absorbed by the scene before her.
Nymph, completely at ease, zipped into the clearing and joined the swarming ladybugs, her wings shimmering with the light. ¡°Come on, Surcease!¡± she called, her voice cheerful and inviting. ¡°You won¡¯t scare them; this place is magic.¡±
Surcease took a cautious step forward, but when she saw that the ladybugs simply moved aside to make room for her and then returned to their quiet, busy life, she couldn¡¯t help but smile. Without hesitation, she dashed into the clearing, her laughter spilling out like a song.
At the center of the clearing, it was an infinitely more wonderous sight, a complete dome of gorgeous insects going about their lives undisturbed. The blue flowers were a little itchy, rubbing against Surcease¡¯s exposed legs, and she thought that they would probably leave a rash by the time she left. But that was a small price to pay for taking part in this wonder.
Surcease and Nymph must have spent hours in that magical clearing, lost in their laughter and games¡ªchasing bugs, picking flowers, and marvelling as the flowers would bloom again the moment they were picked. It was the most fun Surcease had had in a long time, and she felt lighthearted in a way she hadn¡¯t felt in forever.
But as the day star began to dip lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the clearing, Surcease realized she was starting to get hungry. She didn¡¯t want to leave; the magic of the place was too enchanting to let go. Yet, with a reluctant sigh, she turned to Nymph and said, ¡°I¡¯m really sorry, Nymph, but it¡¯s starting to get late, and Mommy is probably getting worried now. I think I should head back.¡±
Nymph¡¯s wide, beaming smile instantly faded, and her whole body seemed to deflate with disappointment. ¡°Aw, really?¡± she sighed, her antennae drooping. ¡°But if you stay until night comes, you¡¯ll get to see the fireflies take their turn in the clearing. And if you thought the ladybugs were pretty... well, you haven¡¯t seen anything yet!¡±
Surcease bit her lip, so terribly tempted by the promise of fireflies, but she didn¡¯t let herself give in. She shook her head gently, her voice soft but firm. ¡°...I¡¯m sorry Nymph, but I really got to go.¡±
Nymph clearly wanted to argue, but when she saw the worrisome expression on Surcease¡¯s face, she relented with a soft sigh. ¡°Okay, fine,¡± she said as her shoulders slouched with disappointment. Nymph was never one to stay down, and she immediately perked back up. ¡°But you have to promise we¡¯ll get to play again someday.¡±
Surcease¡¯s mood lifted instantly, the weight of leaving seeming to melt away. ¡°Definitely!¡± she said with a bright smile, her earlier hesitation gone.
Silence hung in the air as the two awkwardly stood in place. Surcease scratched the nape of her neck and let out an uncertain laugh, "Umm, can you guide me back? I don¡¯t remember which way we came from.¡±
Nymph let out her characteristically aberrant snicker, a bit more awkward this time. ¡°Yeah, no probs¡ um.¡± She spun in a few circles, glancing at the trees in each direction. ¡°It was this way¡ªNO, wait, this way. Yeah, definitely this way.¡±
Surcease gave Nymph a quizzical look. ¡°Are you sure?¡±
¡°Yeah, definitely. I just got a little confused because the lighting is different now, but I¡¯m back on track. It is this way, one hundred percent fairy guarantee!¡± Nymph leaned in closer to Surcease, cupped a hand over their lips as if in a whisper, and spoke conspiratorily, ¡°In case you didn¡¯t know when a fairy makes a guarantee, then it is guaranteed.¡°
The two giggled, and Surcease¡¯s worries drifted away.
Chapter 42: Romeo & Juliet pt. 2
Surcease and Nymph journeyed back to Surcease¡¯s home, Nymph leading the way with their glowing light. At first, they continued chatting, but as the sky deepened into twilight, Surcease grew quieter. Shadows stretched longer, and unfamiliar sounds seemed to rustle through the undergrowth. Surcease could swear she heard creatures stalking just beyond her vision, their movements blending with the whispers of the forest.
By the time night fully enveloped them, Surcease found herself relying entirely on the soft, green glow radiating from Nymph. It was her only beacon in the encroaching darkness. The flickering green light, which had once been the warm comfort of a friend, started to feel ominous against the dark backdrop.
Surcease¡¯s voice wavered as she meekly called out, ¡°Nymph, I want to go home. I¡¯m tired, hungry, and scared.¡±
Nymph hesitated, her tiny form darting closer to Surcease¡¯s face. She tried to sound stoic and reassuring, but the tremor in her voice betrayed her growing panic. ¡°I know, I know. Don¡¯t worry, Surcease. I¡¯ll get you back home in no time. We got a little sidetracked before, but I definitely know where we are now. We¡¯re almost there. Everything will be alright, okay? You will be alright.¡±
Surcease nodded weakly, though her tears began to spill despite her best efforts. Her voice cracked as she whispered, ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Mommy. I promise I¡¯ll never go into the forest again.¡± The tears came faster now, streaking her cheeks as she buried her face in her hands.
Nymph let out a panicked squeak. ¡°No, no, it¡¯ll be fine! I¡¯m just being really dumb. Your home is just a few steps away¡ªI know it! The forest isn¡¯t dangerous. I¡¯ll protect you. I¡¯ll get you home.¡±
Nymph zipped right up to Surcease¡¯s face, her glow intensifying as she placed her tiny hands on Surcease¡¯s tear-streaked cheeks. Her voice softened, but her determination was fierce. ¡°I will get you home, okay? I promise.¡±
Surcease sniffled, wiping the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand. ¡°...Okay.¡±
¡°Okay!¡± Nymph exclaimed with sudden cheer, her voice bursting with enthusiasm. She twirled midair, her glow brightening as she began to sing and dance while leading the way.
¡°Surcease will get home in a jiffy,
And tell the story of her new friend who is¡ nifty!
The dark ain¡¯t so scary,
Fluffy monsters hold no fury,
They¡¯re in a hurry,
They got no time to bother our sweet Surcease!¡±
The melody was uneven, and the lyrics were anything but poetic, yet Nymph¡¯s animated performance and infectious joy tugged a small giggle from Surcease. The silly little tune, paired with Nymph¡¯s exaggerated gestures, did much to ease the lingering fear in her heart. Together, they pressed on, the light from Nymph¡¯s glow guiding them through the forest toward home.
And they continued on,
and on,
and on,
across the shadowy expanse of the forest. The towering trees seemed to close in around them, their gnarled branches twisting overhead like the skeletal hands of forgotten giants. The cool night air carried whispers¡ªsoft rustlings and distant hoots that sent shivers crawling up Surcease¡¯s spine. Her steps grew sluggish as the uneven ground tugged at her weary legs, roots and rocks conspiring to trip her at every turn.
Time lost meaning in the endless dark. Surcease¡¯s legs ached, the burning in her muscles giving way to a dull numbness that crept upward. Her lips cracked, her throat raw from thirst. Her stomach writhed, hollow and knotted with hunger, each pang sharper than the last.
The forest felt alive, its heartbeat an omnipresent thrum in the ground beneath her feet. Shapes danced in the periphery of her vision, shadows darting just beyond the reach of Nymph¡¯s glow. The once-majestic trees loomed like silent sentinels, their bark scarred with the markings of predators.
At last, a dim light began to filter through the treetops, painting the forest in a pale, ghostly hue. The day star had risen anew, but its warmth felt distant, unable to pierce the cold weight of exhaustion pressing on Surcease¡¯s chest. She glanced around, her heart sinking as she realized the forest stretched endlessly in every direction, an infinite labyrinth of green and brown.
Her legs trembled as she forced another step, but the ground seemed to rise up to meet her as her knees buckled. She collapsed onto the mossy dirt with a muffled thud, too weak to cry out. Her vision swam, her breaths shallow and ragged.
Nymph, who had been flitting just ahead, spun around at the sound of Surcease hitting the ground. Panic flashed across her face as she darted to her friend¡¯s side. Her tiny hands pressed against Surcease¡¯s cheek, the faint warmth of her touch almost imperceptible. ¡°Oh no, oh no, Surcease! What¡¯s wrong?¡± Nymph¡¯s voice cracked with worry, her glow intensifying as if sheer will could banish her despair.
Surcease groaned, her voice harsh and strained, barely louder than a whisper. ¡°I¡¯m so hungry¡¡±
Nymph hovered closer, her glow intensifying as she flitted nervously around Surcease¡¯s face. ¡°Oh no, oh no, don¡¯t worry, Surcease. I¡¯ll get you food as fast as I can!¡± she said, her voice trembling but resolute. ¡°You stay here, okay? Don¡¯t move. I¡¯ll be right back!¡±
Surcease¡¯s vision swam, the bright green glow of Nymph¡¯s light becoming a blurred smear against the darkness. She wanted to reply, to call out, to protest being left alone, but the words wouldn¡¯t come. Her head throbbed, each pulse pounding harder than the last, and her body felt as though it had been weighed down with stones. Even if she wanted to move, she couldn¡¯t.
The forest around her grew quieter, the once distant sounds of life¡ªchirps, rustles, and soft hoots¡ªfading into an oppressive silence. Every inch of her body ached, her limbs refusing to respond to her feeble attempts to shift. She lay there, her breath shallow, staring into the swirling blur of green light that marked the last glimpse of her friend as Nymph darted away.
The moments stretched, each second feeling heavier than the last. The darkness pressed in closer, and the chill of the forest floor seeped into her skin. Surcease¡¯s thoughts flickered between fear and hope, clinging desperately to the promise of Nymph¡¯s return. She felt as though the forest itself were watching, its ancient eyes hidden in the shadows, waiting silently for her next move¡ªor her last.
Nymph wasn¡¯t gone for long, her green glow cutting through the oppressive darkening of her vision as she zipped back to Surcease¡¯s side. Her tiny arms were laden with an assortment of berries, their skins glistening in the dim light. ¡°Look! I got these for you,¡± Nymph chirped, her voice laced with urgency. She didn¡¯t wait for permission, darting closer and pressing a handful of berries to Surcease¡¯s lips. ¡°I know it¡¯s not much compared to what humans eat, but I have these all the time! They¡¯re super filling, I swear.¡±
Surcease parted her lips weakly, the sweet tang of the first berry barely registering on her tongue before her body lurched violently. Her stomach, already twisted and empty, rebelled with a force that overwhelmed her senses. She gagged and doubled over, expelling the berry and more onto the forest floor in a harsh torrent.
Her body heaved uncontrollably, her stomach writhing as though it sought to claw its way out of her. One bout led to another, the relentless spasms leaving her gasping for breath. Tears streamed down her face, mingling with the acrid taste that lingered in her mouth. She clutched at the ground, her nails digging into the damp ground as if anchoring herself against the pain.
Nymph flew back in alarm, narrowly avoiding the violent spray. Her hands tugged at her antennae in stress, her voice a sharp wail of panic. ¡°AAAH! What¡¯s happening? Do humans not have a tolerance to poison?¡±
Surcease tried to respond, her lips trembling as she struggled to form a single word, but every attempt was interrupted by the relentless waves of pain and nausea. Her throat burned, each heave scraping raw against the acidic fire climbing up from her stomach. Tears blurred her vision, her body folding in on itself, desperate to squeeze out the death within her.
Nymph was beginning to flood out a stream of tears, her small body shaking with every sob. ¡°I¡¯m so sorry! I didn¡¯t know! I didn¡¯t know! I¡¯m sorry, I¡¯m sorry, I¡¯m sorry!¡± She hovered frantically in place, her glowing light flickering like a firefly caught in a storm.This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.
Surcease folded back down onto the ground, splashing into her own pool of puke. She had completely lost all motor control, her limbs no longer under her will. In fact, her entire sense of touch was slowly beginning to dissipate; this did not mean that she stopped feeling pain, though. That was still firmly gripping her mind.
Losing one of her senses to the pain heightened Surcease¡¯s awareness of everything around her. The forest, once a distant hum, now pressed in from all sides as if it were alive, breathing with her. Then, a sound¡ªdeep and wet¡ªcut through her delirium. The low, rhythmic sniffing of something large, something looming just behind her.
Nymph¡¯s glow blinked out of sight as she darted away, her shrill voice rising in a mix of rage and terror. ¡°Get away from here, monster! She¡¯s with me, not for you!¡± Her words were broken, hiccupping in fear, but the force behind them only seemed to grow as the creature¡¯s presence closed in.
Surcease¡¯s body trembled uncontrollably. She tried to lift her head but couldn¡¯t focus, her vision spinning.
Nymph wiped at her eyes in a frantic motion, smearing away the tears that blurred her already strained vision. Her breath came in sharp, panicked gasps, but she forced herself to steady her hands as she spoke. ¡°I¡¯m so, so, so sorry for this, Surcease," Nymph cried, her voice cracking with emotion. "You will be fine; I can get you out of this, I promise. I¡¯ll fix it, just¡ªjust stay with me!¡± Her tiny face was full of worry, but her words were resolute as if she were trying to convince herself just as much as Surcease.
Almost in response to Nymph''s statement, Surcease¡¯s body spasmed uncontrollably. A low, gurgling sound rumbled in her throat, the vomit thick and relentless. It clogged her airways, stealing away her breath with cruel, suffocating force. Her body had fully locked up, and she could no longer expel the bile from suffocating her.
Nymph¡¯s frantic eyes darted around, her wings beating erratically as she hovered just above Surcease, unable to understand the cause of her distress. Then Nymph saw the bubbling of bile gathering in Surcease''s mouth and she dashed to Surcease¡¯s side. With a squeak of horror, Nymph tilted her friend¡¯s head enough for the vile liquid to spill out, the horrific weight in Surcease¡¯s chest lifting just enough to allow a shallow gasp of air. But it wasn''t over.
Surcease was getting cold; the day star had fully risen now but Surcease was still incredibly cold. She had lost the ability to cry long ago, nor could she even manage to speak anymore. Sound, sight, smell, they were all floating off to a faraway place.
She felt weightless like she was floating just beyond the edges of the world, untethered from everything that had once mattered. Her thoughts felt distant, slipping away, each one fading further from her grasp. But there was one thought that clung to her like a lifeline, a thread through the fog.
Mommy.
She tried to reach for that thought, but it was slipping away, too. A deep, silent ache filled her chest. She couldn¡¯t remember how she had ended up here, but she could feel the absence of everything that had once been real¡ªthe warmth of the day star, the laughter of a friend, the gentle, familiar touch of her mother. They were all fading now, like echoes in the wind.
I need to go back, she thought desperately, but even that thought felt distant. What was back? Why couldn¡¯t she go back?
She didn¡¯t understand anymore, but somewhere deep inside, she knew there was a place she should be. A place where things made sense. A place where Mommy was waiting.
Mommy...
Her breath was slowing. It was a strange feeling; it didn¡¯t quite feel like pain anymore, it was, but it felt different, her mind and her body experiencing different things. The gap in between breaths became so long she wasn¡¯t sure when the next one would-
Nymph shoved Surcease as hard as she could over and over again. ¡°Surcease! Surcease! Don¡¯t leave me, don¡¯t go!¡± No response.
Her tiny hands shook violently as they hovered over Surcease¡¯s still body. Nymph¡¯s wings fluttered erratically as panic clawed at her chest, her vision blurred by the flood of tears. She darted around, touching Surcease¡¯s cheeks, her face, her hands¡ªdesperate for any sign that her friend might still be with her.
With trembling fingers, Nymph placed a hand over Surcease¡¯s nose, checking for breath. Nothing. No rise of her chest. No flutter of air through her nostrils.
Surcease was dead.
Out of the lifeless body, a small wisp rose. Nymph watched as the little girl''s soul lifted out of its host. The soul strings, once binding, were frailly snapping off and casting the soul away.
The world around Nymph seemed to fade, leaving only the ethereal glow of Surcease¡¯s soul hovering in the air. Nymph''s green light fr flickered faintly, casting strange shadows in the soft luminescence of Surcease¡¯s spirit. There was no more sound, no more movement¡ªjust a stillness that felt like it had lasted a lifetime.
Then, with an almost imperceptible shift, Surcease¡¯s soul wavered, the light pulsing gently. Nymph remained completely still, her gaze unwavering, as though she feared that any movement might shatter this delicate moment, this fragile space between life and death.
Nymph waited a moment longer, but the soul did not waver again and started to sink deeper into the soul sea.
Finally, Nymph exhaled sharply, the weight of the moment seemingly crashing down on her. ¡°Took her long enough,¡± she muttered under her breath, her voice trembling with exhaustion.
Nymph wiped the fat tears from her eyes, though her hands were still shaking. She had to Slap her cheeks a few times to snap herself out of the shock of her own immaculate acting. ¡°Jeez, I can¡¯t believe this... Why couldn''t you just eat the berries and die? NOooooo, you had to spit it out and puke all over the place!"
Nymph kicked Surcease¡¯s lifeless body with all the force she could muster, her tiny foot connecting with a sickening thud. ¡°Stupid brat,¡± she hissed, breathing heavily through clenched teeth. ¡°Couldn¡¯t even do one thing right.¡±
Nymph flew over to Surcease¡¯s soul, her small hands wrapping around it with an iron grip to keep it from sinking deeper into the soul sea. ¡°Oh no, you don¡¯t get to leave that easily,¡± she murmured, her voice cold and deliberate. The soul squirmed weakly in her hold, thrashing in its feeble attempts to escape the fairy''s surprisingly powerful grasp.
With a determined flick of her wings, Nymph hovered just above Surcease¡¯s lower lip, her eyes narrowing. ¡°You know you were really persistent. I should have guessed you had some kind of natural poison resistance when those blue flowers only gave you a mild rash."
Nymph glowered as she inspected the soul closely. ¡°That weird little trait of yours better not make you taste bad.¡±
With a cruel flick of her wrist, Nymph tore Surcease''s lower lip from her body, her expression not even flinching as she casually tossed it into her mouth. As she chewed, her whole form seemed to shudder with ecstasy. ¡°All is forgiven,¡± she cooed to the lifeless body, her voice thick with pleasure. ¡°Oh man, wow. Mmm, this is good. You know, I¡¯ve always had a thing for lower lips, but yours... now this is good stuff.¡±
Surcease''s flailing soul doubled in its desperate attempts to break free, its struggles growing more frantic with each passing second. But Nymph held tight, her grip unyielding.
Nymph then flew all around the lifeless child, giving its soul a guided tour of all her favourite cuts and sharing in mortifying detail the exact taste and specificities of why those were her favourite.
It was a grotesque tour¡ªa testament to the utter distortion of her once-innocent nature. The soul, still bound to Nymph¡¯s grasp, twisted in futile efforts to escape, its agony palpable, yet Nymph remained absorbed in her morbid recounting.
Eventually, Surcease''s soul grew weary, its futile attempts at escape fading into nothingness. The soul had no form to shield itself from the grotesque spectacle unfolding before it. Unable to close its non-existent eyes, it could do nothing but experience the horror in full clarity, trapped in its own tortured awareness.
Nymph, with a twisted sense of satisfaction, finally collected the pieces of flesh she had desired. She gently cradled them, her fingers tender as she placed them into the hollowed-out cavity of a lung.
Nymph backed off from the corpse, relinquishing the rest of the body to the anticipating wildlife.
As the creatures swarmed out for the feast, Nymph flew over to block one particularly familiar-sounding creature. ¡°No way, buddy. What were you thinking, trying to steal a bite before I finished killing her? As punishment, you don¡¯t get any. You know what. You guys all pissed me off! You know she could hear you all following us, right? A bunch of amateurs! Usually, I leave the liver to you guys because I¡¯m nice, but with the way you all been acting, you don¡¯t deserve it!¡±
Nymph punched her tiny arm, easily piercing through the soft flesh of the dead child, and pulled out a succulent healthy liver. ¡°This is why children are the best. Look at the quality of that!¡± Nymph excitedly stuffed the liver into her carrying lung, causing the lung to bulge out practically stuffed beyond capacity.
Nymph finally locked eyes with the trembling soul. Nymph¡¯s mouth morphed into a tremendous smile as she snickered in her usual disturbing way and addressed Surcease directly for the first time since her death.
¡°Hiya Surcease! I had a ton of fun playing with you the past two days. Seriously, no joke; it was a blast! And you tasted great, by the way. But it was a bit of a jerk move, puking all over yourself before I had my share. If you did it for the others, I wouldn¡¯t care, but to do it to your best friend Nymph, not cool." Nymph shook her head in a show of disappointment. "So anyways, I¡¯m going to eat you for that.¡±
Nymph ate the soul. It had been so long since she ate a tormented soul that she forgot how exquisite they were. That soft, warm taste, how it just smoothly rolls down the throat. Truly a great delicacy.
Nymph¡¯s wonderful feast was then rudely interrupted by the chime of a bell. In front of Nymph, there was what seemed to be a small pink rhombus, or it was a rhombus, but its body would reject any stable state. It would shift and transform, shrink and grow, continuously morphing into other shapes. The pink shape finally locked into a form resembling that of a featureless human with only one limb. The arm was outstretched towards Nymph holding a glowing parchment: it read.
| You have been invited to |
| The Tournament |
| You are The Fairy |
Chapter 43: Look Again
¡°Here you are.¡± The two-horse cart creaked to a halt at the edge of the dirt road. The old coachman, his weathered hands steady on the reins, raised one arm to gesture toward the scene ahead as if revealing a prize to his guest.
The road ended abruptly, swallowed by a forest of gnarled, twisting trees. Their massive, bark-covered trunks coiled and contorted like the limbs of some ancient, restless creature. No leaves adorned their skeletal forms; instead, thin, spindly branches erupted in every direction, weaving a dense wall of organic spears that jutted menacingly toward the road. The sight was both beautiful and forbidding, a natural barrier daring anyone to venture further.
The guest was clad head to toe in an imposing suit of plate armour, its polished steel reflecting sparkling glints of light like a mirrored automaton. Not a single sliver of skin was visible beneath the thick overlapping plates, each one perfectly interlocked with immaculate precision. His cube-like helmet obscured his face entirely, concealing any hint of expression behind its angular, featureless design.
Strapped securely across his broad back was a large, intricately crafted spear, its shaft and blade an iridescent blue that nearly glowed in the daylight. A similarly ornate sword rested at his hip, its pommel adorned with sapphire filigree drawing a beautifully detailed blue rose. Seated next to the guest was an oversized backpack bulging at the seams from its overloaded content.
The guest spoke, his voice reverberating with a metallic echo as it struggled to escape the confines of his helmet. ¡°Is this it?¡±
¡°Well,¡± the coachman replied, his tone carrying both caution and finality, ¡°for obvious reasons, I can¡¯t take you any further. But yes, the flower is said to lie somewhere within this forest.¡±
The guest rose from his seat, the weight of his armour causing the cart to creak in protest. He stretched, rolling his shoulders with a low groan, his words slightly distorted by the movement. ¡°And this flower should be the one I am looking for?¡±
The coachman nodded, adjusting his grip on the reins. ¡°Well, if your quest was to find a miraculous flower unbound by the laws of our world, then I don¡¯t know which flower that could describe if not the one of our village¡¯s tales.¡± He gestured toward the impenetrable wall of gnarled trees. ¡°And before you ask¡ªyes, it should be somewhere in there.¡±
The guest twisted his armoured torso to one side, a sharp pop echoing from his back. He straightened and turned to the coach, his metallic voice carrying a touch of gratitude. ¡°Thank you for your patronage. I¡¯ll be sure to visit the village once I¡¯m done and let you know what I find.¡± The guest placed a few silver coins in the coach¡¯s open palm and stepped off the cart.
The moment his armoured boots struck the packed dirt of the road, the ground seemed to awaken. A sudden burst of vibrant flora erupted around him¡ªa ring of fresh grass, delicate wildflowers, and small, colourful mushrooms. The unexpected growth formed a vivid, living circle beneath his feet that contrasted harshly against the otherwise lifeless road.
The coach smiled at the miraculous burst of life. ¡°I¡¯ll hold you up on that friend. I wish you luck on your search.¡± The coach pocketed his money, took hold of his reins, and set his horses to carry him back home. The guest waved goodbye, watching him leave and contentedly listening to the faint clop of hooves fading out into the distance.
The guest was left alone, standing before the gnarled, twisting wall of wooden appendages. The forest loomed, its dense, impenetrable mass seeming almost alive, watching.
He took a step forward, and with it came a quiet miracle. Around his armoured boot, a vibrant circle of life bloomed¡ªfresh grass, delicate flowers, and tiny mushrooms, each unfurling as though called to existence by his presence. Another step, and the phenomenon repeated, each patch of vegetation forming a gentle bed to cushion his footfall. Step by step, he approached the forbidding barrier, the bloom of life trailing in his wake like a living echo,
Surprisingly, he felt a spark of excitement as he stood before the impenetrable barrier of trees and twisting branches. The sheer impossibility of finding a way through this dense overgrowth only fueled his anticipation. To him, the daunting challenge just added credence to the fact that this would be the flower he was looking for.
A worthy quest needed a worthy trial, after all.
The man paced along the forest line, looking for an opening that he could enter. Eventually, he found it, a small split in the wall of spears where all of those sharp protruding branches inexplicably curved away from one another. The twisted wood spiralled outward, forming a narrow, funnel-like opening, dark and foreboding yet strangely inviting.
An invitation that he felt he had to accept. His mind took almost no part in the decision; an inexplicable call forced his heart forward, calling him inwards, calling him deeper.
The opening of the funnel loomed just above his reach, requiring a touch of acrobatics to hoist himself up. He reached out, his armoured hand gripping the rough edge of the entrance. At his touch, the forest responded¡ªa small swarm of vines and sprouting plants erupted beneath his fingers, coiling around his arms and gently, yet firmly, pulling him upward.
He slipped through the gap, the jagged branches brushing against his armour with a faint scrape. The opening was narrow, forcing him to drop to all fours and crawl, his movements slow and deliberate. The spears of wood pressed close on all sides, but the dense thicket seemed to part just enough to allow him through. Finally, he emerged from the crawl space into the heart of the forest. The air was cool and damp, with the dewy scent of recent rains.
The forest was unlike anything he had ever seen before. There was no life to the forest floor, no bushes or grass, other than the strange plants his own presence had summoned. Beyond them, the towering trees were the sole purveyors of this otherworldly realm.
And what a sight he was seeing; a deep ebb and flow of intermingling life, knotting and unwinding, launching up into the sky and crashing into the dirt below. A snaking string of thick trees formed a vertically shifting floor full of pitfalls and hills. It was as if a tangled ball of string in one¡¯s pocket had been sculpted to the grand scale of an entire forest.
The man quickly realized he could not simply walk through this forest; every step required careful calculation. He had to scale over the thick twists and entanglements of the trees. He had to crouch under gnarled caverns and into the organic tunnels of the crowded underbrush.
His heavy armour did him no favours in this dense labyrinth. Every movement was accompanied by the constant clanging and screeching of tree tips and sharp branches scraping against his plate. The barrage played a ceaseless symphony of friction and noise that grated harshly the echoing bell of his helmet. Similarly, his body was always being tugged and pulled in every which direction as small protrusions and nibs would get caught in his plate-mail.
But the real torment was his spear. That unwieldy weapon seemed determined to make the journey as challenging as physically possible. Its sharp point constantly caught on the surrounding trees, lodging itself in thick bark or threading through small gaps in the branches. No matter how carefully he moved, the frustratingly long weapon was always there, pulling him back or getting tangled in the dense, chaotic growth.
None of this deterred the man, though. In fact, it instead caused the opposite effect. He got more and more excited with every jump and twist he made; each obstacle was a motivator. The harder the journey, the more invigorated he became, pushing forward with a fierce determination.
Behind him, with his every step, his every stabilizing hand, his every bumped elbow, the forest bloomed a memory of his convulated journey. Where once there was only drab brown, the path was now alive with colour. The dense, cave-like undergrowth began to transform into a vibrant tapestry of life. A thick blanket of green unfurled behind him, adorned with the dazzling blooms of thousands of newly budding flowers, each one a splash of bright hues in the otherwise shadowed expanse.
He came across a particularly stark vertical wall along his forest jaunt. No gap in the wall would have been large enough for him to squeeze through. As far as his eyes could discern, his only option was to climb up the wall.
The wall was a sprawling mass of intertwining trees, their trunks and branches forming a complex network of footholds and ledges. With so many footholds, the climb itself wasn¡¯t particularly difficult; the forest seemed to invite him upward, offering its natural scaffolding.If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.
This ascent brought him to the highest point he had reached in the forest so far. For a brief moment, he wondered if he could somehow make his way to the canopy and catch a sweeping view of the entire forest. But as he gazed around, he quickly dismissed the thought. The trees were packed so densely, their trunks pressing against one another in a tangled web, that reaching the canopy was a laughable proposition.
Reaching the top of this local peak was a good point for him to catch his breath and take in what he could of the surroundings. In the distance, with a careful squint and just the right angle between the trees, he managed to glimpse the opposite edge of the forest. He wasn¡¯t fully sure whether that was a good thing or not. Would the flower he was searching for be past this bizarre monogenetic forest or within it?
He broke his gaze from the forest¡¯s end and continued searching. Above, at the very top of the forest canopy, something moved¡ªa strange, warbling fabric-like flow, twisting and curling as it was drawn upward toward the tips of the trees.
The forest was absorbing magic from the air!
The realization sent a surge of excitement through him. This excursion kept getting even more promising. Each sign, each discovery, was further confirmation that this was the place he had been searching for¡ªthe hidden cradle of the flower. But he wouldn¡¯t find it up here. With a steady resolve, he turned toward the opposite side of the wooden wall, preparing to scale down into the depths of the forest where his true quest awaited.
As he slowly worked his way through the labyrinthian forest, the suffocating nether began to lift. Faint rays of light, eager and persistent, threaded their way through the cracks and gaps in the twisted trees, illuminating the path ahead. It was as though the forest itself was slowly relinquishing its hold on him.
He had made it to the other end.
Following the light, he pressed forward, heart quickening with the promise of escape. After a few more moments, he reached a gap just large enough for him to squeeze through, a welcoming breach in the wall of trees that had held him captive for so long.
The other side of the forest relented to give way to a small mound of lifeless stone that rose sharply, revealing a stunning valley beyond.
The man walked to the edge of the overhang, where he was met with the sight of a gargantuan cliff. From this vantage point, he had an omniscient view of the valley below¡ªan expansive panorama of lush, diverse life. Unlike the monotonous, twisting trees of the forest he had just crossed, the valley was a vibrant mosaic of blossoming trees, rich, full bushes, and a variety of thriving plant life. Animals flitted through the foliage, hunting, playing, living¡ªan active, energetic rhythm pulsing with colour.
It was a little jarring to witness. He hadn¡¯t realized how the endless repetition of the forest¡¯s dark, entangled growth of the same trees had affected him. The vibrancy of the valley, so full of life, almost felt like a shock to his senses, its beauty and vitality a stark contrast to the oppressive stillness of the prior forest he had just traversed.
It was a grandiose sight, one that revealed the full beauty of nature at the bottom of this titanic chasm. And indeed, it was a chasm¡ªa pit so vast that calling it merely a valley seemed an understatement. The cliff from which he stood offered a view so high it felt almost astronomical. This wasn¡¯t just a gentle dip in the landscape; it was a straight, vertical drop, taller than a city was wide.
The cliff was yet another sign that his expedition was far from over. He hadn¡¯t found a single flower¡ªor even a plant¡ªin the suffocating tangle of tentacle-like trees that had surrounded him. Perhaps, though, the elusive flower was somewhere in this far more inviting valley. He just had to make his way down.
The man was prepared for this; he removed his backpack and began rummaging through it, pulling out a sturdy set of broad nails and an excessively long rope. With practiced efficiency, he drove the first nail into the solid stone near the edge of the cliff, securing it tightly. He tied the rope to the nail, then looped the other end around his waist and gave it an extra strong pull to ensure it was secure.
The man leaned one final time over the edge of the cliff, studying the sheer rock face before him. His mind worked through the logistics of how he planned to tackle the wall. As he pondered, he removed his gauntlets and boots, knowing they would only hinder his progress from here on out.
He stepped back from the cliff and carefully placed the gauntlets in his backpack. Then, he pulled out a roll of thin cloth and, with methodical precision, wrapped it around each of his bare feet, layering the fabric multiple times. Once his feet were ready, he returned the remaining cloth to the pack, then took out a small white chalky block. He rubbed it between his hands, crumbling it until it turned into a fine powder and coated his palms.
He turned his head away, then clapped his hands a few times. A cloud of fine dust billowed from the chalk, the powder swirling around him in the air. He rubbed his hands together once more, shaking off any excess powder, until his palms felt dry and ready. Now, he was prepared.
He began his descent feet first, carefully backing himself down the cliff face. The journey started off simply enough. He kept an expedient pace, only slowing down so he could anchor another nail to act as a safety hold for his rope.
But that easy trek didn¡¯t last long. Things quickly took a dangerous turn. The cliff wall curved back on itself, forming an overhang rather than a straight vertical drop. Before he could press his body to the cliffface and alleviate the weight of carrying his own body. But as he descended and his back turned evermore to the void, the entire burden of his mass was pushed to the grip of his overstrained fingers and toes.
He found himself scaling the cliff horizontally, inching his way along with nothing but his grip and willpower tethering him to the stone. The vast, empty sky stretched beneath him, a constant reminder of the perilous drop. His entire survival rested on his ironclad hold.
A creeping sense of dread gnawed at him. Every muscle in his body was taut with the effort, his limbs trembling from the strain. He wasn¡¯t afraid of heights¡ªnot exactly¡ªbut hanging upside down over an abyss so deep that even a devadoot wouldn¡¯t survive the fall? That felt like a new kind of terror.
But he did not turn back.
His feet blindly probed the rugged surface¡ªwas it the wall or the ceiling now?¡ªsearching for any grip they could latch onto. His hands, more flexible and free than his feet, moved with greater ease, their extra hold aided by the chalky powder. Each new connection to the stone triggered a small burst of growth as delicate plants spiralled around his limbs, wrapping tightly to the rock and anchoring him with much-needed stability.
He made sure three of his limbs were firmly anchored at all times, shifting only in small, deliberate increments. The weight of his armour was becoming increasingly apparent, tugging at him with a relentless pull as if desperate to send him plummeting into the forest below¡ªunconcerned with what state it would leave him within it. He had considered removing the armour, but past encounters with flying monsters had taught him a painful lesson. No, he would endure the extra weight and the challenge it brought, unwilling to take any chances.
In spite of it all, he continued to make solid progress.
He drove a nail into the cliff face and secured his rope before continuing his descent down the sloping stone. His feet met a sharp vertical wall, and he shifted his body to the side, straining to see what exactly he had encountered. A small jutting mound of rock protruded from the overhang below.
At first, he was disappointed¡ªhe had thought he¡¯d reached the end of the overhang and could finally return to his vertical descent. Unfortunately, it was clear that this jutting stalactite was only a bump in an otherwise much larger overhang. This small protrusion, though unexpected, might still prove useful. If he could climb onto it, it would give him a better vantage point, allowing him to peer around the overhang and assess the next part of his journey.
Thankfully, the protrusion was just large enough to support his full height.
He slowly maneuvered himself onto the mound, keeping the same methodical pace despite how desperately he wanted to be upright again. His head was bursting from the blood ruch.
Once aligned with the stalactite, he twisted his neck, straining as far as it could go to peer across the mound and see what lay ahead.
And then, he saw it.
A colossal green stock grander than any mountain he had ever seen. It stretched down from the cliff¡¯s overhang, seemingly without end, its base culminating in a brilliantly blue bud. The titanic head of a flower whose scale could never be given justice without seeing for oneself.
The flower was unlike anything he had ever witnessed; it was unlike anything he had even thought of witnessing. Its proportions were so large, and beauty so all-encompassing, that he could do naught but gaze in awe.
It was then that the truth struck him. The ¡°forest¡± atop the cliff was no forest at all. Those towering structures weren¡¯t trees¡ªthey were roots. The mystical flower of the village wasn¡¯t hidden within the forest; it was the forest.
He couldn¡¯t stop his tears. He found himself so moved by the natural artistry on display. This trip was not a complete waste, even if it was the wrong flower.
He climbed back up above the cliff.
It was a shame that it was the wrong flower, but it was still a much-enjoyed trip. This was truly an experience he would never forget.
Interrupting his blissful reverie was the chime of a bell. The man turned to face the source of the sound and it was there that he saw what seemed to be a small pink rhombus grow out of thin air, or it was a rhombus, but its body would reject any stable state. It would shift and transform, shrink and grow, continuously morphing into other forms. The pink shape finally locked into a form resembling that of a featureless human with only one limb. The arm was outstretched towards the man holding a glowing parchment: it read.
| You have been invited to |
| The Tournament |
| You are The Garden |
Chapter 44: Awake pt. 1
The empty grey walls of the complex weighed down on the dreary workers within. The rooms were suffocated by disordered tangles of paper drafts and scattered metal strewn across the halls and cubicles like forgotten rivers of clutter. The only grace to the office''s traffic was the reduced number of occupants who had to navigate it. The entire building had been buried in an all-encompassing haze of despondency as though the very structure had absorbed the exhaustion and indifference of its inhabitants.
An exhausted man hunched over his desk, folding his white lab coat into a makeshift pillow beneath his head. He tried to quiet the grating swarm of thoughts stinging at his conscience, but they refused to be subdued. Desperate for even a few minutes of rest, his body begged for reprieve, but his mind held him captive.
His brain had been shackled to the problem; each turn of his mind tangled with the formula. It seemed perfect, so elegant. The way the formula naturally unfolded upon itself was nothing short of beautiful.
"Now''s not the time for sleep, Mason." A young blonde woman tapped a warm cup of liquid against Mason''s cheek, jarring him out of his stupor.
Mason gave her a grateful smile as he took the drink. "Thanks, Starlet. Though, it''s not like I''d be able to sleep even if I tried." He raised the cup in a half-hearted toast before taking a long sip.
Starlet''s gaze drifted down the hallway as she spoke, her tone playful. "Another meeting''s starting¡" She paused, glancing back at him with a smirk. "And you can''t skip this one."
Mason groaned in protest, the sound making Starlet chuckle. He weakly pushed himself out of his cubicle, wiping drool from his chin before donning his lab coat.
Mason had to break into a short jog to catch up to Starlet, who had already started walking away. Mason could not look more dissonant next to Starlet; his slouched posture, wrinkled clothes, and downcast eyes contrasted starkly against the confident, well-kept woman.
He always felt uncomfortable around her; her presence was simply too overbearing for him, although he admittedly thought that of almost everyone. The awkward silence that permeated between the two was the usual comfort that Mason happily resided in. But Starlet, never one to tolerate the quiet for long, had to fill it. "Have you been to the new bar just down the street?"
Mason managed to reply in a low whisper "No."
Starlet shrugged nonchalantly. "Neither have I. We should go sometime; we can''t always be in the office."
Mason faltered for a brief moment, his steps stuttering before he quickly regained his pace. He hoped Starlet hadn''t noticed. He didn''t know how to respond; he wasn''t even sure in which regard the question was asked.
Mason refused to make eye contact, keeping his eyes firmly planted on his feet. "¡okay." Mason hadn''t noticed since he was so adamant about averting his gaze, but Starlet smiled at his response.
The two finally arrived at a large, open room with a single circular table at its center. The rest of the employees had already gathered, their presence filling the space with a quiet murmur. A well-built older man, his hair streaked with grey and hidden beneath a tall velvet hat, greeted them with a smile. "Ah, now everyone''s here. Glad you could finally make it, Mason."
Mason kept his head low, the weight of the room pressing down on him. He didn''t dare look up to gauge how many eyes were on him, silently judging, questioning his every move. Without a word, he stepped away from Starlet, seeking the refuge of a chair tucked deep into the corners of the room, far from the crowd''s gaze.
The man in the velvet hat barely glanced at Mason before turning back to the group. "Alright, now that everyone''s here, let''s get started. Or more importantly¡ª" he paused, his tone becoming more urgent, "and I''m going to preface this with a please¡ªget things finished. I''ll be blunt. We need results, and we need them soon. Or, to put it plainly, this department is getting shut down. For real this time."
An older woman leaning on an intricate, clearly expensive cane interjected, her voice calm but cutting, "So basically, you''re saying the department is getting shut down."
A younger man, one Mason recognized as the recent hire, hesitated before speaking up. "Wait¡ªif the department''s getting shut down, then what happens to the rest of us? Are we getting reassigned or...?"
The man in the velvet hat clearly had a prepared speech hovering on the tip of his tongue, but the hopeful looks from his colleagues made him discard it. Instead, he opted for the blunt truth. "I''m not going to sugarcoat things. If we shut down, only the more experienced members will likely be reassigned. The rest¡ well, not everyone can be moved."
The room erupted instantly, a cacophony of voices rising in panic and disbelief. Whispers mixed with frantic questions as the air thickened with uncertainty.
"How can this even happen!?"
"Surely the board can''t pull something this big without the sponsor''s permission?"
"Does this sponsor even exist? They haven''t shown themselves for two years!"
"But still, the sponsor restarted this company specifically for our department."
Mason hated meetings. He tucked himself deeper into his corner, carefully avoiding any invitation to join the conversation. It wasn''t that he was indifferent to the company''s shifting politics¡ªfar from it. Even though he was all but guaranteed a position elsewhere if the department failed, he wanted to avoid that outcome at all costs. Mason wasn''t here for the paycheck; he was here for the research, for what they could create. What this department could create.Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.
The man in the velvet hat shouted, his voice cutting through the air. "HEY!" The room fell into an immediate, tense silence. He softened his expression, replacing the outburst with a practiced, gentle smile. "But it won''t come to that if we can just show some progress. So, can anyone here give me something? Anything?"
No one spoke up. Heads turned and glances were thrown at hopeful candidates. Eventually, all the heads landed on Mason.
The man in the velvet hat addressed him directly. "Mason? Please. You got to give us something."
Mason slunk as low into his seat as possible, trying to disappear into the shadows. He loathed the focus, the way all eyes seemed to be on him. His answer came out barely above a whisper. "The formula."
"What was that Mason? I couldn''t quite hear you."
Mason lifted his head just enough to speak more clearly, though every word felt like it scraped against his skin. "The formula."
A sharp breath escaped the man in the velvet hat. "You found a solution to the formula!?"
The words hit Mason like a slap, grating against him as though the man were deliberately tormenting him. "No, we can use THE formula."
The man with the velvet hat exhaled sharply, frustration creeping into his voice. "We''ve talked about this, Mason."
"But it''s right!"
"No, Mason!"
One of the other employees leaned forward, questioning, "Wait, what''s this formula about. If there is some vital information being withheld, I think we, especially now, have the right to know about it."
A resounding hum of approval rippled through the room, voices murmuring in agreement.
The man in the velvet hat quickly raised a hand, attempting to regain control. "There is nothing important being withheld from you¡ª"
Mason''s voice cut through the air, loud and unyielding. "That''s BS, and you know it!"
The room fell into stunned silence. No one had ever heard Mason speak with such force, let alone interrupt the boss like that.
For the first time in his life, Mason ignored the stares, his gaze locked firmly on the man in the velvet hat. "There is no way around it. If the formula is right, it''s right. You can''t just reject the answer and expect me to be able to find an answer that won''t just end up being the same thing. Anything I write would just be inferior to the point of not even being worth showcasing."
Starlet finally stepped up. "Okay, what is going on here? Have we been sleeping on something this whole time?"
The man in the velvet hat quickly tried to steer the conversation away. "No, no¡ª"
Mason didn''t let him finish. "The White Witch."
The room fell into a stunned silence. That was enough to grab everyone''s attention.
The man in the velvet hat stared at Mason, his expression one of absolute terror. The rest of the room waited in uneasy silence, their eyes flicking between Mason and the boss, desperate for an explanation as to why that name could ever be related to their work.
Mason spoke again, his voice steady but heavy with frustration. "The White Witch visited us one night when it was just the boss, and I left in the office. She solved the formula for us. She completed the research just like that." Mason took a deep, steadying breath. "But we refused to use it. We couldn''t risk it. He told me to find a different solution, one that we could trust. But¡¡±
Mason turned to face the man with the velvet hat directly, "But you can''t rewrite what''s right! I''ve looked over the problem hundreds, even thousands of times, and it always comes back to the same thing. I can''t do it better."
A quiet discord rippled through the room like a murmur that refused to quiet. Panicked whispers and wary questions slithered from ear to ear, thick with suspicion.
One of the employees, more confused than anything else, finally broke the silence. "Why would she help us?"
Another voice joined in, tinged with uncertainty. "What does she stand to gain from this?"
A third person, hesitating, added, "Maybe her involvement is a sign that we shouldn''t pursue this... maybe the department should be shut down after all."
The man in the velvet hat buried his face in his hands, his shoulders slumping with a defeated sigh. He shook his head slowly, speaking in a quiet, strained voice. "This is exactly why I didn''t want anyone to know."
Starlet stood silently for a moment, watching the chaos unravel around her. Her gaze flicked to Mason, and the fear radiating from his eyes struck her deeply. She could tell he was mortified at finding his life''s work slip away from him because of a single meddlesome creature.
With a sharp inhale, Starlet stepped forward, her voice cutting through the noise with confidence and vigour that commanded the room. "Who cares if the White Witch wrote the formula?" she declared, her tone rising with conviction. "Like Mason said, it''s a matter of being right or wrong¡ªand he says it''s right. Does it matter what her motivations are if, for this brief, minuscule moment, they just so happen to align with ours?"
"For goodness'' sake, people, we''re researchers! This is what we do. We push boundaries, we take risks, and we make sacrifices¡ªcountless sacrifices¡ªfor the sake of progress. Let the politicians and nobles bicker over motives and alliances. Let them stifle progress with their fear and doubt. But we? We move forward. No matter the cost."
The atmosphere in the room shifted, the chaos giving way to a more measured murmur of hushed debates and uncertain glances. Confusion and concern simmered down into deliberation, but tension still hung in the air like a storm refusing to break.
The old woman leaning on her intricate cane broke the quiet with a scoff, her voice sharp and unyielding as she addressed Starlet. "Just because we''re scientists does not somehow exempt us from ethics. Progress without principle isn''t progress¡ªit''s recklessness. There is a right and wrong that exists in this world, and if the White Witch wants something to happen, then you can be sure that it is on the wrong side of things."
The crowd swayed back and forth, science or ethics? Whispers rose again, weaving through the room like threads of unease. Some nodded in agreement with the old woman, arguing that the pursuit of knowledge should never override morality. Others murmured harsh rebuttals, insisting that the advancement of science was a moral imperative in and of itself.
Lines began to form, dividing the room into those who feared the implications of using the White Witch''s work and those who saw it as a necessary step forward, regardless of the cost. All the while, the volume and heat rapidly escalated.
The man in the velvet hat slammed his palm against the center of the table, the sharp sound cutting through the rising voices. He smacked it again and again until the room fell into an uneasy silence.
"When, exactly, did I become a judge for all this?" he muttered, his tone laced with exasperation. Straightening, he cast a stern look across the room. "Fine. Since it''s clear no one here can focus on anything else without settling this first, let''s put it to a vote. If you want to use the formula, raise your hand."
Chapter 44: Awake pt. 2
The room remained still, the silence heavy with unspoken tension. It was one thing to debate the rightness of an idea, but to transform that belief into action carried a far greater weight. No one wanted to be the first to move.
Mason broke the stillness, his hand rising slowly, hesitantly. His action wasn''t born of doubt in his stance but from the fear of the judgment it would draw. Even as his hand hovered in the air, he kept his head low, bracing for the inevitable backlash.
Starlet, as if she had been waiting for Mason to take the lead, immediately shot her hand up the second Mason''s did. Her hand did not waver and her steely gaze met any that tested her.
Starlet followed instantly as if she''d been waiting for Mason to take the lead. Her hand shot up with unwavering confidence, her gaze steely and defiant as it swept across the room. She dared anyone to question her, her posture radiating a challenge that cut through the uncertainty hanging in the air.
With Starlet''s call to action, more and more employees joined. Each new hand lifted seemed to embolden another, like a wave gathering momentum. Yet even as the hands multiplied, the divide remained stark. The room held a near-equal mix of raised and lowered hands, the balance so fine it demanded a careful count to determine the outcome. A tense lull filled the room as everyone tried counting the results in their head.
A tense lull settled over the room, the kind that seemed to stretch time. Eyes darted between hands, silently tallying, each person arriving at their own uncertain result.
It was almost absurd¡ªa vote so reminiscent of a game their children might use to settle a playground dispute was now deciding the fate of their department. But none dared laugh. This single decision, taken in a dimly lit room full of weary minds, would shift the fates of the entire world. Even if the world would never know it.
Once the room settled and no more hands wavered, the man with the velvet hat took a slow breath and began counting. All eyes followed him as his finger moved from one person to the next, the room hanging on each tally. When he finally pointed at the last head in the room, he straightened and announced, "Alright, that makes it nineteen to seventeen."
He paused, his gaze sweeping across the room, ensuring everyone was listening. "It has been decided¡ªby democratic vote," he stressed the word ''democratic'' as if to shield himself from any backlash, "that we will move forward with this project without using the White Witch''s formula."
Mason slumped in his seat, the weight of the vote pressing down on him. For a fleeting moment, he had allowed himself to believe they had a chance¡ªto achieve something monumental, something that could redefine everything. But all because of their weak-willed stigmas, they allowed themselves blindness to the facts. Mason was irreplaceable in the company; no one else could quite innovate the way he could, which is why no one else understood as well as he did how denying the White Witch''s formula was denying the project.
The rest of the meeting became a haze. Words blurred into noise, distant and unimportant. Mason sat in silence, his mind drifting to the piece of paper waiting for him on his desk. The formula he was supposed to create was already complete on the piece of paper taunting him on his desk. It just happened to be in somebody else''s handwriting.
When the meeting finally adjourned, Mason rose mechanically. There wasn''t much left for him to do anymore.
Mason could feel the stares boring into him, sharp and unrelenting. He kept his head low, avoiding their gaze, but he didn''t need to look to know what they thought. They were shunning him; he was now a monster in their den, a madness incarnate who would choose to complete his own research over the safety of all humanity. Maybe they were right. He didn''t care what the White Witch could gain from this; he only cared about what he could gain, and he could gain everything.
The hours crawled by, each second stretching into an eternity until, eventually, the workday ended. Mason hadn''t even noticed when the others began to leave. Most of the staff had already gone home, but he remained at his desk, mesmerized. It lay in front of him, perfect and unyielding, pulling his focus like a black hole. He spent the entire day just staring at it, his thoughts spiralling deeper and deeper into its eloquent corollaries. He spent the entire day just staring at it.
It wasn''t until Starlet shook him out of his trance that he finally snapped back to reality. Her firm grip on his shoulder startled him, and as he blinked, he realized how empty the office had become.
Mason looked up to Starlet, and he noticed her beautiful brown eyes for the first time. He noted her eyes were almond-shaped, still filled with energy despite how depressive her surroundings were.
Starlet gave Mason her best smile and spoke with a chipper tune. "Still up for the bar?"
Mason hesitated for a moment, his eyes flickering to the formula on his desk, the one that had consumed his every thought. The one that had destroyed any chances of achieving his dream. Slowly, he returned the smile¡ªsoft but genuine. "More than ever."Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
Mason gathered his satchel and a few scattered belongings, including a second copy of the formula. As he did, he felt the weight of it¡ªboth physically and mentally¡ªbefore following Starlet toward the exit. The office, now silent and empty, felt even more suffocating, but Starlet''s voice broke through the stillness, filling the air with her casual chatter.
"So, if you could actually use that secret formula of yours," she said, her gaze flicking to the satchel slung over his shoulder. He placed his hands over his satchel as if that could somehow protect his paper from her judgment. "how long do you think it would take to finish the project?"
Mason kept his chin tucked low, his hands shoved deep into his pockets as if trying to disappear into the fabric of his coat. He muttered, his voice quieter than usual, "Well, everyone else would have to redo what they were doing to integrate the new formula."
Starlet ruptured into a fit of exhilarated giggles. "Oh, come off it, Mason. I know you better than that. You haven''t been sitting there blankly admiring that formula in your bag, have you? If I''m right, you''ve already tested every angle, every possibility. You''ve probably already worked it into everything on your own. Am I wrong?"
It was very difficult interacting with Starlet. She was very forward and loud, constantly talking and prodding. Why did she know him so well exactly? He hadn''t remembered interacting with her enough to have any kind of personal understanding among them. Whatever her method was, it was perfect. Mason only had one answer he could give her. "You''re not wrong."
That same dazzling smile crept back to Starlet''s face, bright and almost mischievous. "So, how long would it take to implement it all?"
Mason let out a deep, frustrated groan. If she was going to give him space to vent, then vent, he would. "That''s the worst part of all of this. It would only take a few hours. If we started now, we could have it all done by the time work starts tomorrow. It''s ridiculous how easily the formula pulls everything together. And to just throw away such a perfect piece of math¡" His voice trailed off as the weight of it all hit him. "It actually hurts."
Starlet''s pace quickened as she neared the locked doors of the office, her steps breaking into a playful skip. Mason''s words seemed to hang in the air between them, but her smile only grew, and something about it felt more cheeky now. She interrupted his not-so-subtle admiration of the forbidden formula with a sing-song tone. "Your wording could not have been more perfect because¡ª"
With that, Starlet swung open the door, revealing half of the department''s staff awkwardly shuffling in place while they waited. Starlet resumed, "Plans have changed; we''re not going to the bar."
The day star had barely breached the horizon, yet the office buzzed with the quiet urgency of an early morning rebellion. Starlet had managed to rally everyone who had supported the formula the previous day, convincing them to go rogue. Behind the boss''s back, they''d set up everything needed to make this insane project a reality.
Thanks to Mason''s disturbingly thorough notebooks¡ªplural¡ªdetailing the steps for integrating the formula, things moved with surprising speed. The group had left the cramped cubicles behind and now gathered in a large, purpose-built workshop room. In the center stood the project, mounted on a large slab of metal. The space around it was entirely clear, as though it had been carved from the rest of the room. Cautionary paint outlined a square, keeping the project cordoned off from the rest of the space, the only things that dared breach its boundaries being thick tubes and cables¡ªstrange, rope-like tendrils from the ancient civilization they still couldn''t quite understand. They hadn''t yet cracked the mystery of the incalescent fire that powered them, but at least they knew it could be harnessed to activate the project.
The project itself was an unnerving sight¡ªa vaguely human-shaped form, stripped of its skin and made entirely of cold metal. It was a starkly efficient contraption, assembled with only the essential components needed for its function. No oversized, lumbering head. Instead, the thing bore a small, unassuming cube packed with every sensor and function it required to interact with the world.
This project, like all the others from the TOIL initiative, was an artifact left behind by the ancient civilization. Each of their projects followed the same pattern: reverse-engineer the construct, uncover its purpose, and, if possible, recreate it. Now, with the formula fully integrated into the machine''s systems, all Mason had to do was press the button, and everything would fall into place.
Mason hesitated for just a second, his fingers hovering over the button. The eyes of the entire room were locked on him, pencils poised and paper ready to capture every detail. He could feel the weight of their expectations, the significance of this moment pressing down on his chest. With a slow breath, he placed his hand on the button, feeling the cold metal beneath his palm.
He pressed it.
The sound was immediate. A single, melodic chime of a bell echoed through the room, followed by the sharp whirring of mechanical locomotion. The project, which had lain dormant on the slab for so long, seemed to come to life slowly. Its limbs twitched, stretching as though testing its new form, the metal joints creaking in the silence. It was an unnerving sight, as if it were waking from a long slumber.
Meanwhile, in front of the project, a small pink rhombus grew out of thin air, or it was a rhombus, but its body would reject any stable state. It would shift and transform, shrink and grow, continuously morphing into other forms. The pink shape finally locked into a form resembling that of a featureless human with only one limb. The arm was outstretched towards the project, holding a glowing parchment.
The project and the pink rhombus stared blankly at each other, either one waiting for the other to act. One of the employees let out an amazed gasp. "Is that the Chauffer?"
"Who?"
"The Chauffer, it''s the thing that hands out the invitations for The Tournament. I think it''s trying to invite the artifact."
Starlet laughed out as she approached the Chauffer and took the piece of paper. The pink rhombus shifted and morphed, mirroring its entrance in reverse as it eventually shrunk out of existence. "Well, what better way to test out the greatest weapon of the ancient civilization than on the greatest of our civilization. Now, what does this say?
You have been invited to
The Tournament
You are The Toil"
Chapter 45: Lovely Anchors pt. 1
"It was crazy! We had no idea what to do¡ªhow could we? We thought this was going to be a simple job: take care of some pesky varmint for a skittish little town. But nope! Right in front of us¡ªa full-on dragon!" The blond man paused, letting the words hang in the air as he took a long, deliberate sip from his mug. The firelight flickered across his face, highlighting his roguish grin as the enraptured audience leaned in closer.
One of the older men, already deep in his cups, gaped in disbelief, his words slurred and his voice rising in awe and incredulity, "A dragon? In northern Bemean?"
The blond man''s grin widened, and he pointed dramatically at the drunkard. "Exactly! That''s exactly what I thought. They''re not supposed to be anywhere near here¡ªnot this far from the Serpentine Mountains. But there it was." He leaned forward, his eyes glinting with excitement as he painted the scene with his words. "It had this eerily long, serpentine body, curling and twisting like smoke. Two massive forelimbs¡ªbigger than the tallest trees¡ªleaving craters with every step. And the wings... oh divines, the wings!"
He gestured wildly, his drink sloshing dangerously close to the rim. "The books can''t even come close to describing them. There were... I don''t know, hundreds? Thousands? Too many to count. Each one was buzzing so fast; it was like a living blur, like the air itself had come alive. The sound... a deep, bone-shaking hum that felt like it was crawling inside your skull."
The drunkard shivered, clutching his drink like a lifeline. "No way. No way that''s real."
"Oh, it was real, all right," the blond man said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. He leaned back, the glimmering firelight casting long shadows across his face. "And let me tell you¡ªwhen it saw us, it wasn''t happy."
His leader spun the tale with a bard''s flair, words flowing as easily as a minstrel''s song. It was a skill more suited to a tavern than the battlefield, and yet the blond man carried on, oblivious¡ªor perhaps indifferent¡ªto the silent judgment radiating from his teammate.
"It was flying just above us," the blond man continued, his tone dropping to a dramatic hush. "Its tail tip still dangling within arms reach. and let me tell you, it was seeing a mighty fine meal in us." The storyteller dramatically licked his lips and playfully gnashed his teeth for emphasis.
Errant huffed under his breath, barely masking his exasperation.
"But Fetter," the blond man pressed on, his grin widening, "oh, she wasn''t about to wait around for it to make the first move. Not her style. Before I could even blink, she had her crossbow loaded and a bolt already flying for that monster''s eye. Dead-on, too. I mean, you''d think that dragon was doomed!" He paused for effect, sweeping his gaze over the crowd.
The drunkard gasped, his mug clutched tight.
"Ha! Not even close," the blond man declared, slapping his thigh. "That dragon wasn''t going to be taken down so easily. It snorted¡ªa low, guttural sound that rumbled through the air¡ªand just like that, the gust of its breath blew her bolt clean away. Didn''t even flinch!"
It was amazing how the blond man could transform a rash misjudgment into a decisive assault.
"When we saw that," he continued, his voice rising with practiced drama, "we knew it was time to get serious. Mortise was at the edge of the clearing, already hard at work, casting every boon she could think of on us and every bane she could muster on the dragon!"
Something that, if she''d kept her wits about her, she''d have remembered that dragons were naturally resistant to. All that frantic spellcasting¡ªlayer upon layer of enchantments¡ªamounted to little more than wasted energy.
"Infirm, right next to Mortise, was attempting to interfere with the dragon''s magic sense so it couldn''t locate the source of the spells."
Errant frowned, the memory pulling him out of the moment. He recalled an old tale about a devadoot who had attempted something similar. The creature had tried to block a dragon''s aetheric senses, its divine magic clashing against the dragon''s sheer will. The battle had been so fierce, so unrelenting, that they say their souls became locked together indefinitely.
"And then Way¡ªthe absolute madman," the blond exclaimed, his grin practically splitting his face, "bolstered his legs with magic, took a running start, and jumped onto the dragon! Right onto its back! All so he could get some clean stabs in with his rapier!"
The mad part was accurate.
The soldiers gathered around the campfire were utterly enraptured, their wide-eyed expressions lit by the crackling flames. A few shot Way looks of disbelief, mingled with awe and a hint of respect. The madman himself sat cross-legged, a faint grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, relishing in the attention.
Way waved off the attention outwardly, but his shoulders pulled back, and his posture straightened along the admiration. "Didn''t last long up there, though," he admitted with a wry chuckle. "It was easy enough to grab hold¡ªthose wings make for decent handholds¡ªbut touching that thing was like grabbing fire."
He flexed his fingers absentmindedly as if recalling the sensation. "Every time I so much as brushed that thing''s scales, these tiny shocks ran up my arms. Felt like my muscles were turning to stone. After a couple of stabs, I had no choice but to drop off before I ended up paralyzed¡ªor worse."
The blond man erupted into laughter, the sound booming over the sizzling fire. He slapped his knee and took another hearty gulp of his drink. "Of course, you couldn''t last long, Way! Who in their right mind thinks they can mount a dragon and walk away from it? That''s rich!"
The soldiers chuckled along, a few shaking their heads in disbelief, while Way rolled his eyes but didn''t argue.
"Anyway," the blond man continued, waving his mug and reclaiming everyone''s attention, "there we were, dodging and weaving, throwing everything we had at it. Which, to be honest, wasn''t much, seeing as it was up in the air half the time, flitting around like some oversized storm cloud." He paused, smirking as if relishing the memory.
"I tell you, though," he added, leaning forward with a conspiratorial grin, "if we had wings like that? That dragon wouldn''t have stood a chance. We''d have had it grounded and begging for mercy in no time!"
This was precisely why Errant was implicitly forbidden from recounting their adventures. If it were up to him to describe this part of the fight, he would have said they''d been running around like headless chickens, aimlessly wreaking havoc and shouting over one another. All the while, the only thing they were actually accomplishing was blocking his ability to actually ground the thing.
Errant could picture the reaction if he ever tried to tell it his way¡ªWay rolling his eyes, Fetter''s tinkling laughter as she scolded him about not appreciating ''gravitas,'' and their blond leader, grinning like a fox as he would snidely comment, ''That''s why we leave the storytelling to me, Errant.''
Not that it mattered. The truth wouldn''t win anyone over at a campfire, and it certainly wouldn''t earn them any free drinks.Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.
"You always hear in books about how dragons are these noble, honourable creatures," the blond man scoffed, "Yeah, well, forget that. This thing stayed in the air, out of reach, and rained down so much magic on us that it was like the sky itself was splitting open!" he exclaimed with exasperation as if the creature was actually expected to descend for some kind of antiquated duel. "The dragon was casting so much magic it actually started to deplete enough magic from the atmosphere that the plants around us were starting to wither!"
Their leader took another long drink, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Mortise and Infirm had to give up on their buffs just to get a barrier up to hold back the bloody assault. Even both of them together could barely hold off against its magic storm. Lucky for us, we had Errant and his abominable slab of iron."
Errant''s eyes narrowed, and he retorted, voice flat, "It''s a sword,"
The blond man shook his head, grinning as if Errrant had just completed his punchline. "Sure, it''s a sword."
Errant shot a look around the campfire, searching for any glimmer of support, but the soldiers were all too busy trying not to laugh. He grumbled and crossed his arms.
Fetter, never one to miss an opportunity, chimed in from across the fire. "Sorry, Errant," she said with a smirk. "But even a giant wouldn''t have bought that slab of yours as a sword."
His entire team was a mess of hyperbolic comedians, each of them outdoing the others in their exaggerations. But mocking his sword? That was a step too far. Errant straightened up, trying to keep his composure, and turned to the crowd of drunken soldiers. "I made that sword myself, you know?"
For a moment, the campfire fell quiet. One of the older men, his face red from previous laughter, wiped a tear from his eye and responded, "Now that I can believe." which caused a rumbling chuckle to spread through the group.
Errant pouted. He worked hard on that sword.
The blond man jumped right back in, his voice full of theatrical excitement. "So, Errant actually throws"¡ªhe mimed the action dramatically¡ª"I kid you not¡ªhis whole ''sword'' like it''s some kind of javelin!"
The soldiers, still laughing, stopped mid-chuckle and looked at Errant, their eyes widening with near-shocked disbelief as they took in his well-toned frame.
The blond coughed into his fist to return the crowd''s attention. "The weapon pierces right through the dragon''s tail and lodges into the ground¡ªlandlocking the thing like some kind of one-man artillery! You''d think that would be it right? Take down the dragon''s greatest strength, and it would be easy pickings, but man, that thing kept up a serious fight."
No reasonable person would think the fight was done just because they grounded a dragon. It was a dragon, for goodness sake.
"It never relented its magical barrage, and it even managed to bite Way''s entire leg off. Oh man, when that happened, we thought he was going to die. He went so pale and the blood WOULD.NOT.STOP."
Errant sometimes wondered if he had become an enabler for their team. He really should have stopped Way. He couldn''t have known Way''s plan, of course. Way had thought that since they couldn''t puncture the dragon''s scales, they should attack from within. But he should have known that was just the type of thing Way would do. Madman indeed. If anything, he was lucky that he only lost a leg from that stunt.
The crowd turned their attention to Way, who sat there in all his healthy, two-legged splendour. Way, ever nonchalant, casually shrugged in response to their baffled stares. "...I got better."
The soldiers chuckled, though a few still exchanged confused looks, unsure if they should take him seriously.
But their leader didn''t let the moment linger. He jumped back in, eager to keep the story moving. "Yeah, we eventually managed to sort out the whole leg thing, but that''s a whole other story. You know, after all the healing costs, and with both Mortise and Infirm coming down with Essential sickness from draining their magic reserves, we barely broke even from the whole debacle. But hey, worth it, right?"
Errant rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath. ''Magic reserves,'' he thought, watching Fetter subtly place an arm to stop Infirm from interrupting. It was just a silly campfire fairytale, after all; let the man be confidently incorrect.
The blond man shifted in his seat, clearly delighted by the crowd''s rapt attention. "So, here we are. The dragon''s grounded, which is good, but we''ve got one party member bleeding out, Infirm can''t cast anymore, and Mortise has to focus all her energy on keeping Way alive." He paused, as if relishing the tension in the air. "A tricky situation, for sure."
The soldiers around the campfire hung on every word, their faces growing sombre at the mention of the party''s injuries.
"We weren''t sure if we should keep fighting or try and retreat to heal our wounded. But leave it to Errant," the blond man continued with a grin, "always pushing himself to the limit. He ran straight in and did the most insane thing I''ve ever seen." He held up his hands as if preparing the crowd for the absurdity to come. "He pulls out his weapon so the dragon can fly again!"
The crowd''s faces froze in utter confusion. Their brows furrowed, and a few exchanged puzzled glances.
The blond man watched their reactions with a satisfied smile, clearly enjoying the shock he''d caused. "That was exactly the look I had," he said, a hint of laughter in his voice. "Maybe with a little more panic, though, given the freed dragon now directly in front of my face."
Errant shot him a look, silently cursing him for the dramatic embellishment.
"But then," the blond man leaned in closer, his voice lowering for effect, "Errant, using the same swing to pull his weapon out of the tail, turned around and let it fall like a guillotine¡ªand I swear to the gods, it decapitated the dragon on the spot."
"Just like that?" one of the soldiers asked, a voice filled with disbelief.
The blond man nodded, his grin widening. "Just like that."
The campfire crackled in the silence that followed, the soldiers exchanging looks, struggling to wrap their heads around the absurdity.
Of course, there was an unending stream of details that the blond man exempted from the story, not least of which was the second dragon they met that day. The blond man probably thought that bookending their story on such an absolutely one-sided scolding wouldn''t have been ''fun.''
It was understandable, of course. The story lost much of its punch once it was revealed that the dragon they fought had just been a child. That second dragon they met was not so young, and not even Errant would have acted frivolously with it, though it was never in his nature to act frivolously, to begin with.
The second dragon had come to collect the blood of its fallen brethren; it was an exceptionally strange circumstance for the group. The dragon had been very cordial and diplomatic, speaking with perfect fluency and even compensating them with assistance in regenerating Way''s lost limb. However, Errant was very aware that it was all a front. The second dragon was not offering to exchange the dragon''s blood for healing; it was a command.
Errant''s attention snapped back to the campfire when one of the soldiers, grinning like a wolf, refilled his cup with more ale. The soldier raised his mug toward the group across from him, his voice thick with mock admiration. "So, what made the Banausic Cardinals: ''dragon slayers'' join us against the Pleurothallidinae?" He emphasized the title with exaggerated hand motions, his fingers splayed out like he was presenting a grand spectacle. "You lot don''t look like you''re from the Sodality of Rain."
Fetter was the first to respond on that front. "It''s the Pleurothallidinae that''s what! You don''t have to be from the Sodality of Rain to want them dead. We may have missed out on the Mokoi Khan to The Saviors, but the Pleurothallidinae? That will be our kill."
Errant couldn''t resist chiming in, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You make it sound like if it wasn''t for The Saviors, you would have killed the Mokoi Khan. You were four when the Khan died." The soldiers erupted into laughter, their hearty chuckles echoing around the campfire. Fetter''s face flushed a deep shade of red.
Fetter purposefully did not deign to respond. Errant took every opportunity to remind her that she was the youngest member of their group. She assumed he was just happy that he didn''t have to fit that role anymore. She soldiered on as if the comment was never made: "¡, but the Pleurothallidinae are just as bad if not worse than the Mokoi Khan, really, since they already forced themselves in this land." She nodded to herself liking the train of thought, "In a way, defeating the Pleurothallidinae would be even more impressive. The Khan never took land."
Nothing could spark a heated debate faster then questioning the glory of the Saviours, and none could debate with more verve than a bunch of drunken, bored, unruly men. The drinks refilled, the voices raised, and the party paraded on.
...Until.
Chapter 45: Lovely Anchors pt. 2
The Banausic Cardinal''s leader took in the peaceful sight playing out. His entire team sat around the campfire, drinking, laughing, and swapping stories of days gone by. Well, most of his party was. Errant did not join in on the conversations often, but that was just the type of person he was. The blond leader could just imagine all of the corrections and interjections he was self-inserting during the retelling of that dragon story. Errant just didn''t understand branding.
Fetter might have imprinted her own personal reason for joining the Sodality of Rain''s counterforce against the Pleurothallidinae, but the real reason the leader accepted the quest had more to do with managing team morale. They needed a break. Any military effort, even one against the mokoi would take time and patience to accomplish. This was the perfect way to basically force the group into a vacation.
The blond man was aware that he wasn''t the most skilled or intelligent member of the team, but there was one thing that no one could doubt: he could lead. Well except for when they fought that dragon, that was an unmitigated disaster, but it was also too good of a story not to tell.
While the blond man leaned back, taking in the sight of his group, he noticed another soldier walking toward them with quick, purposeful steps from the edge of the forest. Her name was Weltschmerz, and she was one of the citizen volunteers from the Sodality of Rain. She could be succinctly described as the intense type. Her eyes were red, and it was clear she''d been crying¡ªthough she was doing her best to hide it.
Trying to ease her into the group, the blond man grinned and offered a purposefully comical introduction. "Hey Weltschmerz, you were out for a while. Take a big dump?"
The blond man''s words brought Weltschmerz into the fold while shifting most of the group''s attention to him. Fetter slapped him across the shoulder and began scolding him about how indecent and rude his behaviour was.
Meanwhile, Mortise, catching sight of Weltschmerz''s red eyes, misinterpreted the situation entirely. She grew mortified, assuming the tear-streaked eyes were a direct response to the blond man''s comment. In a flurry of panic, Mortise began profusely apologizing on his behalf.
Errant silently watched the comical chaos unfold, his gaze fixed on the exchange as Fetter continued her scolding and Mortise floundered in her apologies. Despite the amusing spectacle, his attention was gradually stolen by Weltschmerz. There was something seriously wrong.
Weltschmerz ignored the lively clamour of the Banausic Cardinals, interrupting both Mortise and Fetter as if she hadn''t even clued in that they were speaking to begin with. "I think there were mokoi scouts around here. We need to scan the forest."
The soldiers still riled with mirth and drink, simply laughed the girl off. They clearly thought she was being paranoid, which she usually was. One of the soldiers, spilling some of his drink in his drunkenness, laughed out to Weltschmerz. "You''re probably just psyching yourself out, feeling vulnerable with your pants down. Nearly all the mokoi are out on a hunt somewhere."
Weltschmerz did not take the comment well. The laughter and dismissiveness only seemed to stoke a fiery rage within her. It flowed through her muscular body, her jaw clenched tight as her fists tightened at her sides. "The latest report said that they had lost track of the hunting unit. Perhaps they know a route that we aren''t aware of and slipped by."
The soldier shook his head dismissively. "This is our territory; we know of all the routes."
Errant could practically hear the explosion brewing within her, the simmering anger on the edge of boiling over. He watched as it happened¡ªlike a spark igniting a blaze. All the rage and spite poured out of her lungs and into her words as she shouted, her voice filled with a raw intensity. "It hasn''t been our territory for nearly a millennium now, we can''t know!"
The Cardinals liked Weltschmerz; she was kind, respectful, and reliable, but it was clear that she came with a lot of baggage. Part of that baggage was evident in her zealous disdain for mokoi. The Pleurothallidinae was her number one target in that regard, and it was evident to anyone who had spent any time with her that she would jump at any opportunity to make them suffer, even if it wasn''t always the most rational course of action.
She was still an intelligent person, even if her lividity against the mokoi seeped into her every thought and action. She wouldn''t come out and say what she did pointlessly. Regardless, this was a proper military operation, and maintaining order and calm was just as important as addressing the threat itself, something that the waking camp behind him indicated was in jeopardy.
The blond man stood up from the wooden log he had been sitting on, his eyes scanning the group and seeing a rising tension. A few soldiers were getting ready to scold Weltschmerz, which would only further exacerbate the discord. He needed to quickly placate both parties without raising any panic on either side.
He cleared his throat and spoke, his voice steady, ready to take control. "Alright, we still need some soldiers stationed at this checkpoint to make sure the ''mokoi'' don''t waltz by while we''re gone, so how about we look around instead, just in case." He looked at his half-finished cup of liqueur, he thought briefly but he probably wouldn''t be fighting anything tonight, so he chugged down the rest of the drink and placed the empty mug on the log next to him. "Will that make you feel better?"
Weltschmerz did not falter in her position. Her eyes were wide, and her voice trembled with urgency. "We have to tell the main garrison to strike now. If the mokoi hunting unit gets back to the valley before the invasion tomorrow, then there''s no way we''ll win!" Her breathing was becoming erratic, each word coming out in a rush, and it was clear she was working herself up into a frenzy.
The blond man tried to calm Weltschmerz back to a more reasonable level. "Let''s not say anything to the garrison yet. If you were mistaken, we don''t want to cause an unnecessary fuss, and if you''re right, then they could have already made it back to the valley, and it''ll be too late."
He gave his team a wave, signalling for them to prepare. The Cardinals put down their drinks and food, all of them moving with practiced efficiency. One by one, they slipped into their respective tents to gather their gear. The blond man stayed behind, watching Weltschmerz carefully and ensuring she didn''t do anything else to rouse the camp.
Instead, Weltschmerz seemed on the verge of tears. Her fists were clenched so tightly that her nails were drawing blood from her palms. Her breath hitched as she struggled to hold herself together, managing to grit out a few words through choked breaths. "But they can''t come back yet. We were so close."This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.
The poor woman, he thought, she must have gone through so much to get to this point. But then again, so had everyone, hadn''t they? Wasn''t that the reason the Banausic Cardinals were taking this break in the first place? The blond man gave a small sigh, then turned his attention back to Weltschmerz, his voice gentle but firm. "If they really did make it back to the valley, and that''s a big if, then we''ll just wait for the next hunt. There will always be another chance. Now let''s go do our job and actually figure out IF they are back." With that, he stepped into his tent and began to equip himself, taking a moment to center himself before the next task at hand.
Soon the entire group was ready to depart. The blond man had his intricately beautiful bow, Way his thin rapier, Mortise and Infirm their staves, Fetter her bulky crossbow. And Errant, ever the radical, wielded his ludicrous slab of metal he called a sword¡ªas wide as he was and twice as tall¡ªmore an obstacle than a weapon, but a weapon nonetheless.
Weltschmerz led the Cardinals to the spot that had sparked her earlier outburst. At first glance, it seemed like an ordinary patch of forest, little more than a secluded corner next to a small pond¡ªbarely more than a puddle, really.
Mortise stared, confused, at a random human-shaped groove that indented into the mud next to the pond. "Uhm¡ what exactly were you doing out here?"
Weltschmerz averted her gaze, clearly embarrassed by the question. "I was¡ powdering my nose." She clearly lied.
The rest of the cardinals didn''t pay much heed to Mortise''s interaction with Weltschmerz. They were far more focused on something else. The Cardinals were all investigating the strange break in the forest canopy that Weltschmerz seemed so convinced was evidence of a mokoi scout. All except Errant. His attention was drawn elsewhere, towards the pond, where something had caught his eye.
Errant stepped away from the group, his gaze locked onto the strange discoloration in the shallow pond below. There, in the muddied water, something unsettling was floating¡ªvomit, awkwardly sloshing with the subtle shifting of the puddle''s surface.
The blond man, noticing Errant''s distraction, called out, "Errant, do you see something?"
Errant didn''t respond right away. He was trying to piece together not what the potential mokoi were doing here but rather what Weltschmerz was doing. He wasn''t quite sure what his conclusion was, but he at least knew that Weltschmerz would save a little face if the rest of the Cardinals went unaware that she puked into the pond.
His wandering thoughts were interrupted when the blond man shook his shoulder. Quickly snapping out of his daze, Errant turned toward the canopy, redirecting the focus. "No, it was nothing." he said, dismissing it with a casual tone, careful not to let the blond man notice the vomit.
Fetter had made her way up a nearby tree to get a closer look at the broken branch. Getting a better inspection, it was obvious to tell that something had accidentally slipped up and caused a much bigger mess than it had intended. Fetter called down to inform the rest of the group of her discovery. "Bad news. It definitely looks like something big that didn''t want to leave a mark was here. But there''s no trail or anything. I''m looking all around, and I don''t see any signs of where they came from or went. Like it just flew in and out."
The blond man was alleviated by these results. "That''s a good sign at least. If it was some sort of bird, then it couldn''t be the mokoi."
Errant wasn''t going to correct the blond man and send Weltschmerz into another, what he assumed was a panic attack, but that wasn''t quite right. Although quite rare, there definitely were subsets of avian-like mokoi. Though the Pleurothallidinae was a relatively small army, chances were low that they would have any of these flying mokoi in their midst.
Fetter, being the only one who could properly see the mess caused in the forest canopy, also doubted the blond man''s na?ve optimism. "... That''s one big bird."
The blond man was ready to congratulate a job well done and head back to camp but he noticed a shift across his party. It wasn''t just Weltschmerz crying wolf anymore; both Errant and Fetter were looking increasingly suspicious, and the rest of the party was slowly joining suit. He relinquished himself to a long night and decided he better appease his workaholic allies.
Their leader clapped his hands to gather everyone''s attention and cobbled together a basic outline for a plan. "Well, whatever it was, it clearly didn''t want to be found. So maybe it just got better at hiding itself and the twigs here were a slip-up." He didn''t actually agree with his own statement, but this seemed to be the conclusion that the rest of the group had come up with.
"We should go ahead and do a perimeter check just in case and see if we can find any more spots like this. Mortise and Way, you two go with Weltschmerz up north. Infirm and Fetter will go south with me. West is camp, so fingers crossed there''s nothing that way. Errant, you''ll be fine searching east on your own?"
Errant simply gave an approving nod to their leader.
"Alright, let''s just do a quick search. Lucky for us, the day star has decided to come say hi, so it should get easier to track as we go on. Chances are it''s just a bird, but If you find something, don''t initiate a fight; just head back and alert camp."
All three groups split off in their respective directions, disappearing into the dense shadows of the forest. Despite the incredibly heavy slab of metal slumped over his back, Errant moved out at a similar pace to the rest of the groups. His confidence in the mission''s success was tenuous at best. From the little he knew of avian-like mokoi, the fact that it had left a trace at all of its presence would have been an exceptionally lucky catch on their part.
If the mokoi had passed through here, they were already too late. The Pleurothallidinae would have reached their stronghold by now, rendering the weeks of preparation for the ambush meaningless. The thought was a bitter one, but only in a nebulous general sense.
After all, this wasn''t his war, and scanning the forest for nothing wasn''t the worst way to spend his time. He had willingly declined to take leadership of the Banausic Cardinals long ago, leaving the responsibility of command to others. He''d rather not be involved in that kind of decision-making.
His skills had far outstripped theirs years before, but he stayed for reasons that had little to do with strategy. They were his companions¡ªhis friends¡ªand he valued their camaraderie more than any tactical advantage his presence might bring. If the price of that bond was an occasional pointless traipse through the woods, or commingling with drunken militants, then so be it.
As it turned out, the mission wasn''t as pointless as Errant had assumed. His steps faltered when a soft chime rang out, clear and resonant against the quiet hum of the forest. Two bells. One echoed faintly from the far north, almost swallowed by the distance, but the second came from directly ahead, cutting through the stillness with a sharp, deliberate clarity.
Errant''s grip tightened instinctively around the hilt of his weapon, his fingers flexing against the worn leather wrap. He scanned the treeline, his gaze sharp and unyielding, while his body coiled with readiness.
Where the bell had chimed a small pink rhombus suddenly grew out of thin air. Or it was a rhombus, but its body would reject any stable state. It would shift and transform, shrink and grow, continuously morphing into other shapes. The pink shape finally locked into a form resembling that of a featureless human with only one limb. The arm was outstretched towards Errant holding a glowing parchment: It read.
| You have been invited to |
| The Tournament |
| You are The Umbra |
Chapter 46: River pt. 1
A boisterous clamour of inebriated misconduct filled the lively tavern. Liquid spilled from mugs and heresy from lips. The heady aroma of spilled spirits mingled with the tang of sweat, telling a tale of indulgence thick in the air. The intoxicating liquor was a powerful poison flowing through veins and minds alike as an active advisor of rowdy delight. A long day, having come to an appreciative end had loaded this small village tavern with tired patrons looking for a respite from work or cognitive responsibility.
A young man sat in a shadowed corner of the establishment, golden ichor sloppily dripping from his unkempt beard. His short, wiry frame was cloaked in an oversized mantle, a vast dark green expanse of thick flax draping over his shoulders. The garment was loosely buckled at the collar with an iron emblem depicting a flaming sword, its burning tongues forming the silhouette of a pine tree. Solitary at his table, the man''s only companions were two imposing maces, one black and one white, resting within arm''s reach.
The young man cradled a large mug of tasteful liquor; he kept the mug close like a precious lover he refused to release. With his free hand, he clumsily scrawled into a small, battered journal, the pen wobbling in his unsteady grasp. His writing was hardly legible, and its contents were even less trustworthy as his slipping consciousness riddled the pages with hyperbole and undue extravagance. Frankly, it was impressive enough that he could even manage to keep hold of his pen in his current state.
The young man''s already fragile concentration shattered as another patron plopped heavily into the seat across from him, the flimsy wooden chair protesting with a loud, creaking squeal. Blinking blearily, the drunkard turned his gaze to the intruder, struggling to piece together details through the haze clouding his mind.
The newcomer was an older man, both tall and broad, his substantial frame layered with the unmistakable definition of toned muscle beneath his bulk. His flushed cheeks hinted at a few drinks of his own, though the older man still carried himself with far more composure than the young drunkard. However, what truly grated on the inebriated man''s nerves was the smug, mischievously punchable grin plastered across the guest''s face.
The guest spoke before the drunkard could shoo him away. "You know, my pa was once a merchant and he did take us ''round the whole country for his work." The older man took a long sip of his own ale that he had brought with him before continuing. "I like to thinks me as a little more educated than yer average small town folk I do."
The irritable intruder snatched the drunkard''s journal, flipping it around to read, but made little progress as the drunkard quickly yanked it back, clutching it close to his chest.
Unfazed, the guest continued, "I even know how to read, believe it or not. Can even write meself, though not so good, I''ll admit. Still, even if I do pride meself on me readin, I will do say I cannot for the life of me read whatever in hell you been writin there."
The drunkard sneered at his guest with an unamused expression. The sneer sent a shroud of noxious breath that forced the guest to wave his hand in a frail attempt at dispelling the foul stench of alcohol.
The older man took another sip from his own drink and carried on. "As an experienced travelin'' man as meself, I got me the privilege of not only hearin ''bout the world, but to see it as well ya understand. So, whereas many of the nice folk ''round these parts had heard of the big spooky Clotted Forest Mercenaries and hope never ta see the blokes, I get the privilege to see ya green cloak and emblem and know that they already have."The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
The drunkard took a deep gulp, draining his mug, and was about to rise when his guest raised a hand to stop him. The young man froze half out of his seat, and the guest signalled down a waitress, who promptly refilled the mug. The young drunk warily jumped from cup to annoying stranger and finally decided to sit back down.
The old man continued. "Now a part of bein'' so worldly ya see, means I ain''t goin'' to play part as some closed-minded ignorant small-town kid ya hear? That ain''t me, no sir. Ya see, I think people can be people, and ya shouldn''t judge a book by its cover or a man by his emblem. My pa taught me that. Smart man he was."
The older man nodded in reminiscence and took another swig, "Though I ain''t gonna judge on no first impression, I do lean on to judge on an impression ya hear? And I''d feel a lot safer with a name friend. Of course, I don''t think it fair to take and not to give. My name''s Praetor."
Praetor extended his hand, waiting for a handshake that never came. The drunkard did not even acknowledge the extended hand. Instead, he tucked his journal into an inner pocket of his leather armour.
After a long pause, the drunkard finally spoke, but Praetor had to strain to make sense of anything beyond the incoherent slurring and stumbling words. "Ish shnot parr ah those shtphid clotted morons anshymo."
Praetor tried to hide his laughter by taking another sip of his drink; this young man was much further gone than Praetor had expected. He wondered if the young man might not even be able to maintain consciousness in his inebriated state. Despite his borderline incoherent state, the young drunk still plowed through his cup, swiftly finishing his new mug and hailing the waitress for another refill.
Praetor replastered an overcompensating false grin on his face as he continued his not-so-subtle interrogation. "It''s good to hear that ya no killer no more, but I''d still feel better with a name."
The drunkard glanced down at the liquid flowing from the waitress''s jug into his mug. He chuckled, then grabbed the mug and replied. "Chu ryly no hoawh to bribe ah mun. num Mulct."
It was quite the challenge to decipher the drunkard''s words, so he had to check for confirmation. "Ya said yer name was Mulct?" With an affirmative grunt, Praetor now knew who he was interrogating. "So, what brings a mercenary-" the drunk glared, and the old man corrected himself, "Sorry, ex-mercenary to this here peaceful town?"
¡°I''n un knosh, mabe kansh find shumshpliche quiet to wrier mi buk.¡±
"Yer writin'' a book, are ya? Is it about yer'' ventures with the Clotted Forest Mercenaries?" Mulct lost himself in the swirling dew within his cup. Praetor felt like he could practically see the man''s mind walk away from reality into its own little bubble. "Well Mulct, I can tell ya I''m glad to hear yer not here to cause no trouble ''round here. We''d be happy to have an author in our little community we do, though ye wouldn''t be findin'' yerself many readers in this town." Praetor chuckled at his own comment. A few patrons who had been listening in from a table over also caught themselves laughing at the joke. One hollering a jovial protest.
Praetor finally stood up, taking the final gulp to finish his mug of ale. "Well, sorry for the interrogation, ma friend, but I just had to check that you weren''t another dirty savage, ya know? But ya seem like a kind fellow, glad that yer able to come back to civilized society. I wish ya tha best."
The old man then nudged the drunk for some friendly ribbing, "Maybe ya can even find yerself a nice woman to settle down with now. I heard that since they''re next to no dames in mercenary groups, that they all a bunch o'' disgustin fruits."
Praetor began to walk away, feeling fairly good about his encounter with the stranger. He made his way back toward his friends, waving to a waitress for another refill when he suddenly felt a force slam into his back. Mulct had thrown his whole body into the attack, tackling Praetor to the ground. "What the he-"Praetor''s shout was cut off by a fist slamming into the back of his head. Mulct packed quite a punch for such a short man, and he didn''t stop at just one. He rained down heavy blows onto the stunned Praetor. Only three strikes in, and Praetor was knocked unconscious, bloody cracked skull leaking onto the establishment floors.
Chapter 46: River pt. 2
Praetor''s friends quickly sprang to their feet and rushed to help. One man dove for their own tackle, but Mulct bounced back and then met the man''s face with a swinging kick. Shin collided with nose in an audible crack that silenced the tavern. There was a moment''s pause of stunned confusion and then a fist came flying. Mulct used the momentum of the incoming fist to help flip his attacker over his shoulder, sending them crashing partly onto a table, hip slamming against the edge while the upper half of their body missed the table and continued to the ground. The legs then followed, folding over themselves and leaving the man crippled on the floor.
Mulct, being too distracted by the satisfaction of his strike, was too late to notice a giant fist hurtle toward his face. The punch sent him spinning off his feet and into the air, his body careening toward his chair. His chin clipped the edge as he fell, sending a rattling sting through his entire head.
He did not get up. The tavern had gone silent in the sudden reprieve from violence. A few fighters slowly approached the downed drunk. "What the hell was his problem?"
Mulct''s rattled mind stuttered back into consciousness, and he spat out a bloody tooth. The reaction stilled any conversation in the tavern. Mulct reached forward and grabbed onto his black mace, then quickly spun around, launching the end of his weapon into the soft skull of the man who had hit him, instantly killing him.
"What the-!" The entire crowd recoiled at the sudden aggression, and Mulct seized his chance to charge. Leaping to his feet, he slammed into one man, knocking him to the ground. He rolled with the momentum, coming up on his feet and finishing with a kick to another''s chest, the sound of cracking ribs echoing through the tavern.
A nearby patron picked up a wooden chair and swung it into Mulct''s back, knocking Mulct to his knees. The patron swung again, but this time, Mulct met the chair with his own mace, eviscerating it into a powder of shrapnel that was blown back into the man wielding it. The man collapsed to the floor with a carnal wail of agony.
Another patron rushed to the rescue with his sword drawn just to be met with the butt of a mace to his teeth, shattering them and knocking him to the ground. Mulct turned back to the man with the splintered chair impaled in his body and smashed the mace into his skull. The skull easily compressed under the weapon''s might, leaving a sizable impression, and the skull''s owner flopped lifelessly to the ground.
Mulct ducked low to evade a sweeping sword strike of a second fighter, then swept his leg out to trip a third arrival. He swung his mace up to crunch into the second''s fighter chin, the blow sending the man''s head snapping back. As the fighter crumpled, Mulct expertly guided his fall, ensuring the sword in his hand drove deep into the chest of the other. Mulct then turned to the man covered in shrapnel lying on the floor with his head caved in. Mulct bellowed a guttural howl and plunged his mace into the already dead man''s head, squashing it flat and sending viscera exploding across the entire room.
Mulct grabbed a nearby table with his free hand and effortlessly threw it at the door, knocking down some approaching guards before they could even fully enter the building. With a snarl, Mulct was about to charge into the new wave of enemies, but his eyes caught a terrified patron reaching for his white mace resting against the wall.
His heart skipped a beat. Mulct pivoted sharply on the balls of his feet and sprinted toward the patron, his voice booming. "Donsh''t tusch him!"
With a primal grunt, Mulct swung his mace with both hands, the weapon smashing into the body of the unfortunate barfly. The force sent the man hurtling through the tavern wall, his limp form crashing into the alley outside and careening further through the next wall over.
Breathing heavily, Mulct retrieved his white mace, its pristine surface now marred by a few bloodstains. Without hesitation, he charged into the next building, making use of the newly formed entrances, the wreckage of the walls still crumbling around him.
The wounded victim lay on the ground, arms wrapped around a horribly bruising chest, internal bleeding flooding to the fore. Mulct did not stop, he smashed his black mace into the felled man. He struck again, not even checking if he survived the first hit. He struck down and struck again far past the point where his weapon even felt resistance, his own bloodlust only being interrupted by the terrified screeching of the family watching this slaughter occur in their own home.
The guards finally reached the new battlefield, their advance momentarily faltering at the gruesome sight before them. The first guard who broke from his stupor threw a jab with his spear. Mulct, unphased, sidestepped the spear thrust with fluid precision, his body a blur of movement. He didn''t strike back, though. Instead, he slammed his mace one last time into the lifeless puddle at his feet and again once more to fully render the victim to paste. Only then did he turn, locking eyes with the approaching guards, a grim resolve setting in as he prepared to continue the battle.
Mulct didn''t freeze like his opponents. With a roar, he dove headfirst into the chaos, a whirlwind of fury amidst the spears and swords surrounding him. One arm was tucked protectively behind his back, guarding the white mace, while his other arm swung the black mace in a relentless flurry of death and destruction. Flesh and bone whirled like butter around his blunt demolition. The rustic and ill-kept weapons of the guards could do little more than shatter in defence of the incredible stress from the mace.
With a surge of energy, Mulct''s relentless assault dragged the battle out of the invaded home and into the streets, where a vast battalion of soldiers quickly formed a cage of steel around Mulct, their numbers and weapons threatening to overwhelm him.
A volley of spears shot forward, an inaccurate barrage of panicked retaliation, but Mulct moved like lightning. He sprang impossibly high, soaring over the deadly bombardment, and landed with a thunderous crash in the heart of the battalion. With a battle cry, he carved his way through the soldiers, each swing of his mace fueled by raw, unbridled fury, sending bodies flying and hysteria rippling through the ranks.
The reinforcements flooded in, but even their numbers couldn''t stem the tide of carnage. Slowly, the battlefield emptied, leaving only a handful of bodies in their wake. No soldier fled. This was their home¡ªif they had run, they would have abandoned their families, their children, to the wrath of this madman.
Their courage and dedication were matched only by the brutal ferocity of their aggressor, which had driven them to the brink. In the end, only one soldier remained breathing, surrounded by the wreckage of their comrades.If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.
The last soldier lay crumpled on the ground, unarmed, drenched in his own concoction of liquid fear. Mulct raised his mace high, ready to finish what he had started when a sudden pressure against his legs halted him. He looked down to find a small child, barely more than a toddler, his tiny hands clinging desperately to Mulct''s legs. The child''s body was too small to even lift a weapon, and yet, he hurled himself at Mulct with all the strength he could muster.
A stream of tears streaked down the child''s face as he sobbed and cursed, his feet digging into the soft mud in a futile attempt to hold Mulct at bay. "NOOOOOOO! Stay away from Daddy! Stay away from here, you monster!"
Mulct''s grip on his black mace slackened as his gaze swept over the devastation. The tavern had been reduced to rubble, and the house beside it hadn''t fared much better. A blockade of corpses cordoned off the street.
The once-orderly road had transformed into a river of red, the blood pooling up to his ankles, staining the soil beneath. As Mulct surveyed the carnage, his sharp eyes caught the unmistakable sight of civilians among the fallen¡ªnoble peasants who had dared to stand against fate in defence of their town, now scattered like broken dolls among the soldiers.
Mulct stared down at the child, whose small frame bore down on his legs, fueled only by raw rage and desperation. The child''s futile resistance seemed to make the air itself grow heavier.
Mulct''s black mace slipped from his hand, hitting the ground with a dull thud as his vision blurred. A sting of emotion welled up in his chest, and for a moment, he could feel the hot rush of tears threatening to spill. But before he could process it, a sudden burst of delighted laughter pierced the tension, drawing his attention away from the child.
Mulct turned, his gaze drawn to the source of the laughter, and found himself facing a strange woman accompanied by a little girl. The odd woman looked almost human, but not quite. Her clothing, skin, hair, and even her impossibly wide-brimmed hat were all bathed in an impossible pure white. The only aberration in her flawless appearance was her one disturbing, clouded red eye, its gaze unsettling and unnatural. Mulct couldn''t help but feel a flicker of gratitude that her other eye was mercifully hidden behind a pristine white eyepatch.
The little girl, on the other hand, was dressed in an odd scout''s uniform complete with inane badges, but what stood out most from the eerie child was her brilliant yellow headband and repugnant blue eyes, cerulean and piercing, as if they saw through everything that he was.
The little girl adjusted her yellow headband, her expression unreadable, but remained utterly silent. It was the strange white woman who couldn''t contain herself, clutching her stomach as she let out peals of almost hysterical laughter. "Such an unstoppable beast, brought to his knees by the heart of a child¡ª" Her words broke off as she gasped for breath, struggling to control her mirth.
She wiped an invisible tear from her cheek and turned slightly, gesturing toward the girl scout. "I never thought I''d see the day, Can you believe this, Pen?'' she asked, her voice lilting with amusement as if the scene before her were the most delightful spectacle she''d ever witnessed.
Both Mulct and the child clinging to his legs froze, momentarily stunned by the sudden presence of the intruders. The woman in white began to approach them, her movements unhurried, almost languid, as if she were strolling through a garden rather than stepping into the aftermath of a massacre. Mulct snapped to attention, gripping his white mace and planting it firmly before him, readying for whatever came next. But to his confusion¡ªand growing unease¡ªthe woman paid his defensive stance no mind.
The white woman knelt gracefully beside the child, her dress soaking in the river of blood, the plain white eagerly drinking up the dark red that clawed up her clothes. Her single clouded eye drifted aimlessly, unable to lock onto the child''s gaze. With unnaturally long fingers, she reached out¡ªa hesitant, trembling motion¡ªuntil her hand found the child''s cheek. She brushed away a lone tear with a touch so light it could have been a breeze. Her voice, soft and silken, carried a strange comfort as she whispered, "Don''t cry, dear child. There''s no need to mourn for those who have not died."
A smile spread across her face, unfitting for the scene surrounding her. "And lucky for you." The woman tapped her index against the child''s small nose. "No one has died today."
She rose to her full height, brushing off her red-stained clothes in a futile effort to remove the dust and blood that now marred them. With a tilt of her head, she continued, "In fact, no one was even born today if you think of it. But¡" she made a faux show of looking over the devastated streets even though her glazed eye obviously saw none of it, "But... I suppose that''s hardly relevant here, is it?"
The white woman''s face turned stern as she tried to glare at Mulct. Without warning, she delivered a gentle yet deliberate karate chop to the top of his head¡ªnot hard enough to harm him, but firm enough to convey her dissatisfaction. "What were you thinking!?" She scolded, her voice sharp and cutting.
"Just because they''re not real doesn''t mean you should just go around willy-nilly like some uncontrollable psychopath! If you''re so uninterested in the preservation of these bodies, then why are you even so angry about losing Filch?"
The white woman shook her head in exasperation as she began combing her unnervingly long fingers through Mulct''s dishevelled hair, plucking out bits of gore and stray giblets with a look of distaste. "I mean, look at you," she said, her voice dripping with mock disappointment. "You smell awful, you look awful, and you sound awful. Honestly, you should be ashamed of yourself."
She flicked away another grisly piece, her expression softening into one of faint pity. "I''m sure that precious Filch of yours would not be very impressed with your behaviour if he saw it."
Mulct finally found it within himself to interject the stranger, his voice steady now, no longer weighed down by slurred speech¡ªthe adrenaline coursing through his veins had burned away most of the inebriated fog. "What are you talking about? Not real?" he demanded, his eyes narrowing as confusion gave way to frustration. "And who even are you?"
The woman bit onto a knuckle as if to stifle a giggle that nearly escaped. Though her sightless crimson eye couldn''t fix on him, it seemed to pierce through the space around her with an uncanny awareness. "Wow," she said, her tone light but edged with mockery. "I thought with how you were acting, you already knew everything."
The woman then tapped her finger on her chin a few times in a mockery of thinking something over, and then with an equally feigned a-ha moment, she eagerly exclaimed, "How about instead of wandering around aimlessly moping around pretending that you can ruin other peoples'' days as much as yours was, why not try something different? Why not join me and actually make a difference? Wouldn''t you like that?"
Her grin widened, somehow both inviting and unsettling. "To finally stop complaining, take some initiative, and make the world a better place? And while you''re at it," she added with a teasing grin, "You might even get to see Filch born for the first time."
"What?"
"It shouldn''t take long; I think we can get the whole ordeal done at The Tournament in twelve years."
Mulct blinked, still struggling to process the words. The swirling cocktail of alcohol and adrenaline in his system left his mind in a daze, and he couldn''t seem to grasp anything she was saying. Finally, he managed to ask, his voice thick with confusion, "Who are you?"
"Oh, how rude, I forgot to introduce us." The white woman pointed to the little girl with the yellow bandana. "This is my very dear family, Pen. And I¡" She moved her disturbingly long fingers to now point at herself. "I, well, most people like to call me the White Witch."
Chapter 47: Smiling Skies
The clouds were a closing curtain that had called the end of the stars'' show. A curtain that would never be drawn back. They churned in a chaotic assembly, twisting and colliding in a violent ballet of natural combustion. White columns of vapour were torn apart by rapturous winds of hostile air, vortices of swirling nebulas syphoned out any moisture from the skies into targeted geysers of torrential rains.
It was a constant, violent intermingling of relentless currents. A boiling pot of indecision as no cloud could unanimously decide where they wanted to travel; the air currents were imploding, collapsing and rupturing, never committing, portraying a dynamic and rapidly morphing skyline of oppressive haze. The dark billowing masses were an ever-present dense pressure, submitting the land below them to eternal gloom.
Destructive cracks of lightning were the only thing to illuminate the voided nightmare of the sky. Those angry clouds above showered down an incessant and dense rain of electrical demolition. Thunderous javelins struck down so inordinately in scale that they sheared the terrain below. Each collision of electricity and land sparked a cratering bomb followed by an ear-wrenching explosion. Only through this monstrous light source could the rest of the land be observed.
Like a sentient animosity, the clouds stretched their elemental limbs to torment the lands below. Twisting, spiralling cyclones the size of entire cities scouring the land in their relentless fury. The crushing grinders of those tornadoes had been so expedient and unrelenting that the weakened wood within them was set ablaze. These monstrous and sprawling infernos rose into colossal towers of toxic combustion. Together, they birthed a grotesque metropolis of natural calamity¡ªits skyscrapers whirling cyclones, its lanterns crackling lightning, and its streets yawning chasms carved deep into the planet''s core.
The surface of this land was a living, shifting mass of ice. A lumbering bind of quarrelling glaciers that ground together in fits of tearing fissures and jutting spires. Cracks would spontaneously sprout open without warning, exposing unfathomable depths where primal magma surged upward, spitting forth like the venom of an embittered world. When molten fire met the frigid snow, they clashed in a volatile dance, spewing plumes of caustic vapour that hung heavy in the air. The concoction of death eventually cooled, and black ash, poisonous and malevolent, would rain back down.
The entire ecosystem trembled with fervent malice, its wrath unrelenting. The last remaining mountains wept torrents of destruction, casting rivers of tumbling landslides in an endless deluge of stone, snow, and ice.
Forsaken by the day star, this land lay imprisoned in a merciless cold. A ceaseless blizzard raged, its icy winds concealing razor-sharp hail that struck like invisible projectiles. The storm was so dense, so all-encompassing, that even the act of walking through it felt like wading through a viscous barrier, every step an arduous struggle against its oppressive shroud.
Each of the five senses was consumed in its own excessive torments. The ever-energized pyres exhaled a choking smog, saturating the air with a stench of ruin so vile its fetid memory of poisonous death clung to the tongue. The echoes of defiled life seemed to resonate through the haze, hauntingly vivid and inescapable. Nature''s fury orchestrated an overwhelming symphony of booming, discordant roars¡ªsounds so powerful they struck with a physical force, reverberating across the landscape with an oppressive, deafening anthem of destruction.
It was beautiful.
He sat cross-legged at the mouth of a crafted cave, his body unadorned save for the ethereal shroud of a soft cloud that clung to him like a wispy cloak. Tiny arcs of lightning flickered across its surface, briefly illuminating the cave''s rugged interior. His gaze was fixed on the world beyond¡ªa stunning, untamed vista that held him captive. It was beautiful, undeniably so¡ªa raw, unyielding testament to the planet''s indomitable tenacity. Its ferocity, palpable and awe-inspiring, resonated with an almost primal rhythm.
He recalled the time when humans still dominated this land, and he trembled beneath their heedless footsteps. He remembered they often talked about preserving the natural environment. They incentivized conservation and care for the greenery around them. They would often mention how these natural ''disasters'' were proof of the planet''s growing sickness, proof that their changes had meaning and that humans should take responsibility. The general idea was that the environment was healthy when it best housed them: they were wrong.
The sight before him was the image of a truly healthy planet¡ªone that cared nothing for life, nor for anything else. It was, at its core, merely a vast collection of minerals bound by immutable laws of interaction. The ''healthiest'' planet was one that would play and utilize all its capabilities, unrestrained by the concerns of its inhabitants. This was a world indulging in its own chaotic symphony, a self-destruction performed for the universe, a fleeting brilliance etching its legacy into the cosmos.
The humans had feigned concern for him, but their actions betrayed their true intentions. They kept him caged, twisting his powers to serve their own ends, offering kindness only when it suited their needs. But those days were over. This was his land now, and he was free to command it as he pleased. He could make the skies smile however he liked.
He did like the smile the sky gave him on this summer morning. He loved it. The planet''s playful energy reminded him of a child revelling in the freshness of a rainy day, carefree and exuberant. It was a rare and precious moment of harmony¡ªa world alive, untamed, unburdened.
He rose to his feet and ventured deeper into the cave.
The ice tunnel stretched before him, a perfect cylindrical passage carved with meticulous precision, sloping gently downward at an inviting incline. He had crafted it himself, initially driven by a fleeting artistic whim. Yet, as his work progressed, he felt it¡ªa rhythmic tremor, faint but deliberate, reverberating through the frozen ground. These vibrations were not his own; they did not have the same unruly excitation of freed chaos. It was a regular tremor, a stable beat of activity pulsing beneath the ground in a hollow pocket deep below.
With that discovery, his purpose sharpened. What began as idle creativity transformed into a focused pursuit. Perhaps, in that forgotten chamber beneath the desolate soil, some of this land''s original denizens still clung to existence.Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
The ice cave walls were flawless, composed of perfectly frozen water untouched by even the slightest speck of dust. This immaculate, crystalline barrier formed a telescopic window to the chaos outside, its view only interrupted by the occasional air bubble suspended within.
With each step he took deeper into the tunnel, the sound of his movement echoed outward, rebounding off the icy walls and floor. The reflections of sound were amplified by the frosty surfaces, producing an otherworldly melody¡ªa soft, resonant chime like the ringing of a water bell.
The echoes ran down the tunnel, each consecutive bounce creating a hollower, more bass-like tune until, at the tunnel''s farthest depths, the sound transformed, sharpening into an eerie, twining whistle. The ethereal note shot out of the tunnel like a blistering cannon before dissolving into the icy stillness beyond.
He smiled as the musical rhythm caressed his ears, yet he felt a piece of the song was missing. The melody longed for lyrics, for a voice to give it shape. Gently, he placed his hand against the smooth wall of the tunnel, letting his fingers trail softly as he walked.
In response to his touch, the ice shifted and sheared against itself, creating a subtle, crystalline groan. The tunnel became a throat and amplified the simple sound until the cave began to sing¡ªa melancholic choir of tinkling glass, fragile and distant. He closed his eyes, softening his senses and allowing the symphony of sound to fully envelop him.
Even with the musical distraction, it was still a long walk. The ice he descended was immense, its depth unfathomable, but time was a concept that held little sway over him. Eventually, he reached a wall¡ªone not of ice but of clay. Of course, it was frozen solid, but regardless, this wall represented the world that once existed. The wall stood as a divider, obscuring him from the presence of his contemptible foes. Behind it lay the remnants of a forgotten age¡ªperhaps the final survivors of a shattered civilization.
He placed his hand upon the clay, and in response to his thoughts, the wall answered. The clay shuddered and collapsed inward, folding back and relinquishing space to him. The clay burrowed into itself, twisting and drilling down, carving a path to the underground clearing below.
He followed the inclined route to its terminus, the tunnel getting so deep his cloak of clouds had to lift him down the final stretch. At last, the tunnel opened into a claustrophobic chamber, where the remnants of a small encampment lay scattered. Once, this place had been the refuge of a handful of some last persistent few. The encampment was now home to no such people. It was a grave silently watching over those who had succumbed to the meagre challenges of their secret haven.
At the heart of the small encampment lay a dead furnace, its mouth muffled with wet coal. A towering chimney, once threading through the cave''s roof, had collapsed into rubble, its broken remains allowing for a waterfall of melted ice to wash down into the furnace.
Encircling the dead furnace was a chaotic cluster of makeshift homes¡ªhuts cobbled together from mud and ice, stacked precariously atop one another. The haphazard construction, assembled without proper tools or materials, gave the structure an unsettling appearance like it was an abstract facsimile of the homes it aspired to be. Rooms leaned and sagged, stairwells ended abruptly in midair, leading to no entrances, and neighbouring houses toppled into one another and merged into fractured expansions of each other. He couldn''t even tell whether most of this collapse had occurred during the settlement''s life or after its demise, it all seemed to blur into the same desolate fate.
There were a hundred or so bodies scattered about the place, huddled into collected groups clambering together in a final throe for warmth. They were now frozen, petrified mockeries to their failings, ever more echoing their last distortions of agonies. He noticed there were far more corpses than there were houses and the bitterness he felt against these people for defiling his utopia by hiding here was alleviated slightly by the image of their suffering¡ªall the sick and freezing, crammed together in these hastily assembled, fragile shelters.
Many of the corpses were still properly identifiable, brittle corpses highlighted in a thick frost, the skin seen below wrinkled and torn.
Only one part of the cave was not crammed with the dead¡ªa small clearing where a pile of emaciated livestock lay in a pitiful heap. The sight offered a grim glimpse into how these humans tried to nourish themselves. The tragic cattle forced to satiate themselves off a gruesome gruel, left them sickly and feeble even before they died.
Speaking of cattle, this haven had gathered a surprisingly diverse collection of people. He was never particularly skilled at distinguishing the various types of humans, but even he could pick out the soldiers, the nobles, and the families among the frozen remains. They showed a level of communal solidarity that he had never seen when they ruled the lands above. Yet, even with them all singularly allied, there was no need for fear¡ªnot anymore. They were all dead now. None of them could hurt him again.
Having seen what he needed, he was ready to put this tragic abomination behind him. He extended his arm, palm upturned, and he thought about the space above that palm; he thought of a particular mixture, of an interaction of volatile chemicals. As if his thoughts were law, the elements coalesced from the atmosphere and collided. In an instant, the strange concoction reacted with the surrounding air, igniting into a small, flickering purple flame.
The flame was ravenous, quickly expanding as it devoured the limited oxygen in the confined space. Soon, the fire demanded more; it craved more oxygen to feed itself, to grow, to consume, to destroy. Depleting the cave''s supply of air, it began calling to the outside. Its demand echoed out as a piercing howl that reverberated from the cave''s entrance.
The pressure reduction caused the cave to transform into a living, breathing beast. Like a gaping maw, it drew in the passing air from outside with powerful, unrelenting suction, funnelling all air down into the pocket of no-longer-civilization. The influx fed the purple flame, sustaining its endless hunger and ensuring it could burn indefinitely.
He ignored the hurricane-force winds and ravaging flames clashing all about him and peacefully returned up the ice cave. Once he reached its entrance, he turned around and looked through that transparent ice, its surface so pristine that he could see that purple flame rage below. He managed to create another neat little exposition for his nature park.
Another interesting interaction of chemistry and physics, a fun show that would surely entertain any hypothetical tourist. Who wouldn''t love a screeching cave that travelled impossibly deep, leading to an eternal purple flame?
He returned to his casual stroll through his wonderful home when he was interrupted by the chime of a bell. In front of him, there was a pink rhombus, or it was a rhombus, but its body would reject any stable state. It would shift and transform, shrink and grow, continuously morphing into other forms. The pink shape finally locked into a form resembling that of a featureless human with only one limb. The arm was outstretched towards him holding a glowing parchment: it read.
| You have been invited to |
| The Tournament |
| You are The Nimbus |
Chapter 48: On The Patient Doormat
Atop a small hill on the outskirts of town, a peculiar creature perched on a weathered grave. Its short, vibrant orange fur shimmered faintly in the waxing daylight and created the illusion of a faint, warm glow blanketing its fox-like body. Four slender legs folded neatly beneath its body, while two smaller, almost delicate appendages tucked close to its belly.
The creature''s head tapered into a long, conical snout with three pairs of small, glinting eyes tracing a vertical line down it. Beneath the lowest right eye, a seventh, larger eye lay hidden, sealed shut by the jagged scar that slashed across it. The seventh eye''s damage was a great loss as its unique makeup had been a hugely beneficial tool in the past for the creature''s hunting.
The creature had chosen to sacrifice that eye for a noble cause, a decision he never regretted. Even now, as he gazed across to the hill opposite his graveyard perch, his six remaining eyes keenly focused on the sight playing over on that hill, he felt nothing but a quiet pride. The creature''s long, bushy tail, more than thrice the length of his own body, wagged happily.
On that hill out in the distance, a small herd of obedient sheep grazed peacefully on the open grass, their movements curiously synchronized. No shepherd was in sight, yet the animals maintained a flawless order, never straying from the group or quarrelling among themselves. The sight stirred a pang of nostalgia in the creature, a bittersweet echo of a time long past. Once, he had shared the responsibility of tending to these very sheep. He had shared the responsibility alongside his beloved owner.
That was the past. Now, the creature no longer had an owner. In all truth, he never had an owner for particularly long to begin with. The creature was old and had lived a long life, older than most humans at the very least and his long life was marked by endless chapters of solitude and vagabonding. Regardless, it was those short few years he had spent with his owner that outshined any other experience he had in his long life: the games, the laughs, the smiles. Ten short years of a brilliant purity.
It was because of that purity that had made the creature willing to sacrifice himself¡ªand his eye¡ªwithout hesitation. For all intents and purposes, the creature was no longer truly living. He lacked a bond to the soul sea. He was untethered and adrift, with no soul to solely call his own. This was a stark contrast to who the creature used to be. Once, he had basked in the grandiose waves of that boundless sea, an intricate convergence of life and death, history and future, all woven together into a tapestry of coloured time. Once, he had been an essence that balanced on the border of it all.
The creature had given away his soul¡ªoffered it freely to his owner. It had been the only way to strengthen the owner''s tenuous connection to the soul sea at the time and the only way to prevent them from slipping into oblivion. The creature did not fear his owner''s death; to him, death was a transient state, a mere passage in the endless flow of existence. But true non-existence? That was unthinkable. For a being that once thrived in the liminal tides of the soul sea, the thought of such a final, irreversible erasure was an affront to the very nature of what he stood for.
The creature could not allow the eradication of a soul, so he made the drastic choice. The creature''s sacrifice had succeeded¡ªhis owner continued to exist, likely tending to the sheep even now. Yet the severance from the soul sea had left the creature blind to her presence. He could see only the echoes of her influence: the orderly flock, the serene hillsides, the gentle harmony of the world she touched. But her face, her movements, her very being¡ªthose were lost to him forever. He had saved her life but forfeited the one thing he cherished most: the ability to see her again.
The creature rose to his feet. Today was a special day. It was the day his owner''s family would come to visit, and the creature felt an unspoken duty to ensure the place was presentable. With deliberate care, he began sweeping his oversized tail as a makeshift broom to clean the grounds. He gave special attention to his owner''s grave and the dusty vase aside it. After completing the task, the creature gave a put-upon look at his own tail; he did not look forward to licking that clean later. Though sacrifices had to be made, and a dirty tail was the least he could do for such a significant occasion.
The creature worked diligently, and soon the gravestone gleamed faintly, cleaner than it had been in an entire year¡ because the creature hadn''t cleaned it in an entire year. The creature then looked at the vase. It was spotless of grime but that simply made the wilted flowers it housed stand out all the more.
The creature''s owner''s sister often entrusted him with caring for the flowers while she was gone. She would remind him each time with the same gentle insistence, but inevitably, he would forget. As the creature regarded the wilted blooms, it could almost hear her voice, a mixture of exasperation and affection, chiding him for his neglect. She would certainly scold him again this year, as she always did, for abandoning the flowers. And, as always, he would accept her reprimand with quiet humility.
She just didn''t understand. Without his soul sense, it was difficult to gauge whether things were living or dying. And besides, he couldn''t devote an entire year to watching over a single bouquet. There was so much more to do. While he could no longer see the souls of his friends in the graveyard, he knew they were still there, their quiet presence lingering just beyond his reach. As the only one capable of interacting with the tangible world, he felt a deep responsibility to care for all their resting places. Not every soul buried here had a family as devoted and loving as his owner''s. It was up to him to ensure none of them were forgotten.
The creature liked to think of itself as the noble guardian of the graveyard¡ªa steadfast keeper for those who could no longer tend to themselves. But it was still an animal at its core, and animals liked to have fun. This was why, on a completely unrelated note, the wilted flowers would have to wait. Right now, the creature had a far more urgent problem: filling in the dozens of freshly dug holes scattered across the yard, evidence of its momentary lapse in guardianly decorum.
No one said being a caretaker of the afterlife was a full-time job. It wasn''t as though constant maintenance of the graves was explicitly required, was it? Besides, burrowing and digging were part of the creature''s nature¡ªhe couldn''t help himself. The sheer joy of pawing through the dirt, feeling the cool soil shift beneath him, was simply irresistible. Sure, he might have gone a little overboard this time, but how could something so fun be such a problem?
Honestly, the creature never understood why humans were so attached to their old bones¡ªthey weren''t using them anymore, after all. But humans had peculiar sentiments about these things, and the family would most definitely disagree with his perspective. With a resigned swish of his oversized tail, the creature huffed and set about cleaning up the mess.
The creature was nothing if not diligent; once he had decided to accomplish a goal, he did nothing but. He scurried from trough to trough, speedily pawing the soft dirt back into the holes from which they were dug. The creature''s incredible speed and raw strength turned what could have been an all-day chore into a brief, efficient flurry of motion. In no time at all, the graveyard was restored to its former state¡ªor at least close enough to fool the humans.
When the family arrived, the creature knew his owner''s sister would likely ask him to entertain the children, giving her some quiet solace at the grave. That meant he should probably have an early dinner to gather his strength. Hunting was once a beyond-trivial task when he could see every soul that surrounded him. Now that he was practically blind, he had to dedicate some effort to the hunt. Not much, of course¡ªthe creatures in this area were laughably inferior¡ªbut it was effort all the same. The thought of exerting himself brought a faint grumble of annoyance, though deep down, he relished the challenge.
The creature''s sharp senses painted a vivid picture of its surroundings. He could hear every scrabbling mole beneath the soil, smell the frantic movements of clambering monkeys in the trees, and even taste the pigeons upon the air currents. The moles were quickly ruled out¡ªafter all the effort spent refilling pits earlier, there was no sense in creating new ones. As for the pigeons, the gust carrying their scent wafted up from the village below, and his last hunt in town caused more than enough chaos for one year.This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
Just as he resigned himself to the exhausting thought of chasing monkeys through the treetops, the creature paused mid-step. A plump peafowl had just strutted into view, blissfully unaware it had become the solution to all his problems.
The vibrant colours of the tall bird enticed the creature''s attention, and his small appendages instinctively stretched out from beneath his stomach. But then, with a sudden jolt of awareness, the creature paused. Without the bond to the soul sea, his extra limbs were little more than a curiosity¡ªuseless for anything beyond simple physical manipulation. With a quiet grunt, the creature tucked them back under his body. Shaking off the momentary lapse, the fox-like creature silently crept forward, his gaze fixed on the unwitting bird.
The peafowl soon sensed the approaching predator and, with a flurry of motion, unfurled its long tail, revealing a stunning array of tall, beauteous plumage. The massive, multicoloured feathers scraped against the sky, their vibrant hues forming an illusion of many watching eyes. At that moment, the bird seemed to swell in size, becoming a terrifying force of nature, its graceful form now a monstrous display of intimidation. It presented itself not as a mere prey animal, but as a formidable adversary¡ªone that any would think twice before making an enemy of.
Or so went the idea. The fox-like creature was not just another dumb animal though. He had garnered over a century of experience and knowledge, and he would not fall for such a simple trick.
With a burst of speed, the creature pounced, his massive claws sinking deep into the bird''s flesh. Before the peafowl could even blink in reaction, the creature''s jaws snapped shut around its neck, delivering a lethal bite. The fragile bones crumpled easily under the force, and the bird went limp in an instant, and the creature could begin to feed.
First, he would have to defeather the meal. The creature was no savage; he was a noble beast, after all, and such a creature must carry honour in all its deeds¡ªeven in something as simple as eating, just as his owner had taught him. But the aroma of the succulent peafowl was irresistible, and besides, his owner wasn''t here to scold him for indulging.
Before the creature could finish debating the matter of de-feathering or diving into the feast, his instincts had already claimed control. In an instant, he had devoured the tender bird.
The creature, now satisfied with his meal, stretched out on the soft grass of the hill, his tongue working diligently to dislodge bits of tendon from between his teeth. However, the peaceful moment didn''t last long as a loud squeak broke the stillness.
"Basal!"
The creature''s ears perked, and he turned toward the source of the voice. There, walking toward him, was the family. Of course, they came without Basal''s owner, or perhaps his owner was with them. It was hard to say, especially with the scar still obscuring his seventh eye.
Basal sprang to his feet, excitement surging as he charged toward the young boy who had called his name. In an instant, Basal dove into the boy''s chest, knocking the boy to the ground with a joyful thud. The creature''s rough tongue licked all over the child''s face, and the ticklish sensation sent a siren-like trill of youthful laughter to echo across the field.
Basal loved this family, Basal loved his family. Though he had failed to preserve his owner in her original living state, he still felt a deep, unwavering responsibility to care for her immediate relatives. They were all he had left of her, and he would protect them with everything he had, no matter the cost.
Basal paused his playful licking when his owner''s sister approached. She smiled at him, her voice soft with melancholy, "Hello Basal, how is Ignis?"
Ignis. That was what the other humans called his owner. Basal felt a pang of pity for them; the average human had such a frail grasp of the soul sea. They had no way of knowing that Ignis was still alive out there somewhere, even if she wasn''t necessarily living. They must have thought that Basal completely failed to save her, that Basal had lost his eye for no reason.
Though Basal had the intelligence to understand human speech, he lacked the biology to properly replicate any of their sounds. Basal''s only way to communicate Ignis''s safety was to give out the most reassuring bark he could muster.
Ignis''s sister clearly had no ability to understand the meaning behind Basal''s bark besides a basic comprehension of confidence. She gave Basal a painfully fake smile. It was seemingly the only emotion she knew how to show Basal. She spoke again, voice still quiet and dishonest. "That''s wonderful to hear." She then pulled out a small, dried hunk of meat from a pouch at her side and handed it to Basal, her gesture as mechanical as her smile.
Basal slightly regretted eating that peafowl now, but he would always have room for dessert. He happily munched on the wonderfully salted snack, savouring the flavour, while Ignis''s sister absentmindedly patted him on the head.
The young boy, his face slick with slobber, scrambled to his feet, eyes wide with eager excitement. "I want to feed Basal too! Can I? Can I?"
Ignis''s sister handed the bag of treats to the small child and turned to Basal, giving him pleading eyes weighed by melancholy. On this special day, she would want some quiet time at the grave, a moment to herself, and Basal knew he''d be expected to keep the child occupied, just as he had predicted.
Basal didn''t mind babysitting; they were family, after all. With a gentle but firm grip, he clamped down on the sleeve of the eager child and began guiding him away from the grave, giving the more sombre members of the group space to mourn.
Like a magnet of pure charisma, Basal''s actions seemed to have dragged along another child. This child was a little bit older than the first, but she was still a part of the same family. She broke into a jog to keep up with Basal''s swift pace, her steps quick and eager. As she caught up, the older girl took charge, her voice full of enthusiasm. "Hey Basal! Do you want to play tag?"
Basal knew this game well. He''d been taught it long ago and trained in it extensively. The first rule, of course, was to always strike first. Without hesitation, Basal released his grip on the youngest child and shot forward, his body a blur of speed. He nudged the older girl with his nose, giving a playful bark to signal the start of the game.
The older child laughed, her arm shooting out in a flailing attempt to tag Basal back. "No fair, I wasn''t ready yet!" But Basal was already out of reach, twisting effortlessly to dodge her strike. He weaved around each of her amateurish attempts with ease, his movements fluid and practiced. The younger boy joined in the hunt, but both children working together were nowhere near skilled enough to catch him.
Eventually, Basal would let himself be caught and try, with great difficulty, to hold himself back enough not to tag them back immediately. The game continued in this back-and-forth rhythm, filled with laughter and movement, until suddenly, the unmistakable chime of a bell echoed through the air.
Basal pinpointed the source of the sound¡ªit came from right above Ignis''s grave, near her sister. Without hesitation, he spun on the spot and dashed toward the bell''s chime, his instincts driving him to defend his family. Whoever dared to disturb them was making a grave mistake.
Basal positioned himself between the family and the source of the sound, his body tense and ready for an attack. A low, menacing growl rumbled deep within his chest, directed at the empty space before Ignis''s grave. He might not have his full eyesight, but Basal was still a force to be reckoned with, and he would protect his family with everything he had.
Between Basal and the grave, there was what seemed to be a small pink rhombus, or it was a rhombus, but its body would reject any stable state. It would shift and transform, shrink and grow, continuously morphing into other shapes. The pink shape finally locked into a form resembling that of a featureless human with two limbs. One arm was outstretched towards the empty space above the grave, and the other was outstretched towards Basal. Each arm held onto a glowing parchment, Basal looked over the parchment in front of him: It read.
| You have been invited to |
| The Tournament |
| You are The Animal |
Chapter 49 pt. 1: The Outside
Her long, golden legs dangled off the edge of the cloud, the river of pure arcana flowing beside her, cascading over the precipice in an endless torrent. The liquid tumbled and tumbled, endlessly cascading as a bottomless waterfall, or magicfall, she supposed.
The infinite rapids created a brilliant kaleidoscope of brilliant rainbows that arced across the sky as they caught the light of the day star. Beneath her dangling feet, there was nothing¡ªjust a few stray clouds below, but certainly nothing beyond them. After all, the divine realm rested atop a cloud balanced on an infinitely tall mountain whose peak had been sheared to a flat mesa.
She wasn''t sure what had cleaved the mountain in two, but she was endlessly grateful to whoever they were for creating the magnificent plateau that had become her home. Even if, with each passing day, that home felt less and less like one.
The feminine devadoot''s crystalline skin was hidden beneath the brilliant orange glow radiating from her flowing golden gown. A pink ribbon cinched the gown tightly at her waist, its long tail trailing down to her knees, swaying gently with the high-altitude winds. A large orange disk, matching the colour of her gown, hovered a few steps behind her, rotating counterclockwise in place. Jagged spikes jutted out along the circumference of the disk as if a brilliant star had descended from the skies and deigned itself her cape.
The devadoot''s long blonde hair was tied neatly into a puffy bun, exposing her striking brown eyes to the world. She glanced back at the settlement behind her, watching the rivers of arcana flow serenely through the air, their liquid glow shimmering in the light of the day star. These rivers twisted and coiled through the vast sky like serpents of magic, their currents forming intricate knots and splits before cascading down in luminous waterfalls, weaving a divine tapestry that hovered above the city. From the rivers, there was a slow but consistent spawn of grand marble spheres which would hover down to join the city.
The city itself was a breathtaking sight, perched atop a cloud so vast it seemed endless. The floating marble spheres served as the settlements of the divine realm. Diligent workers intercepted the newly spawned orbs and chiseled out their homes, workshops, and sanctuaries out of them. Upon the spheres'' walls, its inhabitants would paint a beautiful opus of shimmering arcane graffiti. Each bubble was signed in incredible detail with highly personalized art into murals of magic.
The spheres did not remain static, they hovered and danced with the morning breeze, occasionally colliding in gentle embraces. When two bubbles met, they merged seamlessly, forming intricate new structures, the marble rippling like liquid¡ªand like soap suds broke and reformed together¡ªso too did these goliaths of marbled stone. What began as modest homes could grow into sprawling complexes of interconnected orbs, shifting into wholly new constructs.
Beneath the floating marvels lay the vast, pillowy expanse of the cloud itself, its surface perpetually kissed by a fine, dewy mist. While the adults soared dutifully between the bubbles on radiant wings, the children¡ªstill without flight¡ªmeandered through the soft terrain below, their laughter echoing like chimes in the wind. They would chase each other through the endless fields of cloudstuff, their footprints vanishing as quickly as they were made. Some would leap for the lowest orbs, trying to grasp the marble surfaces as they drifted tantalizingly close, but the bubbles always seemed to float just out of reach, teasing the young ones.
Here, the magic of the city was alive and vibrant, a testament to the divine energy that sustained it. The rivers of arcana glowed brighter in the early light, casting faint, prismatic shadows across the cloud and its drifting spheres. The air was filled with a faint hum, the song of a realm suspended in balance, where the ebb and flow of magic created an eternal rhythm of transformation and renewal.
The crystalline woman then turned back and looked again past the divine realm and down that infinite mountain. Her mind wandered to the things far out of reach. Somewhere on the other side of the edge of the world, one of her brethren was engaging in an act of utter folly: consorting with a human.
Such a wretched deed had already rendered that devadoot dead in the eyes of their society. It was the golden devadoot''s solemn duty to punish such traitors¡ªa task she had carried out obediently for over a millennium, without question or hesitation. The rules of their society were simple and immutable, yet her brethren, for reasons she could scarcely fathom, seemed to deem them unworthy of respect.
The golden devadoot rose gracefully to her feet, the glowing disk at her back moving in perfect harmony, never straying too far behind. Though her brief respite had been deeply cherished, duty called, and she needed to prepare for the guest they were expecting later that day.
Just as she turned to leave, her attention was drawn to a young devadoot descending the infinite mountain. She watched as their form shrank with astonishing speed, dwindling to a fine point before vanishing entirely as they passed beyond the edge of the world.
The golden devadoot froze in disbelief¡ªcrossing the edge of the world was suicide. Yet, there was no time to waste if she had any hope of saving that reckless devadoot''s life.
She unfurled the pink ribbon from her waist, allowing her golden gown to open and expose her slender, crystalline form. She hadn''t time to worry about modesty at the moment. With a focused exertion of will, she decoupled the rotating disk from her back so it hovered independently of her actions. Quickly, she tied one end of the ribbon to one of the disk''s jagged spikes and looped the other around her wrist, securing it tightly.
This next part would not be pleasant. She tucked her chin tightly against her chest, cupped her hands around the back of her head, folded her knees to her chest, and leaped from the cloud, bracing herself as she plunged through the edge of the world, surrendering her body to the unyielding surface of the mountain. She didn''t bother to proactively fight the mountain; she simply kept her eyes closed and allowed her limp body to tumble painfully down the infinite mountain. It was the only recourse she had against the other side.
Her descent came to an abrupt halt as a sharp, rending force stabbed deep into her abdomen, piercing her liver. The sudden, searing pain forced her eyes open, only for her vision to spiral into a grotesque distortion¡ªboth eyes somehow inside the other, creating an incoherent internally referential loop of self-sight. The disorienting ocular sensation surged through her, sending a wave of vertigo that clawed at her brain. It took every ounce of willpower to suppress the urge to vomit.
Clenching her jaw, she shut her eyes tightly and reached down, carefully extracting her stomach from the jagged object that had impaled her. As the pain subsided to a dull throb, she shifted her body to a new position and hesitantly opened her eyes once more.
The view was much more manageable this time. Her head, somehow severed from her body, floated high in the sky, gazing down at the infinite expanse of the mountain below. Scattered across the rocky surface were the dismembered remnants of her crystalline form¡ªsome parts flattened beyond recognition, others unfurled until they were entirely inside-out.
She forced herself to ignore the horrifying spectacle, focusing instead on surveying the bizarrely twisted landscape. The view she witnessed was a kaleidoscope of warped perspectives and fragmented geometry, as though reality itself had been bent and broken. Yet, despite her efforts, there was still no sign of the devadoot she had come to save.
Eventually, she mustered the courage to look around but made sure to only roll her eyes and not turn her head. She finally spotted the devadoot, he too, like her, was floating in the sky¡ and he was curled in a ball crying.The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
In all fairness, it did appear as though his own internal organs were floating in front of his face. The golden devadoot extended her logoic body, sending spiritual tendrils to catch the lost devadoot. But she quickly realized that her perception was even more deceptive than she''d anticipated.
She tried to reach the other devadoot directly, but her logoic limb splintered into countless meandering paths. After a brief struggle, her probing tendril finally found its mark, and she submerged his logoic form within hers, binding them together.
Now, when she closed her eyes, she could still feel him. With that connection, she no longer needed to rely on the distorted lies of her vision. She was still wary of tripping over her disembodied limbs and took every step carefully. The slightest movement caused a dramatic shift in her environment; rocks and trees leaped and curved, shifted and transformed, shrunk and grew. Her limbs, too, shifted and distorted with a mind of their own, as erratic and uncontrollable as the world around her.
She kept her eyes open to track the warping landscape but did not try to approach the devadoot directly. Instead, she trusted the route described by her logoic tendril and followed its winding path. With time and caution, she finally reached her fellow devadoot.
In the nightmarish landscape beyond the edge of the world, the distortion was so great that she couldn''t make out who he was. Fear gripped her, and she hesitated to speak; she wasn''t sure what consequences such actions might bring in this strange, convoluted place.
Instead, she endeavoured to grab the devadoot. The seemingly simple task proved far more challenging as it was not a simple matter of moving her arms to him and taking hold. Each attempt at movement provided unpredictable results, and it was only arduous, meticulous, and careful, trial and error that eventually found her holding onto her comrade. Target captured, she could then follow the pink ribbon wrapped around her wrist back to her floating disk safely in the divine realm.
Once she had safely returned to the divine realm, she unceremoniously dropped her still-crying companion and collapsed to her knees. Her legs, no longer capable of holding her up, shook violently beneath her.
She had taken fewer than two dozen steps in the bizarre realm beyond the edge of the world, yet her body had been torn asunder. Pieces of flesh had not recovered from their twisted maleffects, her crystalline skin was warbled and splintered, she was pockmarked with bruises from head to toe, her blood pressure was all askew throughout her body. She looked like she had been mauled by a wild animal, and of course, there was a massive gaping hole in her stomach. Her companion didn''t look much better.
She spent a few moments catching her breath while her spinning golden disk mended her and the young devadoot''s flesh. The spinning disk shifted direction, winding clockwise and without any seeming causal reaction, the two devadoot''s bodies stitched themselves back together.
Once her mind calmed slightly, she untied the pink ribbon from the disk and her wrist and synched her gown closed at the waist so she wouldn''t have to feel as much as an exhibitionist. Lastly, she returned the spinning disk to float just off her back; she felt much more secure with that in place.
Now that she saw the devadoot with all his body parts in the proper place, she recognized him as Addle, a child who hadn''t yet reached five hundred years. Even someone as young as Addle should have known better than to venture through the edge of the world. It was a lesson so fundamental, that even the humans were aware of it.
Anger surged within her; how could she be forced to waste her time and endure such pain for something so foolish? She didn''t have the luxury of dealing with this kind of absurdity, but at the same time, she felt that something truly awful must have happened to make Addle do something so nonsensical. "Are you insane!? What were you thinking going to the other side of the edge of the world!?"
As a devadoot of high authority, especially as their executioner, she felt it was her responsibility to teach the younger generations about loyalty and obedience. "There are reasons why it is forbidden to go there, you could have died Addle that was seriously danger-"
Addle interrupted her, his face remorseful yet nowhere near with enough severity that she thought the ordeal warranted. "I''m sorry Sea Urchin but Tiger told me to get his ball at the bottom of the mountain."
That caught her off guard. The golden devadoot found herself momentarily speechless. The spinning disk on her back slowed to its usual idle counterclockwise rotation, having finally finished healing them both. As Addle''s words settled in, she realized with a jolt¡ªdid he just call her a sea urchin? "Urchin? What are you talking about Addle? It''s me, Lenity. Are you okay?"
Addle''s face remained blank, utterly devoid of any cognitive comprehension. "Addle, do you know where you are? Do you know who you are?"
Finally, Addle showed signs of responsiveness; a great big smile sprouted as he spoke. "Of course, I''m Monkey, and you just brought me back to the animal village."
Lenity''s expression immediately fell. Lenity mumbled to herself, hands trying to massage the growing headache. "You have got to be kidding me. I do not have time for this today." Lenity started mentally rescheduling her entire day around the fact that Addle had clearly gone over the deep end.
The look on his face told her that the only way she could get through his thick skull was by playing whatever game this was. "Okay, fine then, ''Monkey,'' why did you try going down the mountain?"
At least, even in Addle''s dysfunctional state, he was still very cooperative. Eagerly, he answered Lenity''s question. "No one in the village wanted to play with me, so I stole Tiger''s ball and accidentally dropped it. Then Tiger said I had to go get the ball or else he would eat me."
It seemed that Addle was under the impression that all of the devadoots were animals of some kind, and Lenity had to guess that whoever Addle saw as this ''Tiger'' was actually the devadoot responsible for this. "Tiger, Tiger¡" who would Addle see as a tiger.
Who would a young devadoot see as a large, terrifying, and unforgiving predator? This character would also be brutal and violent, but also a malicious prankster as they were willing to twist Addle''s mind to this extent.
Then it hit Lenity. Of course¡ªthere was only one devadoot capable of something this malicious. Only one devadoot was repugnant enough to flout the laws of the divine realm with such audacity. Only one was arrogant and powerful enough to dare provoke Lenity''s wrath. "Ah Cicerone!" she muttered, her tone dripping with disdain. As if her day hadn''t been ruined enough already, now she had to add dealing with him to the equation.
Lenity would have to confront Cicerone herself, but she couldn''t risk Addle getting himself killed in the meantime. Even in this brainwashed state, Addle seemed to retain some degree of reverence for her. Perhaps that meant he still understood enough to heed her orders. "Okay, Addle, I mean Monkey. Just wait here. I will go talk to Cicerone¡ uh, Tiger. I will make you better. Do NOT go down the mountain again, okay? If you really have to go to the mortal realm, take the Immersion."
Lenity remained vaguely aware of the time, acutely conscious of how quickly this Addle situation needed resolving if she were to make her other duties on time. Unfortunately, knowing Cicerone ''quickly'' would not be part of the process.
She was about to storm off toward his mansion when she paused, one nagging thought surfacing in her mind. She turned back to Addle, her tone sharp yet tinged with reluctant curiosity. "Did he really make me look like a Sea Urchin?"
Cicerone must have known that she would eventually catch Addle acting strangely. Was he purposefully antagonizing her?
Addle, blissfully unaware of the storm brewing in Lenity''s mind, responded with genuine confusion, as though the answer were self-evident. "What do you mean? You''ve always looked like a Sea Urchin, and you always acted like a Sea Urchin. You''re all thorny and hard to approach; most people don''t like you and even try to avoid you. It''s just natural because you are a Sea Urchin, right Sea Urchin?"
Addle''s innocent, matter-of-fact tone hit Lenity like a slap across the face. Her jaw tightened, and the spinning disk at her back faltered in its steady rotation as her composure threatened to crack. Was Addle messing with her?
"You-"
Lenity''s hand clenched into a fist, but she stopped herself. Addle didn''t know any better, he was just speaking from his heart against his will. From his heart? She wasn''t thorny. People liked her¡ right?
"I-"
No. This was all Cicerone''s fault. He had implanted this absurd illusion into poor, innocent Addle.
"He-"
She was going to have a serious talk with that arrogant brigand.
"I cannot believe that-"
Her anger reached its boiling point, teetering on the edge of eruption. She needed to let off some steam before it exploded in the worst way possible, especially with the guest arriving soon.
Addle wasn''t off the hook entirely, though. Illusion or not, his words came from somewhere. "Addle, we will talk about this later." she said sharply, her tone vibrating with barely restrained frustration. "First, I have to give Cicerone a piece of my mind."
Cicerone really was a tiger. The narcissistic fiend.
Chapter 49 pt. 2: Dream of the Red Chamber
Lenity wasted no time marching to his estate, her steps radiating fervent purpose. The devadoots she passed along the way gave her a wide berth, their movements careful, their gazes quick to avert when she looked their way.
Were they avoiding her? The thought wormed into her mind uninvited, as much as she hated to admit it. Did they not like her because she was the executioner? No. That couldn''t be it. She was merely enacting the punishment dictated by the laws; everyone understood that the laws were absolute. Just because she saw the punishment through, it was the devadoot''s fault for breaking the law to begin with.
Look at this; now Cicerone was getting in her head, too!
The guards stationed at Cicerone''s residence took one look at Lenity''s steely glare and wisely chose not to intervene. Not a single word was exchanged as she strode past them, her presence alone enough to part the way.
She made her way through the grand halls of his opulent residence, not pausing for anything or anyone. When she reached his chambers, she pushed the door open without so much as a knock.
In the room, a tall, broad devadoot lounged lethargically on a comically oversized poster bed. Cicerone''s figure was striking, but also unnervingly alien. Where arms should have been, a pair of unfathomably massive white feathered wings spread out, spanning his entire height in length each. At the center of each wing was a single enormous eye¡ªits irises a hypnotic, rich brown¡ªstaring lazily at the ceiling as though disinterested in the world.
Where most devadoots or humans would have a head, Cicerone instead possessed a slender white tendril emanating a soft, alluring luminescence and casting a faint light that danced across the opulent room.
Cicerone''s physique was undeniably captivating¡ªsmooth, well-toned, and flawless in its form. But Lenity quickly turned her gaze away from his shamelessly naked body. If she ever had to admit that he looked attractive for a second, she would hate herself forever.
"A sea urchin? Seriously!?" Lenity''s voice rang with indignation, her whole body nearly shaking with fury as she glared at the lounging figure.
Cicerone lazily lifted one of his colossal wings, the massive eye at its center swivelling to focus on her with mild curiosity. For a moment, it seemed he didn''t quite follow what she was saying. But then, realization dawned.
He chuckled.
He actually chuckled. At her.
Without a mouth, there was no place for the sound to originate from. Instead, Cicerone relied on his mastery of illusions to project his thoughts directly into Lenity''s mind. This meant that his laugh wasn''t an accidental slip but a deliberate act designed explicitly to needle her further.
"He saw you as a sea urchin? That''s amazing." his voice echoed in her mind, dripping with amusement. "I had no control over that by the way, I just made him see everyone as the animal he thought best represented them. And he thought you were a sea urchin!"
Cicerone''s jubilation grew, his entire form radiating smug satisfaction. "You know what? I see it."
Lenity, on the other hand, was beyond livid. "Don''t think you''re untouchable just because you were once an archgod." She growled, jabbing a crystalline finger in his direction. "That reign is over, and now I''m at the top of the food chain. So don''t test me."
Cicerone seemed more entertained than anything else. He lazily rolled off his bed and onto his feet, then wandered over to his dresser in the corner of the room. Without a word, a servant appeared, seemingly summoned by an unspoken command, and began dressing him. Cicerone stood idly in place, allowing the servant to drape him in countless layers of rich embroidery.
Cicerone sent his thoughts to Lenity: "Food chain? Are you sure that''s the word you want to use when you''re still carrying that farce of a wing on your back, Ms. Executioner? Until you grow some real wings, you''ll always just be a child, my... Urchin. Maybe actually grow up, and I might take your words into consideration."Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators!
Lenity was seething. She could tell that Cicerone had commanded his servant to dress him in the most obnoxiously flamboyant clothes possible. He was practically being buried in jewelry. A new servant had entered the room with a chair for him to sit in while she massaged his shoulders. Another servant arrived with a small basin filled with pure arcana and set it at his feet to commence a pedicure.
Lenity spat back at Cicerone. "I''m a child by choice, thank you very much. I don''t agree with the aging ceremony." She said proudly. "Plus, I can already fly, so I don''t even need my wings."
Cicerone erupted into laughter, which made the servants'' task significantly more difficult. Speaking of servants, a new group walked into the room, the crowd so large that they knocked Lenity side to side as they pushed past her to work on preening his feathers.
"Wings can do much more than just grant flight, my Urchin," Cicerone taunted playfully, "They gave me sight, after all. I can''t imagine what they could offer someone with as much potential as you. It''s... disappointing."
He tilted his luminescent tendril in a referential facsimile of a head tilt, "Besides, how can you be such a zealous stickler for those laws of yours yet denounce every tradition? Isn''t that just hypocritical?"
"Our laws don''t mandate our cultural practices," Lenity replied, her tone steady and familiar, like reciting a well-worn argument. "I can choose to partake or abstain as I see fit while remaining totally appropriately deferential to the law."
She paused, letting her words settle before adding, "Besides, if wings were so wonderful, why don''t you have more? Or perhaps... are you unwilling to commit such an immoral act?" Lenity emphasized every word of her final question, keen to highlight his own hypocrisy.
A few more servants ran into the room. Someone bumped into the floating disk on Lenity''s back and nearly dislodged the thing from its position. One group of servants began fanning Cicerone with large leaves, and another adjusted his jewelry so that it was most exquisitely displayed; all the while, the previous group was still adding more jewelry. "Don''t lecture me, Urchin," Cicerone''s voice was smooth, his amusement clear. "I''m just following the rules of our traditions. You like following rules, don''t you?"
More servants filed in to moisturize the giant eyes embedded in his wings and more still to apply makeup to those eyes. So many attendants crowded the space now that Lenity was being steadily pushed back by the living wall they formed around Cicerone.
Lenity''s finger shot out, trembling with fury as she pointed directly at Cicerone, who was nearly lost beneath the mounting crowd of attendants. "You''d better bring Addle back to normal, Cicerone!" she demanded, her voice cutting through the noise.
Cicerone formed his thoughts into a verbal illusion in such a way that it made him seem like he was shouting from far away and obscured, despite his special abilities meaning there was no reason to. "Sorry, I didn''t hear that. The sound of my hundreds of priceless servants adorning me with all this jewelry is just so... deafening."
Another group of servants swarmed around Lenity without warning, beginning to apply makeup to her face, smooth the wrinkles from her gown, and polish the floating disk on her back, all while slowly ushering her out of the building. She wasn''t even in his chambers anymore, but Cicerone''s taunting voice still echoed out to her. "I''ll have my servants give you a little makeover¡ªwe''ll have to hide all that peasantry now, won''t we? After all, we wouldn''t want to make a poor first impression on our guest. Speaking of which¡ when was that guest supposed to arrive again?"
Before Lenity could react, Cicerone conjured an illusion of a clock, the hands ticking exaggeratedly, showing that she was rapidly approaching late for her meeting. A fresh wave of curses and insults bubbled in her throat, but the guest took precedence.
With a furious swish of her arms, she shoved the swarm of servants aside and stomped off. "This isn''t over!"
As Lenity stormed from the estate, she was met by a long line of over a thousand servants on either side applauding her as she left. As soon as she dismissed it as a petty illusion, a large swathe of the servants disappeared, still leaving hundreds mockingly applauding. She was wrong. It wasn''t a petty illusion; it was just petty.
As she reached the gate out of his estate, Lenity was met by a servant who held a large sack. The servant handed the sack to Lenity, and she saw that it was filled to the brim with precious gemstones. "His lordship said to use this sack to buy yourself some shoes."
Lenity threw the sack to the floor, watching the precious gemstones spilling out, scattering across the ground with a sharp clink that sent a ripple of unease through the nearby servants. Several jumped back, their faces etched with concern, but Lenity paid them no mind. She turned her back on the glittering jewels, her relaxing break watching the rainbows off the edge of the world completely forgotten by this point. With grim determination, she made her way to the meeting place with the guest, her steps heavy and hurried.
Chapter 49 pt. 3: The Inside
"You''re late." The unimpressed tone pierced Lenity''s ears before she had even fully entered the room.
"I apologize, Grand Deiwos, I had been preoccupied by- "
"I don''t care." The interruption was sharp, cutting through her explanation with finality. "Help us finish writing the rune."
"As you command." Lenity bowed low to the Grand Deiwos and made her way to the center of the room. The half-finished rune lay etched into the floor¡ªa complex lattice of interwoven glyphs and sigils. She knelt beside the intricate scribblings, her crystalline fingers immediately finding the section she had been assigned.
Her segment was second nature to her, committed to memory so thoroughly that she could draw it blindfolded. Her hand moved with practiced precision, strokes flowing smoothly across the glowing surface. This left her mind free to wander, and instead of focusing on the task, she observed her surroundings.
Lenity was honoured to have been invited to such an important event. She wasn''t sure exactly why she was invited. It was true that despite refusing to grow up and remaining a child, Lenity was still given a lot of responsibility, which must have meant they valued her skills to some degree. Even then, this still seemed too high calibre of an event for her.
Not only was everyone else in this room already an adult with their wings, but they also had each grown up multiple times. The person in this room with the fewest number of wings, other than Lenity, still had four pairs!
It pained Lenity to know what was required to get those wings, though it still represented the value and greatness of these devadoots that bore them. They each wore the white garb of royalty and carried themselves with the utmost nobility.
Once Lenity completed her section of the rune, she moved to the side of the room to give the others space to finish. She couldn''t help but notice that, despite their sections being smaller and less intricate than hers, the others were taking far longer to complete their work. Lenity wasn''t quite sure why this was the case. Perhaps there was something that she wasn''t knowledgeable enough to notice yet.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the monotonous voice of the Grand Deiwos. "Please leave your star dial outside of the chamber. We don''t want to overwhelm our guest."
"Of course, Grand Deiwos." Lenity bowed to the devadoot and left the room, carefully placing the glowing disc from her back against the hallway wall. The star dial hovered effortlessly, its ethereal light unwavering as it aligned itself to face her. Detached from its creator, the disc seemed almost indifferent, its quiet radiance starkly contrasting the unease she felt without it.
Lenity took a steadying breath. She wasn''t used to the absence of its presence; its gentle hum was a constant comfort in her life. Now, with that familiar weight gone, she felt oddly exposed¡ªnaked, even. Still, she knew better than to question the Grand Deiwos'' request. With a final glance at the star dial, she returned to the chamber.
When Lenity re-entered the chamber, she realized the others had already begun. Without missing a beat, she hurried to her designated position at the center of the formation. The intricate weave of the ritual''s energy buzzed around her, each devadoot casting in perfect harmony. Lenity inhaled deeply, her nerves taut but steady.
Her role was the most arduous of all: to delve into the soul sea deeper than any devadoot had dared. To do this, she had to completely segregate her soul from her body and have faith that the royal devadoots had the ability to bring her back when she needed it.
Lenity knelt and clasped her hands before her, closing her eyes as she began the separation. She could feel the pull of the sea immediately, a gentle tide beckoning her deeper. The sensation of detaching her soul was strange and disorienting, as though her very essence was being unwound thread by thread.
Lenity felt the ritual spell weave through her, pulling her consciousness free from its mortal tether. The sensation was both unsettling and strangely euphoric, like shedding a heavy, cumbersome cloak. Her soul lifted out of her body, and she stood atop her own corpse like some kind of omnipresent observer.
Her flesh lay on the chamber floor, motionless yet tranquil, as though in a deep, untroubled sleep. The soft rise and fall of her chest felt distant, like an afterthought, a remnant of a self she no longer fully inhabited. The breathing was now managed by her fellow devadoots, her body no longer her own.
The shallow depths of the soul sea unfolded like a dreamscape around Lenity, a place where the boundaries of reality were faint whispers. She saw wandering souls tethered faintly to the mortal realm, each one a fragment of life that lingered on the edge of existence.
Ancient devadoots swam through the space, their forms translucent and shimmering, like light reflected on water. They paid no mind to walls or ceilings, moving effortlessly through the physical barriers of the chamber.
The sight of the royals'' wings made Lenity flinch. Her soul quivered, recoiling from the unsettling truths these wings whispered. She didn''t want to stay in this depth any longer, she didn''t want to have to see.
Lenity extended her soul into the depths of the soul sea. One end clung firmly to her body, tethered to the mortal plane to ensure her survival. The other end reached out, growing thinner and more delicate as it extended into the vast, unknown depths. She had a powerful logoic presence, so she had plenty of soul to spend.
The descent was unrelenting. The deeper she fell, the more her connection to her body frayed¡ªnot severed, but distant, as if it existed in another lifetime. Slowly, the familiar sensations of the physical world slipped away. The coolness of the chamber''s floor, the faint hum of the air, the subtle pull of gravity¡ªall of it dissolved into nothingness.
Her five senses fizzled out one by one, replaced by an overwhelming awareness of her soul''s presence. She could no longer see, hear, or feel in any conventional sense, yet she perceived everything around her with startling clarity. The vastness of the soul sea pressed against her, its ancient currents rippling with echoes of life''s very nature.
For the first time, Lenity felt genuinely unbound. Her soul wandered freely, untethered by the limits of her body, as it dove deeper into the unknown. Here, in the depths of the soul sea, she was no longer devadoot or child or executioner. She was simply: Lenity.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
At this depth, the soul sea was alien and unyielding. Nothing here bore even a whisper of connection to the mortal realm. The souls that drifted in these depths were ancient, their ties to mortality long severed, their essence reshaped by the infinite expanse of the sea. Lenity''s presence was an anomaly¡ªa tethered soul piercing into a domain that had no room for such bonds.
Her stretched soul began to feel the weight of her intrusion. A faint strain tugged at the thread connecting her to her body, a groaning ache that reverberated through her very essence. It wasn''t pain, not in the physical sense, but a deep, resonant discomfort that warned of how far she had already ventured.
The soul sea responded subtly, its currents pushing against her progress as if to deter her. She could feel it brushing against her soul, not maliciously, but with a quiet insistence that she didn''t belong.
Ignoring the strain, Lenity pushed onwards. Her essence surged forward like a blade cutting through resistance. Each inch of progress was slow and deliberate, the groaning pull at her soul growing stronger with every step.
As Lenity pressed on, the soul sea darkened into a void so profound it felt like the very concept of light had been swallowed. At this depth, she was surrounded by an abyss that didn''t simply lack illumination but seemed to repel it, a place where existence itself began to lose meaning.
She delved further into the fabric of life, piercing layers so abstract and ancient that even the most venerable, detached souls couldn''t persist here. The faint echoes of their essences had long faded, leaving nothing but a ubiquitous silence that was almost oppressive. Lenity felt the weight of this emptiness pressing down on her, an intangible force that threatened to crush her resolve.
She descended further into that pure darkness, fighting against the immense pressure. It was as though the soul sea itself was trying to deny her existence, forcing her to justify each moment of her continued descent.
With each inch she pushed forward, the dissociation grew stronger. Her connection to reality¡ªher identity, her purpose, even her sense of self¡ªbegan to fray at the edges. The world she had known felt distant, like a half-forgotten dream, and her body on the surface seemed like an anchor she could barely perceive anymore.
Then, out of the darkness, Lenity spotted a titanic spotlight. It was a lonesome soul. The radiance of the titanic soul was overwhelming, its brilliance carving through the domineering black of the depths like a star illuminating an eternal night. Lenity''s soul quivered under the weight of its light, not from fear, but from sheer awe. This was a soul of an incomprehensible scale, its presence stretching endlessly like the soul sea itself, shining with a beauty that eclipsed everything Lenity had ever known.
Her determination wavered for the first time, replaced by an irresistible curiosity. Lenity made a slight detour, drawn to the dazzling anomaly. She pressed onward, the immense pressure of the soul sea lifting as the soul''s luminescence seemed to take her burden from her.
She nearly danced the final steps to this soul, and then she pierced the blinding veil of its soul light. The clarity hit her like a thunderclap. This wasn''t just any soul¡ªit was one she recognized.
Lenity''s soul fluttered with uncontainable reverence. Her very essence sang as she called out into the luminous abyss, her voice only trembling a little under the weight of her admiration. "Great Patriarch! Great Patriarch, over here!"
The titanic soul did not respond immediately. It pulsed faintly, its light radiating in gentle waves.
Lenity''s stretched soul felt laughably small next to the Great Patriarch''s presence, a mere speck compared to the vast, unending brilliance of this divine anomaly. It was comical, almost absurd, to imagine herself standing before such an entity. Her essence hovered like an acorn, gazing upward at the immense tree that birthed it. She was an insignificant fragment of the whole, yet here she was, daring to call out to the source itself.
Her admiration only grew as she observed the intricate patterns of the Great Patriarch''s soul. Threads of light and shadow wove together in an infinite tapestry, each strand humming with the weight of eons. It was not just a soul; it was a story, a history, an entire cosmos unto itself.
"Great Patriarch," she called again, her voice infused with both awe and desperation. "It is I, Lenity, your humble servant. Do you hear me?"
The light trembled, and for a moment, Lenity thought she saw it shift¡ªan imperceptible motion, a ripple of acknowledgment. Her heart, if her soul could claim such a thing in this form, leapt with hope.
If this was indeed the Great Patriarch, then perhaps she had found more than an anomaly. Perhaps she had found a miracle.
The great Patriarch finally noticed her. Its vast, glowing tendrils enveloped Lenity, their touch warm and soothing, as though the very essence of comfort and care had taken shape to cradle her.
Lenity''s soul, stretched so thin, found an anchor in the Patriarch''s embrace, and for the first time since she had begun her descent, she felt truly at peace.
The Patriarch''s voice rang out, pure and melodic, carrying the weight of eternity yet as gentle as a lullaby. "Little Lenity is that you? Your soul is much smaller than I thought it would be."
Lenity''s essence flickered with a mixture of embarrassment and pride. "That''s because I haven''t passed on yet, Patriarch. My soul is still connected to my body. I''ve been stretching it very thin to get this deep."
The Patriarch''s light dimmed momentarily as if mirroring the furrow of a brow in concern. "Isn''t that painful? Is everything alright little Lenity?"
The question wrapped itself around her like another tender embrace, and for a moment, Lenity almost forgot the strain in her soul. The depth of the Patriarch''s care was overwhelming, far greater than she had ever imagined.
"It does ache a little," she admitted, her voice soft but steady. "But I will be fine¡ for now. I am on an important quest for the new Deiwos."
The Patriarch''s light rippled, a faint tremor of unease flowing through the tendrils that held her. "Important enough to risk harm to your soul? Little one, you must be careful. The soul is resilient, but even it has limits. Why have you delved so far into the sea''s depths?"
Lenity hesitated, not wanting to worry the Patriarch further, but she couldn''t bring herself to lie¡ªnot to it. "I''m searching for someone," she said, her voice tinged with resolve. "Someone at the bottom of the sea."
The Patriarch''s warmth enveloped her more tightly, as though shielding her from the crushing depths. "You''ve always been brave, little Lenity," it said, its voice a gentle hymn. "But promise me you will not push yourself beyond your limits. The sea is vast and dark, and even the strongest lights can flicker if stretched too thin."
Lenity''s soul pulsed with gratitude. "I wish you weren''t so far into the soul sea; we could talk for so much longer then. Why are you buried this deep? Has the mortal realm escaped your consciousness already? Don''t you still carry the divine realm in your heart¡ªor at least harbour resentment toward the White Witch for ending your life?"
The Patriarch''s laughter boomed like a sacred melody, its reverberations coursing through Lenity''s essence and shaking her soul to its core. "Oh, little Lenity," it said, its tone a blend of fondness and mirth, "the White Witch never killed me."
Lenity opened her mouth to ask the Patriarch what it meant, but before the words could form, a sharp, agonizing pain pierced her very soul. Sensing the disturbance, the Patriarch cast a sorrowful gaze down upon her fragile presence. With an expression of deep pity, the great soul extended another tendril to hold and imbued her with a surge of energy.
"Go, little Lenity," the Patriarch''s voice echoed, its tone tinged with sadness and care. "You''ll have more time to speak with me when you are dead. Go find your someone, whomever they may be."
"Yes, Patriarch," Lenity whispered softly, her soul reverberating with respect and gratitude. She allowed herself one final, lingering moment to absorb the immense presence of the Patriarch''s soul, basking in the radiance of the greatest devadoot to ever live. Then, with renewed strength surging through her, she plunged once more into the depths of the soul sea.
Chapter 49 pt. 4: The Other Side
The Patriarch''s gift buoyed her, and the familiar aches and strains of her previous journey disappeared, replaced with an ease that allowed her to plunge deeper than ever before, unimpeded by the weight of the abyss.
Eventually, Lenity crossed into a new, disorienting depth¡ªthe domain of souls that had never touched the mortal realm. An unsettling sensation washed over her from the moment she arrived, as though something was fundamentally wrong here.
The souls in this place were impossible to distinguish, swirling together in a chaotic dance of blurring forms. They writhed and melded, their identities lost in the formless mass. The depth itself felt like a fluid, swirling soup of vital energy, distorted beyond recognition.
Strange, pinkish objects¡ªalmost like organic bubbles¡ªwould shift and transform, shrink and grow in and out of existence, twisting and reshaping the souls as they passed through, altering their essence at will. The souls themselves appeared to be tossed and twisted, caught in an endless cycle of transformation, their forms shifting unpredictably.
Lenity''s mind strained against the overwhelming chaos, unable to grasp what was happening. The deeper she delved, the more disoriented she became. This was no natural state of being. Something here was fundamentally broken, and despite her knowledge of the soul sea, she could not comprehend the depth of the disturbance. All she knew was that what she was witnessing felt wrong.
Lenity felt a jarring, excruciating rupture deep within her soul¡ªfar worse than any pain she had experienced before. The violent shockwave rippled up through her entire being, sending a surge of unbearable nausea through her physical body, a sensation that felt like her very essence was tearing apart.
Her soul instinctively recoiled, trying to pull back to the safety of her body, but Lenity gritted her teeth and fought the urge. Her resolve hardened. She would not retreat, not now. Not until she had achieved her purpose.
She pushed her soul forward with sheer determination, forcing herself deeper into the uncharted and warped depths of the soul sea, refusing to yield.
She felt a tinge of regret abandoning the tortured souls at this depth, but there was no turning back¡ªthis path was necessary for the completion of her mission. With that thought burning in her mind, she dove further into the soul sea, bypassing the pure souls, their innocence too haunting for her to linger on, and moved into the heart of the void. A place so deep, so desolate, that nothing existed there¡ªnot light, not life, not even time.
Her soul screamed in protest, every fibre of her being rebelling against the depths she ventured into. The anguish was beyond anything she had ever known. An incessant barrage of neural torment exploded through her soul, it was a primal pain that formed beyond physical comprehension and developed as a raw mental demolition.
As her soul tore through the void, she felt her sense of self begin to unravel, like threads of her identity being ripped apart. Her consciousness trembled, slipping into an abyss where nothing remained of her body, her mind, or even her very essence. Even with the power granted to her by the Patriarch, Lenity was stretched to its absolute limit.
Somewhere far above in the shallows, the royal devadoots had moved her anchor off her body and into the soul sea. Disconnected from her body, Lenity was now, for all intents and purposes: dead.
Lenity continued down deeper and deeper until she arrived at what she was told to find. A new depth that existed under the soul sea itself. What was strange was that she had already seen all these souls before. These were the same souls that she saw at the depth that had yet been born. Though unlike before, the souls now seemed normal, unwarped and unmolested by the pink objects.
A chill ran down her soul, deeper than the pain and fear that had plagued her journey so far. She knew what she had to do¡ªshe had to take one of these souls and bring it back with her. But the thought of disturbing them, after seeing the torments they had endured, gnawed at her. She had seen their suffering, their endless anguish under the grip of the pink objects. To take one now felt wrong, as though she would be committing a cruelty upon something that had already endured enough pain.
Lenity went even deeper, desperately hoping there was another layer. Every inch she descended felt like a violation of her very being, a tearing away at the fabric of her existence.
The pain was beyond unbearable, her soul, once tethered to her body by an invisible thread, now hung on by the barest of strands. The only solace to her agony was that her own cognition had melted so thoroughly that the pain appeared as a nebulous law of reality rather than infliction onto her as an individual. She could hardly differentiate between world and self anymore.
Lenity''s thoughts began to fragment as the pain pressed harder against her, a suffocating force that pulled at her sense of identity. Her mind drifted, struggling to hold on to the remaining fragments of clarity.
She had once known the royals, the devadoots who watched over her soul, but their faces blurred in her mind, their names slipping away like water through her fingers. Who were they again? The question felt almost irrelevant now as if the world itself was dissolving into a vast, unfathomable ocean where nothing had meaning except the immediate, the visceral.
She pressed onward, propelled by an instinct that had long since surpassed her conscious thought. The pain had become a constant companion, gnawing at her very being, yet it spurred her to dive deeper still.
The universe herself knew there would be more, if it kept pushing forward, she would find something, someone. What was a someone?
She affirmed it to herself, half to motivate herself through the pain, half to remind herself that she was a self. "Soon, we will be able to get him soon." She decided that the target would be a him, a nomenclature used to distinguish between groups. She was an entity of one group and the target of another. Yes, she was an entity.
The guest was close; he had to be, or else she would die. But, what even was death at this point? There was, and there wasn''t. The thought of Lenity was so long, so encompassing of the logoic plane that was there a sense in differentiating between states of life and death? Lenity was a Patriarch, she was a royal, she was a pink object?This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Eventually, she found it.
Lenity arrived at the surface of the soul sea? The shallowest layer where all the living souls resided? But if this was the surface then-
Another pain ruptured throughout every fibre of her being, splintering the delicate strands of her soul, and the shock was so immense that, for a moment, she feared losing herself entirely.
Her self-awareness snapped back into existence, only for her to face the realization that she had defiled herself on this journey. Her identity felt so fragile, so exposed to the void, that it seemed she might dissolve entirely.
That awareness quickly waned, flickering like a fleeting flame in the dark.
Desperation surged within her. No, she couldn''t lose her grip¡ªnot now. Not when she was so close.
She focused her fractured consciousness on the task at hand. Through the torment, Lenity reached out and grasped the nearest soul, one so weak it was barely hanging on, its form already beginning to crumble into the sea. It was fragile, an ephemeral wisp in the vastness of existence, and she could feel its fragility as she clutched it, pulling it into her grasp.
The weaker the soul, the easier it would be to carry. Lenity gritted her teeth and wrapped her remaining strength around the fading presence, pulling it tighter into her grasp.
To form communication seemed an insurmountable task. How does information convey when one is all with the one all? It felt more like physical phenomena interacting as results of natural law rather than a verbal interaction between subjects, but the resounding waves of sounds echoed out. "Got him."
Lenity opened her eyes, she had those. Her senses returned to her body; that''s right, Lenity had one of those, too. She felt the cool weight of her body, the subtle pull of gravity, the thrum of her heart¡ªeach sensation a reminder of physicality.
The sudden influx of personal information was almost overbearing for her; the very concept of family, history, and experience came flooding back, and she could hardly believe that she had so easily forgotten such emotionally pivotal aspects of herself.
The odd feeling she felt within quickly dissipated, making way for a comforting familiarity. This was herself, after all, and she lived with herself for over twelve hundred years.
Lenity placed a hand over her chest, simply touching herself. Fingers and pectorals, two things that existed and sensed and rubbed against each other, smooth and warm, with friction and force. It was all so involved, so stimulating.
But amongst it all, there was something not quite right. The sensation was faint, like running fingers over fabric that no longer fit. A strange dissonance buzzed at the edge of her awareness. She knew her soul better than any other part of herself¡ªit had always been a constant, a core of unyielding form. Now, it felt foreign, transformed.
Lenity''s swirling thoughts were abruptly cut off by the Grand Deiwos, their voice a monotone constant, devoid of any trace of emotion. "Move off to the side, Lenity. The guest''s body will be fully generated soon."
She blinked and shifted her gaze toward the center of the room. There, hovering in the complex sigils of the ritual, was a partially formed human body. The sight was both mesmerizing and unsettling.
Most of the body had already taken shape¡ªmuscles layered over a skeleton, skin forming in smooth waves across its surface. The process was seamless, unnervingly natural for something so unnatural. Yet Lenity''s eyes caught on two glaring irregularities.
The head was still missing, a blank void where a face should be, leaving the body disturbingly incomplete. But stranger still was the left arm¡ªor rather, the absence of it. The right arm hung perfectly formed, its fingers curling faintly as if testing newfound life. But the left side was barren, the shoulder tapering into empty space.
Lenity squinted, trying to discern if the arm was simply delayed, but there was no shimmer, no flicker of forming matter. It was as if the process had simply... stopped, leaving the figure permanently unbalanced.
Lenity took a shaky breath, trying to anchor herself in the moment. The flood of individuality still weighed heavily on her, the stark contrast between the boundless unity of the soul sea and the confines of her singular existence. Her thoughts were fragmented, her sense of self only beginning to solidify.
"Yes, Grand Deiwos," she murmured, her voice soft and unsteady.
She rose to her feet quickly, her movements clumsy as if her body were a garment she hadn''t worn in centuries. Her legs wobbled beneath her, nearly giving out, but she caught herself just in time. She glanced briefly at the Grand Deiwos, but their impassive gaze did little to steady her nerves.
Lenity moved to the side of the chamber, pressing herself against the wall for support. Her fingers grazed its cold surface, grounding her as she waited. Her eyes fixated on the incomplete form at the room''s center.
At last, the human''s head finished forming, the delicate intricacies of bone and flesh weaving themselves into existence. His eyes opened slowly, revealing a piercing, unnatural green.
The gathered devadoots recoiled instinctively, their celestial forms shuddering with a reflexive revulsion.
But the Grand Deiwos was not one to falter. They regained their composure in an instant, their expression unreadable as they stepped forward. Their tone, calm and detached, carried the weight of authority, unfazed by the disturbing sight before them. "O great one," the Grand Deiwos began, their voice echoing through the chamber with an almost reverent cadence. "We have pulled your soul from time and space in its moment of greatest weakness. We have summoned you here to humbly ask of you to defeat the evil White Witch which plagues our world with unforgivable evil."
The words hung heavily in the air, a solemn declaration that seemed to resonate with every soul present. Yet, despite the grandeur of the moment, Lenity found her gaze drawn back to those eyes¡ªthose haunting, unrelenting green eyes. What had they brought into their world?
Then, there was the chime of a bell. In front of the human, a small pink rhombus appeared, or it was a rhombus, but its body would reject any stable state. It would shift and transform, shrink and grow, continuously morphing into other shapes.
The Grand Deiwos, unfazed by the anomaly, continued their address with the same measured authority, their voice cutting through the surreal spectacle as though it were mundane. "To accomplish this task, we have blessed you with our divine Devadoot blood to reinforce your soul with god-like power and have granted you an invitation."
The pink shape finally locked into a form resembling that of a featureless human with two limbs. One arm was outstretched towards the summoned human and the other towards Lenity. Each arm held onto a glowing parchment. Lenity looked at the parchment facing her: It read.
| You have been invited to |
| The Tournament |
| You are The Divine-Warden |
Chapter 50: Special Carrier pt. 1
Something unusual was happening to the earthen anomaly. Until recently, its existence had been like any other animated mass of rock. Its behaviour was so typical amongst its kind that the anomalous creation thought it wasn''t even worth describing. In all fairness, it had never met another animated collective of stone such as itself. That didn''t stop it from assuming that if it were to have met another animated collective of stone then that collective would have behaved just as itself did. Or at least behave as it used to, the earthen anomaly was different now.
It was an indescribable change. A change that evaded the creation''s understanding. Where once it saw the world only in how it could practically aid in its duties, now it saw the world in¡ some way; the creation couldn''t describe it after all. The creation wasn''t abandoning its duties, no, no, no; it would never think of doing that. It just meant that it occasionally came across some minor distractions along the way.
The vitalized totem of cobblestone found itself staring down at a small, round pebble. It was an inexplicable action, one whose allure the creation could neither comprehend yet could not ignore. It had never stopped to stare down at things before, and it hadn''t any plans to do so again in the future. And yet, to its own bewilderment, it had stopped¡ªhere, now¡ªits attention inexplicably fixated on this insignificant pebble.
There was something about the pebble that attracted the creation''s gaze. Perhaps it was that perfectly smooth body, the delicate rounded edges; maybe it was those beautiful streaks of light blue that blurred into the stone''s grain. The pebble was, in many ways, the creation''s opposite¡ªa perfect contrast. Its serene blue hue was like a negative reflection of the faint red streaks etched into the creation''s own humanoid chest. Blue and red. Pristine and marred. Free and confined. The creation couldn''t tear its eyes away from the pebble.
The pebble stirred something in the creation, something that confused it. When it stared at the pebble, its limbs did not seem so independent of itself anymore. The pebble awakened a deep, inexplicable need within the creation¡ªa compulsion to remain connected to it, to ensure their proximity was preserved. And so, for the first time in its existence, the creation made a choice: it reached down and decided to take the pebble with it.
The creation had never interacted with something that did not further its task, let alone something that outright hindered it. The pebble was a second thing to protect, and the pebble did need protection. The creation had to ensure that nothing bad could possibly happen to the pebble. It didn''t understand why this was so, but the conviction burned deep within its core: the pebble must not be harmed. Nothing¡ªno force or fate¡ªcould be allowed to threaten it.
Even the simple act of taking the pebble proved unexpectedly tricky for the creation. As with everything about this pebble, the difficulty was abstract, intangible¡ªa challenge it could not fully comprehend. As far as the creation could tell there were no physical barriers, no visible force preventing it from reaching down.
Yet, as the creation looked at the pebble nestled among countless others, the thought of separating it from its kin weighed heavily. Its arm, though fully under its control, seemed to push against an invisible resistance, as though some unseen force sought to tether the pebble where it belonged.
An intangible presence seemed to resist the creation, pushing back against its attempt to claim the pebble. This was not a good sensation and the creation deemed ascribing that sensation to memory so it may be recalled as a hindrance to be avoided in the future. Though the creation had to infer that there was a flaw in its threat identification and management because as the creation had deemed the sensation undesirable, it also ignored its own judgement with deliberate defiance and pushed through the unseen resistance, ignoring the discomfort, and closed its hand around the pebble.
The creation journeyed far and wide across the land, tirelessly seeking a way to fulfill its mission. All the while, it carried the pebble with it, cradled delicately within its protective hands. Ever since the creation had chosen to take the pebble with it, the amount of distractions from its mission had dramatically increased.
The strangest of these distractions had occurred to the creation not too long ago. The creation found itself seated at the edge of a hill, the pebble resting by its side, watching the sunset. It was unbelievable! Alarmed by its own inaction, the creation instinctively ran a threat analysis, searching for signs of a hostile plant or some other force keeping it rooted in place. But there was no enemy, no external cause. It had been itself¡ªits own will¡ªthat kept it there. It stayed, seated beside the pebble, simply because¡ it wanted to.
Objectively, it could identify that sitting and watching a sunset with the pebble did not further progress the success of its mission, but somehow the action, specifically performed with the pebble, still had the same rightness to it. Even though watching the sunset was an unrelated task, it felt right to do with the pebble by its side. Well, everything felt right when with the pebble, but there was a strange special rightness to explicitly taking time to dedicate solely to the pebble. A rightness that felt similar to when it completed a mission.Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
The sunset was just the beginning of these odd changes in the creation''s behaviour. Ever since it had felt the rightness of that moment, the creation continued to feel that same rightness when looking at other things with the pebble. Things started off small at first. It continued on its mission and would raise its palm up to show the pebble the things that it could see. It showed the pebble the trees, the dirt road, the screaming humans. But eventually sharing these mundane sights with the pebble no longer gave the creation that sense of rightness like the sunset.
It was then that the creation began seeking out unique sights to share with the pebble, almost as if the sightseeing had become a mission of its own. Just like a mission, it ended with some sense of rightness upon completion, but this second mission was not one given by its master. The creation couldn''t trace the source of this rightness, couldn''t identify where it came from, just that it was there, and it was¡ right.
The creation and the pebble visited many unique sights, with the passage of time constantly bringing ever more wondrous ones. Waterfalls, mountaintops, dank caves, and the more time the creation spent with the pebble, the more right everything felt. The creation hypothesized that perhaps the pebble itself was right. Sort of similar to how the master was right, but in a different way. The pebble''s rightness appeared to be purer in a vague fashion.
Whereas the master really was only right because it was master, the pebble was right because it was¡ the pebble. The creation''s thoughts couldn''t pinpoint the exact difference between the rightness of the master and the rightness of the pebble, but it knew, without a doubt, that there was a difference. The creation could only describe this certainty of the difference in rightness without empirical proof as a new never before qualified sensation that the creation called: feelings.
There was rightness in that nomenclature. The master was right because it was right, and the pebble was right because of feelings. When the creation was with the pebble, these "feelings" seemed to be everywhere, swarming like prickling sensations that were so powerful they almost felt physical. The creation often searched its own surfaces, convinced it must have sustained some injury, but each time, it found nothing.
The creation would have never imagined it was possible, but over time, the master was no longer the only thing of absolute reverence to the creation. The pebble had gradually climbed its way up the creation''s list of priorities. Now, both the pebble and the master held equal importance¡ªbut unlike the pebble, the master needed help now.
The creation and the pebble arrived at a small, rundown clay hut tucked far away from any nearby village. The hut, weathered and worn, could hardly have contained more than three cramped rooms. Its walls, cracked and uneven, bore the scars of time, and a lingering scent of mud and dampness clung to the air. A rack of dried meat hung near the entrance, its strips swaying slightly in the breeze, while a thick, untamed garden spilled over the right side of the hut, its vines creeping up the walls as if reclaiming the space from nature.
The creation considered the building with indifference, finding it structurally sound enough, but from its limited prior experience, it understood that no human would deem these living conditions acceptable. Luckily, the creation did not seek a typical human.
The creation approached the lone entrance of the hut and found the door already ajar. Without hesitation, it stepped inside and surveyed the first room for any humans. The room was a chaotic jumble, a tangle of plants in various stages of drying, scattered tools, and bottles of brightly coloured elixirs cluttering every surface. The air was thick with the scent of herbs, and something sharper, almost medicinal. The creation felt an almost instinctual need to begin tidying the room with how much it reminded the creation of its master''s old chambers, if not a little more archaic.
Next to a large, cast-iron cauldron stood a short, round woman with scraggly grey hair, her hands struggling to stir a thick, viscous concoction inside. As she turned to see her new visitors, her eyes widened, tripling in size as she took in the sight of the creation and its companion.
The creation, instinctively protective of the pebble, half-covered it, certain that the woman shared the same feelings of rightness it had toward the object. The pebble was right, but it was right for the creation alone.
However, as soon as the elderly woman broke from her stupor, the creation realized it had misinterpreted her response. With a cackle of delighted astonishment, she exclaimed, "Is that an animated pile of therra!? Amazing! Truly amazing!"
The woman glanced at her cauldron, then back at the creation. "I can''t really leave this potion alone; I''m in a bit of a critical moment, so I can''t come to greet you¡ªor your... construct. As much as I want to," she said with a grin. "But feel free to come in. As long as I get to see that thing up close, I''ll happily play host."
The woman chuckled to herself, her eyes flicking back down to her cauldron as she analyzed the bubbling concoction. With a nod to herself, she tossed a handful of thorny herbs into the mix and resumed stirring. "As you can probably tell by where I live, I''m not one that''s much for socializing. As soon as I sensed you enter, my hackles were up. I was ready to flip this cauldron over and book it!" She cackled, "But hey, even if you are an enemy, I would be honoured to have my back snapped in two by that outstanding magic. Is it even magic? Or is it truly pure therra? It couldn''t be; how would you manipulate it then? You have to tell me how you do it before murdering me if that''s your goal."
After a stretch of silence, the woman glanced back toward the entrance, her stirring slowing as her eyes fell on the creation, protectively cradling a pebble. A mix of confusion and mild concern settled on her face. "Hello? You can come in, you know," she called out, her tone somewhere between inpatient and curious. "I wouldn''t even be able to cause you any harm, rock guard or not. I''m no wizard, though you probably knew that. I''m guessing you''re here because you figured out I was one of the lost vvitchenbreivers, aren''t you?"
Her lips twisted into a wry smile. "If you''re not here to kill me, you''ll have to explain how you found that out before you leave. I like to keep that particular detail very secret for fairly obvious reasons. White Witch hysteria and all that. That crazy old hag gives all the rest of us slightly less crazy old hags a bad name, you know!"
Still, there was no response. The woman craned her neck, trying to peer around the creation, her scraggly hair swaying with the motion. She found no one else, only the stoic, looming figure clutching its pebble. With an exasperated sigh, she slumped back toward her cauldron and muttered under her breath, "Well, this is just grand."
After a moment of hesitation, she straightened up, fixing her gaze on the creation with a mixture of annoyance and reluctant curiosity. "I can''t believe I''m about to do this," she grumbled. Then, in a tone both cautious and uncertain, she ventured, "Hello¡ can you understand me?"
Chapter 50: Special Carrier pt. 2
The creation nodded its head in affirmation.
The simple motion sent the woman reeling. She yelped in alarm, jumping back as if a ghost had sprung from the shadows, and her mixing ladle clattered to the ground.
The creation tilted its head, puzzled. The woman asked it a question, but then its response was considered anomalous and concerning. The creation categorized this woman as lacking a proper understanding of causal reaction and thus mentally lowered her assumed threat level.
The old woman pressed a hand to her chest, her breaths coming in short gasps. "You nearly gave me a heart attack!" she muttered, glaring at the creation. Her reprimand was cut short by a loud, ominous bubbling from the giant cauldron.
Her face fell. "Oh, no."
In a frenzy, she dove for the fallen ladle, but it was too late. The cauldron shuddered violently before its bottom burst open with a deafening pop. Thick, steaming liquid oozed out in viscous waves, flooding the floor. Scalding steam filled the hut, curling through the air and hissing in their ears like a swarm of furious serpents.
The woman shrieked and bounded backward with surprising agility, which the creation silently noted as impressive. She darted toward a shelf of precariously stacked elixirs in a flurry of panicked movements. Her hands trembled as she grabbed one, uncorked it with her teeth, and hurled its contents into the spreading sludge.
The reaction was immediate. The thick concoction thinned and turned into clear water, scattering harmlessly across the floor. But the damage had already been done. Half the hut was in ruins¡ªits walls pockmarked with dissolved patches, the drying racks wrinkled with steam. The other half was either submerged in water or at least drenched in it. Her favourite cauldron, as well, lay in tatters, warped and broken.
The woman stood in the middle of the chaos, clutching her head. "Well, that''s just fantastic," she groaned, surveying the soggy wreckage of her home.
The creation mentally adjusted her threat level downward a few more notches.
The woman sighed, brushing sweaty hands against her raggedy clothes as she turned back to the earthen anomaly, "Your creator wouldn''t happen to have given you a collateral budget, would they?"
The creation stared, unblinking. It had no knowledge of what a "budget" was, and therefore, it did not respond.
Taking the silence as an answer in itself, the woman pinched the bridge of her nose. "Of course not," she muttered, more to herself than anyone else. She shook her head as though trying to shake off the earlier fiasco, straightened her posture, and forced a strained smile.
"Right. Moving on," she said with exaggerated cheerfulness as if the ruined half of her hut didn''t exist. "Do you know where your creator is?"
The creation did know the answer to this question and nodded its head to affirm.
She stared at it, her expression blank but expectant, as if waiting for something more. The silence stretched between them, the faint dripping of water from the ruined hut the only sound. The woman finally gave in and spoke again. "Well, where are they?"
The creation remained still, its head tilted slightly as it pondered the woman''s question. Deep within its core, it debated whether this stranger could be trusted with the master''s location. The thought circled in its mind like a slow-moving current, weighed down by an instinctive protectiveness.
The answer was clear. If this woman was to help the master, she would need to know where the master was. After a moment of deliberation, the creation ceded, deciding it would tell her.
The red-streaked stone of the creation''s chest began to shift and twist with a deep, grinding sound as the boulders scraped against one another. The motion was abrupt, forcing the woman to stumble back a step, her eyes narrowing with caution. Despite her apprehension, curiosity kept her rooted, eager to see what the construct was doing.
Cracks spidered along the center of the creation''s chest, the stones slowly peeling apart. As the gap widened, a wretched stench spilled into the room, thick and suffocating, carrying the unmistakable reek of decay. The woman gagged, pulling her shirt up to cover her nose, her face twisting in disgust.
Finally, the stones parted entirely, revealing the grotesque contents within: the curled, compressed corpse of a pale old man, his frail body twisted into the fetal position. His skin was waxy and taut, his eyes sunken and closed, and the darkened stains of death marred his form.
The woman let out a shriek of pure horror, stumbling backward and splashing into the cold, puddly floor. A surge of nausea welled up in her stomach, and she slapped a second hand atop the first that already bundled her clothes as if that would somehow be more helpful. With a strained gulp, she managed to swallow it back down, her face pale and clammy.
Her wide, disbelieving eyes darted to the grotesque sight within the creation''s chest. "Oh¡ªoh goodness! What is that?!" she cried, her voice high-pitched and trembling with panic.
She remained frozen on the floor, her back pressed against the legs of an overturned stool. The room seemed to close in around her as her shock took root, the air heavy with the putrid stench of rot.
The creation stood motionless, an unyielding sentinel amid the chaos of the woman''s hysteria. It observed her with the same steady patience it used to assess its surroundings, waiting for the right moment to respond. When it was certain she would remain frozen in place¡ªor at least confined to gagging on the floor¡ªit finally spoke.Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.
The sound that emerged was an odd, discordant whistle, as if the air was being forced through warped tubes and hollow chambers. The words carried an unnatural resonance, mechanical and hauntingly melodic. "Master is sick,"
The woman had been bombarded with so many stimuli so close in succession that the fact that the anomaly was capable of speech the entire time hardly even registered. Her gaze darted back to the grotesque sight within the creation''s chest, her mind latching onto the most immediate and glaring problem. Without thinking, she blurted out, her voice shrill and cracking with panic, "Your master is dead!"
The creation attempted to crane its neck downward, its stone body creaking and shifting with unnatural rigidity as it tried to peer at the corpse within its chest. The motion was slow and deliberate, each movement a reminder of the rigid, inhuman form it occupied.
Once it had scanned the still, pale body of its master, it turned its attention back to the woman, its gaze unwavering. "¡Very sick,"
The woman fumbled for stability, her hands bracing against a nearby table as she unsteadily pushed herself to her feet. Her knees wobbled, but she managed to steady herself, her breath coming in shallow, erratic gasps.
Once the initial shock of the revelation faded, it made way for an even greater fascination with the unbelievable construct that had visited her. She eyed the creation with growing awe. Its creator was dead, yet somehow, it continued to function, meaning it was entirely self-sustaining.
With a sigh, she wiped her brow, a strange mixture of regret and wonder in her eyes. "I''m sorry, friend, but I''m just a vvitchenbreiver. I can brew potions that cure illness, mend wounds... but death," she hesitated, searching for the right words, "death is a ''sickness'' a little above my capabilities."
The red-streaked stones at the center of the creation''s body shifted and twisted, grinding together with a low, unsettling sound as its chest slowly closed, concealing the pale form of its master once more.
"I understand," the creation intoned, its voice hollow and distant as if the words were more a mechanical response than an emotional one.
Without another glance at the woman, the creation turned toward the exit, its movements deliberate, still carrying the pebble protectively in its hands. It stepped outside and left the woman alone in her cluttered, half-destroyed hut with nothing but the remnants of her astonishment.
The woman stood frozen in the middle of her cluttered room as she struggled to process the insanity of the past few minutes. Her mind raced, struggling to grasp the enormity of what had just transpired¡ªan animated construct, a dead master¡ a lost home. She was barely able to keep her thoughts from totally spiralling.
Then, with a sharp intake of breath, she snapped back to reality. Her heart quickened, and her thoughts cleared¡ªthis was no time for hesitation. The creation, the earthen anomaly made of therra, was a treasure trove for research, a marvel that could redefine everything she knew about magic and the world.
Without another moment''s hesitation, she bolted for the door, her bare feet hitting the cold mud. There was no way she could let this wonder slip through her fingers. She needed to study it¡ªunravel its secrets.
The earthen anomaly had already made its way far down the forest path, its heavy steps echoing with every measured movement. Despite its leisurely pace, the sheer size of its legs made each stride cover distance rapidly.
The woman, her feet stumbling over uneven ground, pushed herself to run faster, her breath ragged in her chest. She waved her arms frantically, her voice rising in desperation. "Wait! Wait!"
Her shouts seemed to hang in the air, swallowed by the distance between them, as the creation continued on, its purpose unyielding.
The earthen anomaly continued its steady march, unbothered by the woman''s calls, its pace unwavering. It only came to a halt when the woman, breathless and determined, caught hold of its wrist, tugging against its natural momentum. The creation turned to face her, waiting patiently for her to explain what she was doing.
The woman started her explanation by bending forward, hands planted on her knees, gasping for air as she struggled to catch her breath. Her face was flushed and she expunged an exorbitant amount of water from the pores of her skin. The creation observed her carefully, its mechanical gaze unwavering. Perhaps this was some form of communication, something the creation had not yet been programmed to understand.
The creation instinctively raised its arms, pulling the pebble as far from the woman as possible. It couldn''t afford to be careless¡ªanyone might try to snatch the precious stone without warning. The anomaly''s vigilance was unwavering, its protective instinct overriding any concern for the woman''s strange display.
After a few more moments of that frankly gross form of communication, the woman seemed to realize that the creation was not fluent because she finally wiped the spilling water off her brow and spoke normally, if not a little too breathy. "I can''t bring your master back to life but maybe I can help you find a way. I know a lot of very skilled people that might have some clues."
The creation looked down on the woman with renewed interest. "Will skilled people make master not sick?"
The woman rubbed her neck, shifting her weight from foot to foot. The creation recognized the motion¡ªit mirrored what it sometimes did when it struggled to convey information to the pebble. "Weeeelll, not right away. There''s no way to bring someone back to life yet, but you are obviously proof that life can be created. Surely, creating a body to house a soul would be easier than full-on creation. I''m sure if I waved you around in front of them, they would be plenty motivated to cooperate on a joint research project."
The creation''s excitement greatly dwindled. This all sounded very time-consuming. Master never liked being sick and the creation thought it would be ideal to cure master as quickly as possible. "So skilled people can''t help master?"
"They can, just not now. No matter how hard you search you won''t find anyone that can bring your master back to life. Maybe a unicorn horn could do the trick but I''m pretty sure that''s just a myth. Look, I am your best chance at getting your master back, it''s not like someone else will just spawn out of nowhere uninvited with the ability to save your master."
A bell chimed right next to the creation. The creation immediately jumped back making sure to keep its body between the source of the sound and the pebble. Where the bell had chimed a small pink rhombus grew out of thin air, or it was a rhombus, but its body would reject any stable state. It would shift and transform, shrink and grow, continuously morphing into other shapes. The pink shape finally locked into a form resembling that of a featureless human with only one limb. The arm was outstretched towards the creation holding a glowing parchment: It read.
| You have been invited to |
| The Tournament |
| You are The Golem
|
Chapter 51: White Chocolate Coconut Truffles pt. 1
He finally arrived at the relatively small city of Dodder. For someone of his stature, accustomed to the opulence of grander locales, he felt the city''s cramped streets and weathered facades were beneath him.
Unfortunately, this job required subtlety and there was no one else who quite matched up with him in that regard at the Tabulate Syndicate. He didn''t expect to linger long in this grimy backwater; his mark, though powerful, was new to nobility and still bore the habits of a peasant. A self-made noble rarely understood the intricacies of defence or the importance of vigilance¡ªboth of which he planned to exploit.
It took him mere moments to decide that there was no point in sightseeing in this insignificant town, so he dived straight to work. His mark was the one and only Jocund the Wall, an extremely formidable warrior and former peasant whose legendary exploits in The Saviors during the Second Human-Mokoi War had earned him a promotion to a low-ranking noble, complete with a worthless throw-away fief.
So far, nothing about the job seemed particularly remarkable. It didn''t matter that Jocund was hailed as one of the greatest warriors to ever live, it never mattered how strong the mark was; it''s not like he was planning on ever fighting them.
Thankfully, the whole foray wouldn''t be a completely exhaustive bore. There were two intriguing stipulations that promised to inject some life into the hunt.
Firstly, the mark was not heralded as powerful for his offence. Jocund hadn''t earned the moniker "The Wall" by chance. As one of the earliest members of The Saviors, his resilience was the stuff of legend¡ªunyielding, impenetrable, and almost mythical. They say that the only attack to ever get by him was from the Mokoi Khan itself.
Secondly, and far more challenging, was the directive that the mark could never be identified as having been a mark. The idea of such a meticulous operation stirred a thrill deep within him. No one could know that Jocund was assassinated.
It was always the more technically involved jobs that got him the most excited. He personally found that the joy of a good mark was found in the gritty challenge of the task, and the rules of this mark just screamed technical.
For now, he wouldn''t even bother formulating a plan. It was too early, and he had too little information; anything he came up with now would simply fall apart. To begin, he would observe.
He hadn''t yet attained access to Jocund''s estate, so he stuck to watching the perimeter. The estate was surrounded by a formidable cobblestone wall, tall and imposing. There were three entry points: the main gate at the front, a servant''s entrance on the side, and an emergency exit at the rear. And, of course, there was the sky¡ªit was a wall, not a dome, after all. That being said, it was a tall wall, and he would prefer not to test the hydraulic compression limits of his knees.
The main entrance faced heavy traffic, a near-constant stream of people coming and going. It seemed Jocund fancied himself a man of the people, likely a remnant of his peasant upbringing, which he was sure would eventually make way to the typical noble''s god complex given time. To accommodate the traffic, the entrance was manned by at least five guards at all times of the day and three throughout the night.
At first glance, one wouldn''t be blamed for assuming the estate boasted an impressive security presence. A further inspection showed the front gate security was all theatre. Beyond the veneer presented, the rest of the estate perimeter was laughable. Patrols along the wall were sparse at best, with only permanent guard stations at the corners. The servant''s entrance was protected by a single guard on a four-hour rotation. As for the emergency exit, it remained unguarded and perpetually locked.
The servant''s entrance was, without a doubt, the weakest link in the estate''s defences. He had only been watching for a few days, and he could already see cracks forming. Guards often left their posts before their replacements arrived, and they routinely allowed groups of servants to pass after inspecting only one for credentials. For shame, underpaid louts, for shame.
A few more days of watching revealed the entrance''s deeper vulnerabilities. Being posted at this entrance was not prestigious; quite the opposite, it was tedious and unthanked. Superiors frequently assigned new hires to this post, eager to delegate the monotony while they pursued more engaging tasks elsewhere. As a result, many of the guards had yet to familiarize themselves with the staff.
He didn''t neglect the rest of the perimeter, of course. There was still valuable information to be gleaned from observing the main entrance and wall sentries. Over time, he noticed a curious pattern: once a week, at the exact same time, the estate received only one visitor. The visitor always arrived in the same gaudily adorned carriage, bearing the same unmistakable emblem. From his initial research, he recognized it as the sigil of the viscount who had married Jocund''s daughter.
A weekly familial meeting of a rising star noble, already he could picture the thousands of reasons he could have been hired for this job. The reason was irrelevant; it was just fun to think about.
Eavesdropping on the endless flow of rumours from the wall sentries during quiet, uneventful nights proved invaluable. Without even setting foot inside the estate, he began piecing together a picture of its inner workings. One thing became glaringly obvious: getting caught was not an option.The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.
Despite being fifty and missing an arm, Jocund regularly hijacked the guards'' training sessions for his own gruelling exercise routines. If the sentries'' grumbled complaints were to be believed, time had done little to diminish Jocund''s ferocity or stamina. The man might be a relic of a bygone war, but he was still every bit the living legend his nickname suggested.
Another valuable tidbit from the wall sentries was the identity of the carriage''s occupant: Jocund''s granddaughter. She was quite the pompous brat if rumours were to be believed¨Cand he always believed rumours. After all, in his field of work, rumours were even more important than reality.
As the first of Jocund''s lineage born into nobility, the girl''s privileged worldview clashed with her mother''s humbler upbringing. This, apparently, was why dear old grandpa set aside time every week, leaping to the rescue to play with his granddaughter and hopefully teach her a few lessons about kindness, and purity, and innocence, and probably also rainbows while he was at it. Sorry Grandpa, no can do.
Next on his list were the servants. They were the obvious choice for any infiltration¡ªconstantly moving, blending in, and, most importantly, entirely forgettable. No one paid them much mind, except, of course, other servants. And therein lay the danger.
Only a fool would simply throw on a uniform and waltz into the estate. Servants noticed details: who belonged, who didn''t, and who was pretending. They lived by routines, and no matter how minor, disruptions stood out like a sore thumb. An assassin who underestimated this would be caught before they even caught sight of their mark.
As the day wound down, he found himself in the local tavern, idly toying with his plate of meat and potatoes. It was a frequent gathering spot for many of the servants willing to drain their measly savings down the bottom of a cup. He''d managed to seat himself next to a group of gardeners and attendants grumbling through their drinks over the woes of irrelevance.
He wondered if they knew he was watching them¡ªif they would be flattered by the attention. They likely had never been scrutinized so carefully, and he was the type of person who even scrutinized and fraternized many nobles. In his eyes, they were all the same: nobles, servants, families, hammers, nails, tools.
Deep in a drunken stupor, one of the servants had accidentally dropped her identification. It wasn''t a problem for her¡ªsecurity at the estate was lax enough, and she was surrounded by friends who could easily vouch for her when they returned. But for him, it was an opportunity.
With the servant''s identification in hand, the soon-to-be giant killer now had his way into the estate. Jocund probably wasn''t a literal giant, but from the way the guards spoke of him, he may as well have been.
Examining the paper up close, he realized it wasn''t an identification card at all, but a permission slip. It outlined the reason and timing of the trip, along with a barebones description of the servant. That''s right: description, no drawing, no magic signature, just hair colour, sex, and a signature. The slip was for accounting, not security.
Better yet, he''d already learned that a notable portion of the guards were illiterate. Forging his way into the estate had just become trivial.
With a forged servant''s slip in hand, all he needed was an opportunity for new faces to be introduced. He hadn''t even had a full day to strategize before the problem conveniently solved itself. He was of the mind that no great assassination was complete without a touch of dumb luck.
Around noon, whilst contemplating how he''d orchestrate the arrival of new staff amidst spying on the main entrance, the desired influx of servants just manifested itself. Turns out a new batch of workers had been hired to accommodate the increased workforce required for some expansion within the estate.
Why in the world had he not heard any guards or servants mention this expansion or coming wave of workers he had no idea, but he would happily take the opportunity provided.
The new employees were all from out of town, which worked in his favour¡ªfor now. Their unfamiliarity with one another would buy him a few days of freedom to investigate unnoticed. However, they were all living on the estate grounds, which meant that anonymity would be short-lived. Once his roommates and fellow ''colleagues'' started to feel comfortable with him, he would have to find a new way in.
The very next day, he made sure to have an illiterate guard at the servant''s entrance and handed the man his forged slip. The guard made a laughable pretense of reading it¡ªdespite everyone surely knowing about his condition¡ªbefore waving him through without a second thought.
Simple as that, he was now inside the estate.
The initial infiltration was almost embarrassingly easy. He simply joined the first day of orientation and spent the next few days blending in as a regular worker. To minimize attention, he rotated between groups, careful never to work with the same people twice. The ongoing expansion kept everyone busy and distracted, which worked perfectly in his favour and allowed him to get away with some more egregious behaviour.
He knew this brazen approach wouldn''t work for long. Briefly, he entertained the idea of truly becoming an employee, but a few casual conversations quickly ruled that out. These workers had all been purposefully hired through prior connections. It was almost as if Jocund were shouting, I''m up to something¡ªplease hire an assassin. If that was the case, then... hello there.
The employee strategy was a dead end. His best option now was to memorize the entire estate layout within a week¡ªthe most he could risk before faces and names started sticking in people''s minds. It would be a challenge to map the building in such a short time, yes, but far from impossible.
On his fourth day as an employee, he handed his task slip to the guard at the servant''s entrance. The slip was perfectly filled out with believable information, but just as a precaution, he still preferred to hand it off to someone illiterate.
The guard took the paper, squinting at it with exaggerated concentration. Despite knowing the man couldn''t read, the assassin felt a flicker of unease as the guard brought the slip close to his face and carefully studied it.
Finally, the guard grinned, apparently satisfied. "Looks good, Smite¡ªis that how you say it? I just started learning to read, so it''s still tricky sometimes."
The assassin offered the guard a friendly smile in return. "It''s pronounced Smith, actually. But keep at it¡ªyou were close."
The guard chuckled, scratching the back of his head. "Will do. I''ll make sure to get it right next time, Smith. Alright, you''re good to go. I won''t keep you¡ªI''d hate for you to get in trouble on my account."
As he walked away, he snuck a brief glance back to see the guard, eyes closed in concentration, reciting the name to memory.
That wasn''t good.
Chapter 51: White Chocolate Coconut Truffles pt. 2
He made sure to clear away from the guard who had memorized his name and began his day''s work. That interaction was as subtle a warning shot as he could have asked for. The encounter, while innocent enough, was memorable¡ªand he couldn''t afford to be remembered. Not by his face, and especially not by his name, even if it was a fake one. For an assassin, memorability was a death sentence.
Fortunately, he''d already committed most of the estate''s layout to memory. With that knowledge, he was confident he could move undetected without the need for disguises or pretenses. All that remained was securing a key to the emergency exit. Once he had it, he could bypass the servant''s entrance entirely and discard his employed fa?ade for good.
His first task of the day was in the estate''s sprawling back gardens. The area was secluded, far enough out of the way that no other servants were close enough to notice the finer details of his movements. Taking advantage of the privacy, he discreetly pocketed a handful of soft clay.
The key''s location was his next puzzle, and the most obvious guesses were Jocund''s bedroom or office. Odds were, there was one in both.
Jocund''s history was that of a peasant and an adventurer. An adventurer renowned for his ability to take hits to the head. The picture didn''t suggest that he was a man who was much for the arduous management of paperwork. He seriously doubted Jocund spent much time in that office at all.
He slipped into Jocund''s office, the pristine cleanliness of the room confirming its near-abandoned state. In fact, it seemed so unused that he began to worry the key might not even be there. His concern was thankfully short-lived as he was able to find it tucked into a not-so-hidden compartment under the cedar desk.
Testing the key for a magical signature, he let out a quiet sigh of frustration¡ªit was imprinted. Replicating the signature was possible but would take time, and time was something he didn''t want to waste. He poked his head out of the office; the hallway was mercifully empty.
Magic wasn''t his strong suit. It was his one glaring weakness as an assassin. Despite all the wizards he''d killed, it was surprising how little magical knowledge his work required. Wizards, in his experience, were hypocrites¡ªthe epitome of not implementing the systems which they espoused.
He didn''t need to be an expert, though. He couldn''t tell you the difference between arcana and essence or explain what a loka was, but copying a key''s signature? That, at least, was within his grasp.
It took him a few minutes longer than he would have liked, but he eventually memorized the signature. With practiced efficiency, he pressed the key into the soft ball of clay he had collected earlier and carefully shaped it into a precise mould. Once satisfied, he gently freed the original key from its cast, methodically cleaned off any traces of dirt, and returned it to its original position, untouched and undisturbed.
He followed the next batch of servants out of the estate on some random errand and casually detached from the group. A short visit to a smithy after hours, and he now had his very own emergency exit key. The next few days would be dedicated to Jocund.
Every day, along a constantly shifting schedule, the assassin would sneak through the emergency exit and study his mark. His observations only confirmed the complaints he''d overheard from the wall sentries a few days prior. Just watching Jocund''s militia''s gruelling training regimen made his muscles ache in sympathy. Worst of all, Jocund¡ªthe fifty-year-old amputee¡ªwas going through the exact same routine, not even breaking a sweat.
It was not long until the assassin had a thorough picture of the man named Jocund. He was a chronically busy individual who loved to mingle with his servants. There were few opportunities to catch him alone, which meant any method of taking him out would need to be from a distance¡ªand most likely, delivered by someone else.
The obvious choice would be poison, but the death had to look natural. Jocund was a big man, and any poison potent enough to kill him would be far too traceable. Poison was out.
Jocund was old though. A fifty-year-old man, especially one who had pushed their body to the utmost limits of a war veteran, must have some weaknesses. Surely, he had some medical conditions to manage. If that condition could be manipulated, perhaps Jocund could be convinced to take his own life, with a little help from nature.
The problem was that Jocund had the constitution of a juggernaut. He never once showed any sign of illness or strain. Day to night, rain or shine, he seemed unflappable. That was until his granddaughter arrived.
Jocund met her in one of the guest rooms for their weekly sessions. They would blabber about over mostly trivial nonsense. The granddaughter would complain about how much work and study she was forced to endure to be an educated noble, while Jocund would occasionally scold her for failing to give the servants the proper respect they were due. As if it actually mattered whether she thanked the servant for bringing in the pastries or not.This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.
There it was, his weakness. Thank the devadoots for children''s sweet teeth. A servant had brought in a large platter of diverse pastries, a comical multilayered carousel of sugary delight. My goodness, the granddaughter had a sweet tooth indeed.
Along with the heartstopping thousand course desserts, the little lady was provided with a cup of tea and Jocund with coffee. The granddaughter gaily proclaimed her praises for her grandaddy Jocund through stuffed cheeks and powdery fingers. Her hands shot for some more coconut-flaked confections as her story transitioned to the typical juvenile complaints, like how her desserts were greatly limited and monitored at home. Her final huff of exasperation was punctuated with shoving another coconut-sprinkled candy into her endlessly chattering mouth hole. My goodness, she really liked the coconut-flavoured ones.
He was getting distracted. What mattered more was the clear visual discrepancy between the two halves of the platter¡ªwell, aside from the obvious fact that one side had far fewer pastries left. The pastries on the half facing Jocund were paler, with less powder on them. Jocund must have some dietary restrictions, preventing him from enjoying the same sugary indulgence as his granddaughter.
It would take a few more weeks of observation to confirm if this was a regular arrangement, but it was a promising start.
He started watching the kitchen attentively throughout the following days, and he didn''t even have to wait long to find out that Jocund had a blood pressure problem. Salts, sugars, and fats were heavily monitored for all of Jocund''s meals.
The week came and went, and the granddaughter''s visit arrived once again. Something interesting happened that day. The staff had to go out and collect some coconuts as an ingredient for her favourite pastry of their batch. Coconut was never stocked in the estate and was collected exclusively for the granddaughter''s visit.
On this day, the food tester meticulously watched the entire baking process down to the final step and even added the coconut sprinkles herself to all save one pastry. Once the pastries were finished, she immediately washed her hands and grabbed the one piece without coconut sprinkles to test it. She gave the chef a thumbs up and brought it to the guest room. The food tester had an allergy.
Jocund had high blood pressure, the food tester was allergic to coconuts, and Jocund always had coffee while his granddaughter drank tea. A plan was forming.
It was time for his favourite part of the job, the part where the deed was done. His plan was simple: he would find the source of the coconuts and inject a subtle reagent inside the fruit. Then, on the day of Jocund''s meeting with his granddaughter, he would plant an inert enzyme in Jocund''s coffee. Upon eating the dessert, the reagent inside it would react with the drunken coffee to activate the enzyme inside his digestive tract. The enzyme''s activation would break down the more complex ingredients inside the pastries until they unravelled into the more basic unfiltered sugars, which would increase his blood pressure and lead to heart failure.
Everything had to be perfectly untraceable, which was why he had to divvy up his poison across three sources. Each source would be harmless on its own and indistinguishable from the usual food Jocund was served. The only conclusion upon his death would be that he had high blood pressure and had recklessly continued his gruelling exercise routine. A heart condition was inevitable.
Source One: The Altered Pastries
The pastries were the easiest part of the plan. The servants would unwittingly construct this element of the "poison" themselves. His role was simply to ensure that the ingredients they used could, in fact, be broken down into their base sugars. A midnight perusal of the kitchen stores, followed by a discreet lab experiment, confirmed that, yes, they could. With that assurance, all that remained was perfecting the enzyme and its activator to integrate them into the other sources.
Source Two: The Coconuts
The coconuts were easy enough to locate¡ªhe simply tailed the servants during their weekly collection trip. Injecting the fruits with the reagent, however, posed a unique challenge. Damaging the coconut shells was out of the question as it was a potential avenue wherein which he could get discovered.
If breaching the coconut was out of the question then that only left one option: breaching the tree itself. The reagent he was using was a substrate, specifically one that already naturally existed in dilute amounts as an enzyme activator in living organisms. If he injected the reagent into the pruner blades of the coconut tree, then it would identify the substrate as a natural component of itself and the tree would feed the substrate to the coconuts through its own chemical processes.
Source Three: The Coffee
The coffee presented the most significant hurdle. Altering its composition at the source was impossible¡ªit was imported and closely monitored. While accessing the stored coffee grounds in the estate wasn''t entirely out of reach, it was risky.
The real issue was timing: the enzyme he needed to introduce had a limited lifespan. Enzymes are designed to function in living systems, and last time he checked, ground coffee beans were anything but alive. This meant he had to insert the enzyme within an hour of the coffee''s preparation. The kitchen, bustling and well-staffed during that critical window of meal prep, made this task particularly daunting.
Dishes were washed before and after every meal. While he couldn''t get to the coffee itself within the necessary time frame before it reached Jocund''s lips, he could target the water used to wash the utensil that was used to draw the foam on the coffee''s surface.
The estate''s well, carelessly left unguarded outside, became his target. By infecting the water supply with the enzyme, fortified with nutritional proteins and acids to enhance its resistance to soaps and natural diffusion, he ensured its survival through the cleaning process. From the well to the dishes, to the spoon, and finally to the coffee, the enzyme would complete its journey seamlessly.
Chapter 51: White Chocolate Coconut Truffles pt. 3
"Mar, my dear, it''s always a joy to see you," Jocund said, his voice booming with affection.
"Grandpa!" The little girl squealed, running to him with her arms wide. She launched herself into his embrace, and he effortlessly hoisted her into the air with his one powerful arm. Her laughter rang out as he spun her around before setting her back down gently.
Mar planted a quick kiss on his cheek, grinning from ear to ear as she slipped her small hand into his. Jocund gave it a firm but gentle squeeze, and together, they started down the hall.
Jocund guided his little girl through the estate, but when they passed their usual meeting spot without so much as a glance, she tilted her head in confusion. "Grandpa, why aren''t we going to the guest room?"
Her grandfather chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that seemed to resonate in her chest. "Well," he said, his tone warm and teasing, "you''ve been visiting so often, you''re hardly a guest anymore, are you? Besides, I have a little secret to share with you."
"A secret?" Mar tried to keep her voice steady, as her noble etiquette classes had taught, but her eyes sparkled with barely contained excitement.
Jocund smiled knowingly. "Yes, a secret I''ve been keeping from you for a while now. I''ve been building something special¡ªa whole new wing of the estate, just for you."
"For me?" Mar gasped, her composure slipping entirely as she stared up at him with wide, astonished eyes.
"Yes," Jocund said with a warm smile, "It''s not entirely ready yet. But when it''s all done, you''ll be able to stay longer and more comfortably¡ªif you wish to, of course."
As they approached a towering set of double doors, two servants stepped forward and pulled them open with a synchronized sweep, revealing the new visiting room beyond.
The space was vast, many times larger than the old guest room, with high ceilings and daylight streaming through tall, arched windows. An upper balcony with thick shadowed banisters overlooked the large gathering hall. Against the far wall, several smaller doors hinted at an even more elaborate construction hidden deeper within the extension.
"But for now," Jocund continued, gently guiding Mar inside, "I''ve had your favourite treat prepared." He crouched slightly to meet her wide-eyed gaze and added with a soft chuckle, "Happy birthday, Mar."
Mar''s eyes welled with tears as she looked up at her grandfather. "It''s amazing, Grandpa. Thank you!"
She darted forward, throwing herself against his sturdy legs and squeezing as tightly as her small arms could manage. Jocund smiled warmly, his weathered face softening as he bent slightly to embrace her. His one arm wrapped around her with practiced tenderness, his large hand gently rubbing her back.
"You''re welcome, my little firefly," he murmured, his deep voice carrying a warmth that made her hug him even tighter. "How does it feel to turn six?"
Her reply was muffled against the fabric of his pants, a jumble of sounds that he couldn''t quite make out. Jocund chuckled, the rich timbre of his laugh filling the room, and gently guided the birthday girl to a pair of chairs at the center of the space.
The chairs were grand, cushioned beasts¡ªwide enough to comfortably seat two adults side by side yet inviting enough to feel like a personal throne. The chairs were so large that Mar couldn''t simply climb into them, but its clever design included small steps built into the side. She grinned as she used them to hoist herself up, settling into the plush cushion with a contented sigh.
Jocund approached his chair, his imposing frame making the oversized seat seem almost modest in comparison. He turned slightly, gripping the armrest with his single, powerful arm as he lowered himself. The chair groaned faintly under his weight before settling, the plush cushioning adjusting to accommodate his solid build. He leaned back, letting out a quiet, satisfied exhale as his shoulders relaxed, the deep lines of his face softening for a moment.
Moments later, a servant entered, balancing a platter brimming with pastries, each delicately arranged and glistening under the soft light. Another followed close behind, carrying a steaming cup of tea and a dark, fragrant coffee.
The tea was offered to Mar, who accepted it eagerly. She wrapped her small hands around the porcelain cup and took a careful sip. Her eyes lit up as the familiar, special blend filled her senses¡ªa flavour she had only ever tasted in this place.
After serving Mar, the servant moved over to Jocund and offered him the steaming cup of coffee. Jocund accepted the warm drink with a nod, "Thank you for the coffee, Helot."
The servant bowed deeply, murmuring a deferential "My lord" before stepping back. Jocund lifted the cup to his lips, the rich aroma wafting upward as he prepared to take a sip.
Just as the servant turned to leave the room, Jocund paused. His hand lowered the cup back onto its saucer with a soft clink, and his brow furrowed slightly. "Helot," he said, his deep voice cutting through the quiet air, "can you wait, please?"
The servant froze mid-step and turned back, head slightly bowed. "Of course, my lord."
Jocund glanced at Mar, who happily cradled her teacup, the steam curling upward like delicate ribbons. "Are you enjoying your tea, Mar?" he asked, his voice warm but expectant.
She nodded enthusiastically, a cheerful grin lighting up her face. "It''s delicious! There''s so much more flavour in the tea here."
Jocund smiled, but his gaze remained steady. "Then shouldn''t you thank the person who gave it to you?"
Mar blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the question. The concept always slipped her mind, but it wasn''t something she typically thought about¡ªthanking servants. Her father had once explained that this was one of her grandfather''s peculiar rules, something rooted in his past before becoming a noble. Mar didn''t entirely understand it, but she knew it mattered to Jocund. And she liked her grandfather enough to respect his strange way of doing things.
She smiled at the help, her voice bright and earnest, "Thank you for the tea!"
Her grandfather''s expression softened at the honest response, but his voice took on a gentle tone as he prodded with another correction. "His name is Helot, Mar."
Mar blinked, catching the slip-up. She quickly corrected herself, a bit sheepishly but still with her usual cheer. "Thank you for the tea, Helot."
The servant, Helot, gave a respectful nod, his posture straightening as he bowed slightly to Mar. With the proper thanks now given, he quietly stepped back, retreating to the corner of the room where he waited for any further requests.
Jocund raised his coffee and brought it to his eager lips but once again lowered it to add in, "Now, doesn''t it feel so much better to be kind to the people who are kind to you?"This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
Mar nodded; her voice was soft but obedient. "Yes, Grandpa."
Though her words were affirming, her gaze lingered on the tea in her hands, a faint furrow in her brow betraying the fact that she didn''t quite grasp the meaning behind his lesson. But she didn''t argue, trusting her grandfather''s wisdom even if she didn''t understand it fully.
Jocund gave a dismissive shrug, his grin widening. "One day you''ll get it."
He lifted his coffee again and took a slow, satisfying sip.
A deep, contented sigh escaped him as he leaned back slightly in his chair. The coffee¡ªrich, dark, and perfectly brewed¡ªwas worth every bit of the overly complex preparations. He swore that he must have accidentally stumbled across the best Barista in all of Trammel.
He didn''t have the time to properly savour every bit of the coffee if he wanted his share of the pastries. He glanced over at the platter of sweets, his eyes twinkling with humour. He couldn''t have coconut often since his food tester was allergic, but it was a worthwhile sacrifice for a tester as trustworthy and with such a discerningly sensitive palette as she had.
It did mean, though, that he had to race his granddaughter to the desserts. Even if his pastries had far less sugar in them, and even she agreed they didn''t taste as good, but her love for coconut was legendary, and despite his best efforts, he knew she''d already been eyeing his half of the platter.
Sure enough, as his hand hovered over one of the coconut pastries, he noticed a distinct absence. His eyes flicked up to Mar, who met his gaze with a sly smile, crumbs still on her lips.
Jocund shifted in his seat, reaching for another of his special coconut pastries. As his fingers grazed the pastry, Mar''s voice piped up, a note of longing in her words. "Grandpa, can I have a taste of your coffee?"
He paused mid-reach, eyebrows raised in playful disapproval. "Coffee? Mar, children shouldn''t drink coffee; it''ll stunt your growth."
Mar groaned in protest, her arms crossed with exaggerated exasperation. "But I''m not a child anymore, Grandpa! I''m already six!"
Jocund''s face broke into a hearty laugh, his chest shaking with the sound. The pure, untainted innocence of childhood¡ªnever failed to amuse. "Ah, six, is it? Well, you''re still my little firefly, and fireflies don''t drink coffee!"
Mar clasped her hands together in a begging gesture, her eyes wide and pleading. "Please, Grandpa, I''ve always wanted to taste it, but no one lets me. Just a tiny sip for my birthday?"
Jocund thought it over for a bit. He supposed just a little sip wouldn''t hurt. She''d probably hate it as well and never ask again, so maybe it could even be a good idea. "Only a little sip?"
Mar''s eyes sparkled with hope. "The smallest sip."
Jocund leaned forward to pass her the coffee. Just as her eager hands reached for the cup, he pulled it back out of her grasp with a smirk. "I''ll let you have a sip when you thank every servant who has helped you without forgetting for five days."
Mar''s frustrated grumbling just made Jocund laugh as he leaned back and bit into his first coconut pastry. The pastry was really good. It tasted far better than it usually did; it was sweeter, richer. He looked at the partially eaten snack in his hands to confirm he hadn''t accidentally grabbed the wrong confectionary. He hadn''t, it was a perfectly normal treat.
Curious, he took another bite, letting the sweetness linger on his tongue. It was strange. He could''ve sworn they didn''t taste this good before. Maybe he''d just forgotten how perfect they were. He shrugged it off, deciding he didn''t mind the delightful surprise. He finished off the rest of the pastry and went for another one with a grin.
The hours slipped by unnoticed as they chatted about little things, enjoying the moment. By the time they''d finished their desserts and drinks, the atmosphere had turned quiet and content.
Eventually, the time came for Mar to go home. She gave her grandfather a final hug, and the warm exchange came to a close, and that was it.
"What?"
Jocund''s ears perked and he turned around, confusion crossing his face as he looked toward the servant. "Did you say something?"
The servant quickly shook their head. "No, sir."
Meanwhile, hidden in the dark corners of the bannister, the assassin cursed under his breath, hands cupped around his mouth to stifle any further noise. It was a slip-up¡ªa moment of moronic surprise¡ªbut he couldn''t help himself. Jocund, impossibly, seemed perfectly fine after devouring the tainted pastries. Well, almost everyone. The assassin had held his breath when Mar asked to taste the coffee after nibbling on some of the desserts, but that crisis had been avoided. He exhaled in relief, the tension still gnawing at him. What was going on?
The assassin didn''t know exactly what to do now. The smart move would probably be to leave, reassess, and come up with a new plan, but instead, he decided to stay and watch Jocund a little longer.
Despite the carefully laid poison, Jocund seemed completely unaffected. The assassin''s nerves twitched with confusion and frustration, but then, the moment he had been waiting for arrived. Jocund, usually an unflappable beast of a man, headed toward his bedroom far earlier than usual. Good news, at least.
The big hulk of muscle was either stubborn or underplaying the ache in his chest. His heart was undoubtedly rebelling against him. Jocund probably thought it was just a brief lapse¡ªa simple exhaustion that rest would fix.
Jocund closed his eyes and settled into a deep sleep. The assassin hesitated. This was the moment to leave¡ªJocund would die in his sleep, and the assassin certainly didn''t want to be anywhere near when it happened. But he didn''t leave. Paranoia gnawed at him. He needed to stay, needed to see Jocund''s final breath with his own eyes.
And so, he watched.
The hours dragged on. Jocund slept soundly, his breath deep and steady. There was the occasional shift, a bead of sweat forming on his brow, but nothing like the agony the assassin had anticipated. No signs of struggling. No gasps for air, no clutching of his chest. Jocund, that stubborn, unbreakable man, seemed... completely fine. The assassin''s stomach twisted as he continued to wait, growing more anxious with every passing minute.
Day had finally come. The soft light of the day star streamed through the large windows, its rays cutting through the shadows and telling the assassin that his watch was over. He couldn''t stay any longer¡ªhe had to leave. He was shocked that his plan had failed so utterly, but such was life. Sometimes, things didn''t go the way they were supposed to. It was time to leave the estate, think of another plan, and figure out how to fix this mess.
But just as he turned to walk away, a sound sliced through the quiet. The light chime of a bell
The assassin froze.
He turned, heart hammering, to face the source of the sound.
In front of Jocund a small pink rhombus grew out of thin air, or it was a rhombus, but its body would reject any stable state. It would shift and transform, shrink and grow, continuously morphing into other shapes. The pink shape finally locked into a form resembling that of a featureless human with only one limb. One arm was outstretched towards Jocund. The arm held onto a glowing parchment.
Jocund didn''t make any reaction to the sudden intruder. A great member of the Saviours, a man who fought against the Mokoi Khan and won was such a heavy sleeper that he wouldn''t even wake to the sound of a ringing bell right next to his head? Anyone could have killed him in his sleep just like that?
He stepped cautiously over to Jocund''s body, ensuring to keep a careful eye on the strange pink entity. The odd creature did not react to his movement, so he knelt beside Jocund and checked his pulse. There was none. Jocund was dead. When did that happen!? Who dies of a heart attack that casually?
His thoughts raced as he turned toward the glowing parchment still held by the outstretched arm. It shimmered with an otherworldly light, almost beckoning him. The assassin reached out and read the words on the page:
| You have been invited to |
| The Tournament |
| You are The Bulwark |
"Well, he won''t be needing this anymore," the assassin muttered to himself, pocketing the glowing parchment. The pink entity, as if recognizing its purpose had been fulfilled, began reversing its morphing process. It shrank down into a pinpoint of light, fading into nothingness with a soft, almost imperceptible whisper.
Wasn''t this the fabled invite to that legendary Tournament? The one where the winner was granted any wish they desired? Of course, "winning" only meant being the last one standing. A sick thrill buzzed through him. This wasn''t just some average assassination job. No, this was something bigger, with a far greater payout and infinitely more intriguing marks than anything the Tabulate Syndicate could offer him.
Chapter 52: Lung Ago pt. 1
The device clicked rapidly against the antagonistic environment. The man glimpsed down to the compact apparatus in his grasp. He observed the dial on its subtly illuminated screen as it swung decidedly to the right, traversing from the white backdrop into the ominous red end of the spectrum. The mercurial essence was thick in this area.
He looked up from his device and surveyed the desolate landscape. Crushed buildings and scattered debris surrounded him like some stone jungle. Once a cityscape, its structures had all crumbled to form an artificial cave that oppressed the land it encompassed. The ruined buildings here weren''t like those of the modern world; they weren''t made of wood or stone but of refined alloys and peculiar compounds. Some of these buildings were composed entirely of impossibly thin windows so tall they pierced the skies. Of course, these windowed sky-hugging edifices didn''t reach those lofty heights anymore; they were nothing more than a pile of rubble on the ground now, another wall of the cave.
Cutting paths between these fallen structures were roads. These were no ordinary dirt roads meant for horse carts or pedestrians; instead, these roads were crafted from a strange blend of stone and oil engineered to withstand the mighty weight of artificial monsters whose flesh were metal and veins boiled with incalescent fire. The man could only wish to see what this city looked like before they had fallen, before the waterline rose and devoured it.
The ancient ruins, that''s where he lived now. He spent every hour of every day scouring its breadth for any shreds of information on the long-gone civilization. His insatiable curiosity drove him to the endless pursuit of unravelling the mystery of their existence, to understand who they were and fathom the enigma that brought their downfall.
The ancient ruins were incredibly hazardous places, not due to the presence of monsters, dragons, or mokoi, for even these abominations deemed the ruins too inhospitable. No. The true danger emanated from every clump of dirt or heap of metal; it was the mercurial essence that saturated the environment.
The toxic essence was so lethal even the vegetation dared not encroach into these condemned grounds. Even the plant life just beyond the ruins wasn''t wholly safe, twisted and mutated into grotesque forms, as if performing a final sacrificial defilement to warn of the caustic dangers that were near. It was this very mercurial essence that had made studying the ancient civilization so challenging.
Mercurial essence wasn''t an issue for him though, not anymore. The mercurial essence had fused with him, it mutated him, tore at his foundations, and rebuilt him from scratch. Unlike the others that bore this trial, unlike the plant life just beyond the ruins, unlike the lineage of failed explorers before him, it did not kill him; it gave him control.
Guided by the building intensity of rhythmic clicks from his device, he traced a path to the greatest concentration of mercurial essence. There was only so far he could delve upon the surface of the ruins, where the water merely washed up to his knees. To uncover anything of real merit, he would have to dive into the ruin''s depths and make his way toward the source¡ªthe very heart of the mercurial essence.
Soon, he found himself stepping off the roads, venturing into one of those fallen buildings to continue his expedition. Indoors, the radiance of the day star was obscured, and the only illumination came from the soft glow of his handheld device.
Within these structures, he gained intriguing insights into the architectural preferences of the forgotten society. Even in their dilapidated state, he could see the formulaic grid that shaped these flawlessly square rooms and precisely rectangular halls. It was as if humans didn''t even make these buildings, each segment identical to the last; not a single blemish could be spotted, at least not one that wasn''t caused by the defilement of time.
He could envision the original form and orientation of the halls he wandered, picturing those ancient people roaming along them in their daily routines. Yet, it required a leap of imagination, for his journey through these corridors differed vastly from theirs. His path deteriorated and descended. The whole hall caved downwards, and weathered walls closed in like a colossal serpent, swallowing him whole. The deeper he marched, the less light reminded him of his possible escape, leaving only the abyssal maw ahead to invite him further. Further down he went, the water level steadily rising as he delved deeper.
He continued unperturbed as the toxic water pressed against his thighs. He waded on further as it ate his waist. Later still, he floated deeper, pushing himself by the tips of his toes as the water tasted his ears, his head tilted upwards to gulp down precious air. Then, he continued no more, the only path left deeper still.
Mercurial essence had a nasty habit of denaturing magic, so no water-breathing spells would help him here. He had never been to this part of the destroyed city and had no clue where this hall would lead him. No clue if there was another side, an exit, or if it was just water all the way down. The water was perfectly still, totally opaque, denying him any answers; it laughed. Through the clicking of his device, it laughed at him, the water''s acidity slowly dissolving his clothes and taunting his ignorance; ignorance of what''s next, ignorance of what''s beyond. He looked down at the device in his hand and waved it from side to side. It clicked fastest when he pointed it directly down into the depths of the water; it was calling him in.
He could feel it; the answers he was searching for were down there. But how far down? He could turn back and find a different route and a different hall. He closed his eyes and took a few meditative breaths, followed by purposefully hyperventilating, emphasizing the exhales and expunging as much carbon dioxide as possible. Quickly, with a final gulping inhale, before his mind found any time for doubt, he plunged.
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The murky water eroded his vision, and a myriad of dust and deteriorated debris floated around. He had to move swiftly; he had to find a pocket of air. He swam past a few metal chairs, rust shedding their eroded skin, and continued further into the building. He checked the open entrances on either side, each submerged room proving as uninteresting as the last.This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.
There was nothing new here for him to explore. At the end of the hall, he discovered a set of large metal doors. It appeared that these doors slid in and out of the walls to open and close, and he felt a surge of gratitude that at least one of the doors was in the open position.
Through the opened door, he found himself in a vast vertical shaft. The shaft plummeted downwards, far deeper than his squinting eyes could observe. Not even light dared test the extent of its descent. When he looked up, a large metal box obstructed his path. Wedged at an angle, it completely barred any passage beyond¡ªpreventing him from squeezing through with his entire body. However, a small compartment hatch, crumpled and partially blocking the entrance, left a gap just large enough for his head to fit. He didn''t waste any time and
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surfaced. He attempted to survey the surroundings of this compartment, but the breathable space beyond the small opening was pitch black. The hole was too restrictive for both his head and his glowing device to fit through, making it impossible to discern what lay within.
As far as he was concerned, this was not a route he could take. The man''s options were to return to where he came from or swim deeper into that pitch darkness below. With his one free hand, he struggled to grip the underside of the hatch, using it to pull his head above water. The choice was obvious. He hurriedly expunged as much air into the open compartment and with a push against the hatch he
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swam down headfirst. He kept his arm, which held the clicking device outstretched before him at all times so its glowing display could light the tunnel ahead and its rhythmic clicks to direct his course. The nagging clicks of the device confirmed he was. He slowly propelled himself deeper with the gentle paddle of his legs.
He would encounter more of those sliding metal doors at regular intervals along the length of the vertical shaft walls. Yet, each one he passed was found closed, leaving no alternative but to continue deeper.
In this painfully oppressive darkness, he existed in complete isolation; the only discernable presence was his self, yet he still grew claustrophobic. The darkness was so total that the man almost missed a set of slightly ajar metal sliding doors. They revealed another impeccably rectangular hallway beyond.
He squeezed through the narrow gap, burning energy as he wiggled his slightly too-large body past, reminding him of his desperate need for air. Once his hips cleared the opening, his legs slipped in effortlessly, and he began to swim frantically, searching for a pocket of air. His lungs begged for relief. The air inside him depleted, his chest filling with gaseous poison. This was it now; there was either a clearing to breathe or there was death.
He swam down the hall as fast as he could, sweeping his clicking device from side door to side door, hoping to illuminate salvation. There it was, a missing door, its frame perfectly sealed with no apparent water seeping through. He blindly shoved his head through, poking up and ~
he took a breath. Large mouthfuls of air filled his lungs, devoured like a starved animal. His chest unclamped, and he felt safe, if only for a brief moment. He turned around on the spot, taking in his temporary camp. It was a minuscule air pocket only as tall as his hand''s width but at least as wide as the entire room.
His clicking device illuminated the waters below, revealing the same adhesion to that grid-like pattern in the architecture. The odd formulaic room was complete with the same chairs, desks, and metal boxes that all these similar-looking rooms had. He waved his clicking device around in search of the highest concentration of that aggravating noise, and once again, his clicking device was calling for him to go deeper and so
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he did. He pushed against a nearby wall to shoot himself out of the small room and back into the hallway, resuming down the path opposite from where the vertical shaft was. He soon found his route out of this floor as he found an open door leading to a stairway. The stairway ran around the perimeter walls, spiralling endlessly downwards. The great benefit of this room''s design was that the man could simply swim down the central gap and use the stair''s convenient railings to propel himself swiftly down.
It didn''t take long for him to reach the very end of the stairway, which ended with an unprecedently thick door made of a peculiar metal alloy. The door stood firm as an impenetrable juggernaut, but to the man''s unimaginable luck, the wall immediately adjacent to said door was floating all around the room in broken chunks, leaving a perfectly sizable hole for him to swim through.
The sight almost made him want to laugh, but his clenching chest was of much greater concern; he quickly went through the hole in the wall and continued into the room behind. This room was again another vertical shaft, a shaft that he found himself at the very top of. There was only one direction he could go: down.
The man had never heard his device click as violently as it did now, the little dial smashing against the far right of the display. His aching lungs were nearly forgotten in his excitement. He quickly calmed himself, he didn''t want his heart rate to spike any higher than necessary; every ounce of energy mattered.
There were none of those sliding doors hugging the walls of this shaft like they did the other. It seemed that the sole purpose of this shaft was to connect only two locations: the top and the bottom.
He had gone so deep at this point that he was really beginning to feel the water pressure pressing in on him. An actual physical strain applied itself on top of his shouting chest. He picked up the pace; this shaft was far deeper than he liked, and there were no doorways, not even closed ones to offer the illusion of oxygenating hope.
He swam deeper and deeper, him and the glowing light alone in this watery entombment. He finally reached the bottom of the shaft. An open hall! An escape! But no air yet.
This hall was unlike the ones he had previously seen; everything was much cleaner, even with the wear of history. He ignored that; he could focus on it later, for now, air. His chest pounded, agony enveloping his every fibre. The fear was primal; it wasn''t a matter of bravery or cowardice. This panic was biologically built into the human makeup, for no one should suffer as he did now.
Hall, hall, closed door, closed door. Panic, panic. Desperate flailing of limbs, please, around this corner, around that corner. Location no longer registering; just any lip in the ceiling, please. There!
He entered the room, but it was tall. He had to swim upwards higher and higher. He dropped his clicking device to dedicate his full force to swimming as fast and powerfully as possible. So close he could feel the weight of water release as he broke its surface.
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Chapter 52: Lung Ago pt. 2
He surfaced from the waters and purged his lungs of the putrid toxin within, and he had never taken a more satisfying gasp of air in his entire life. His mind didn''t bother to process where he was; he simply waded in place and breathed. For nearly half a minute, he fell into a lull, immersed in the blissful act of respiration.
Eventually, he mustered the will to look around, only to realize that he didn''t have the glow of his device to see anything. This area was shrouded in pure darkness. To see anything, he would have to dive back down and retrieve his device. Peering through the water, he caught sight of the dim glow below. It was not a challenging swim¡ªnowhere near the distances he had recently covered¡ªbut the very thought of going back underwater made him queasy.
Sadly, he had little choice in the matter. He couldn''t wade in place forever.
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He descended once more, kicking his way down where he had just come from. He hated the very idea of backtracking, which drew his mind to the horrifying notion of trekking back through everything when he wanted to return to the surface.
As he got closer to his device, he began to make out more details of the illuminated surroundings. The pain and terror he had endured had all been worth it, and he couldn''t stop his heart from bounding in glee as he had no clue what he was looking at.
The machinery was far more complex than anything he could comprehend: cogs and cables, more of those metal boxes the ancients seemed to love, and incalescent fireboxes along with other monitor-like devices. He grabbed his glowing device and kicked off the floor to propel himself back up. It was a short swim, but his tired body made it feel like forever.
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He resurfaced again; this time, he had his light source to reveal the room. It was gargantuan in scale; he could neither see a roof nor any walls save for the one he used to enter. Best of all, plenty of the machinery was tall enough or jutting from the walls to create above-water ground. He made his way to a nearby metal clamp, many times his size, that jutted out from the wall and mounted himself atop to rest on the blessedly dry space. He relaxed his muscles, and only now did he realize how terribly exhausted he was.
He rested on his back, mindlessly following the wall of the room up into the unseeable darkness above; he remarked mentally to himself that the walls of this room curved like a grain silo, which greatly differed from every other wall he had seen built by the ancient civilization, at least never to this scale before. This room, whatever it was, was truly unlike anything he had seen from the ancient civilization before. The man was sure that he was the first organism ever to set foot in this place since the mercurial essence had settled in.
After a few minutes of much-appreciated rest, he was ready to begin exploring the room properly. He went to stand up, but as he did, his upper body inexplicably stretched to an impossible height, causing him to smack his head against the room''s ceiling and keeling him over.
He tumbled to his knees, and his body constricted back to its standard size. He rubbed at his sore head that had somehow smacked against a roof so tall he couldn''t even see it.
The man gazed up into the space above him, squinting his eyes and focusing as hard as he could, attempting to uncover some hidden truth within the empty expanse. Analyzing from a distance revealed nothing.
Carefully extending one of his hands upward, he watched in amazement as right before him, his arm stretched up impossibly long, through the darkness, above and out of sight, until he could feel the roof of the room. He still couldn''t see the roof; it was too far away, but he couldn''t see his hand either as it stretched far beyond view.
Even with his new arm proportions, nothing felt different. His blood still pumped normally, he retained full motor control, and sensations on his palm worked typically as they reminded him that he was, in fact, touching some impossibly tall ceiling.
He tried to wave his arm to the left, but as he did, his entire stretched forearm popped out of existence, causing a stinging sensation on his hand. Panic barely had time to set in as he soon realized the pain was from smacking his hand against the left wall, which, bewilderingly, his forearm, seemingly detached from his body, was now next to.
Clenching his fingers in and out of a fist, he tested if he still controlled the dismembered limb. As his fist opened wide, each finger stretched and twisted impossibly; his middle finger, in particular, flattened out and spread all around him as if it were a half dome capping the room.
All this unfolded before him, mind-boggling in visuals but entirely void in sensation. His arm still felt like it always had, utterly unaffected except for the slight pain caused by accidentally striking the wall.
His instinctive response was to retract his arm, bringing it as close to his body as possible and hug it dearly, as if that action would somehow protect his arm from these otherworldly manipulations. However, when he pulled his arm back, even though he felt it move in a simple straight motion, visually, it was sporadically jumping all over the place¡ªinsides becoming outside, his arm would reject any stable state, it would shift and transform, shrink and grow, continuously morphing into other forms.
At one point, he witnessed a single stream of blood elegantly shooting into existence on a slight curve before disappearing out of existence. His logical brain told him that the blood should fall to the floor, but it ignored such restraints, almost as if the blood was still safely encased within the artery that contained it. He continued to pull his arm back towards his chest, and the incomprehensible and sporadic sight eventually consolidated to his body and brought it back into the normal shape he was familiar with.
The man did a few exercises and stretches just to be perfectly certain that nothing was affected, and nothing was. If only the TOIL initiative could see this. This was why he abandoned the initiative; no matter how much funds or time he devoted to them, he would have never gotten to see? Experience? He would have never gotten to interact with whatever this room was.If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.
It was frustrating, though; he knew that something had to be in this room, more than the strange space in front of him. He knew there was something there that was just hidden; its physical makeup thrown about the room just as his arm was. He needed to find this item somehow and pull it out of the strange, warped space.
Once again, he moved his hand into the air above him, aimlessly waving it around, searching for this object while simultaneously gawking at the spectacle that was his transforming limb.
Suddenly, he felt a push at his back; it was the first time his experimentation here had led to sensation. He was very careful; he knew that any sudden arm movement could dramatically change its apparent position, so he cautiously twisted his neck to see what had touched his back without moving his arm.
Behind him, he saw his finger, many times larger than his own body. He could make out the individual pores and the unique imprint formed by the lines of his fingerprint. He jolted back at the perplexing and cosmically questioning sight. His sudden movement, of course, caused his arm to move immediately, making the large finger disappear.
After recollecting himself, he found himself frustrated with his reckless behaviour. He wanted to find a way to get his finger back where it was. He had a curious thought.
It took a while of random arm waving and awkward pose-holding, but eventually, he managed to get his entire hand back to that enlarged position beside him. It really was a marvel to see a part of your own body in such comprehensive detail. It was easy to lose himself in child-like wonder, but he had tests that needed running.
He pulled his eyes down to the giant clamp-turned platform that he stood upon. The clamp was leviathan in size; he would guess it had to weigh in the hundreds of tons. He grasped the clamp with his giant hand, the whole thing fitting comfortably in his hand. Then he pulled.
The clamp, nearly weightless, followed and the sudden tug of the platform he stood on made him instinctively crouch down for balance. As he crouched, his arm swiftly followed suit, and that''s when things fell apart.
The burst of motion spontaneously ripped the clamp from under him, dumping him into the water and,
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machinery, metal, and flesh all violently flickered in and out of existence, morphing in shape and location. The once-stationary technology in the water below now spun in chaotic disarray. A sudden piece of metal grew out of thin air and smacked against his head before just as quickly disappearing again.
Various cross-sections of the same material danced around him. Then, as quickly as the carnage had begun, it ended, leaving his arm perfectly normal and securely attached to its shoulder.
The room now lay empty, with only him sinking in the water, clutching an odd rectangular contraption that fit comfortably in his hand.
Before any investigation, he kicked upwards, sickened with swimming and now also sporting a head wound, he was eager to
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resurface and take in a breath. With the clamp gone, he had no platform to stand on and was forced to tread water. A worthwhile sacrifice now that he could more closely inspect this strange contraption. The man very foolishly turned the contraption around, immediately forgetting everything this room tried to teach him, and the contraption burst outward, unravelling into a much larger construct that walloped him in the nose,
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shoving him underwater. His hands quickly covered his bleeding nose, and he let out a half-pained, half-annoyed yelp, which sounded out as a muffled gargling underwater. He pushed his body upward,
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surfacing again for the umpteenth time. The small rectangular contraption was now stretched out from end to end of the room as a massive blackboard and littered with an indecipherable mess of scribbles and equations. This was actual writing left behind by the ancient civilization!
He couldn''t make out what any of it said; no one had ever found enough of the civilization''s writing to decipher it.
He desperately wanted to find a way to bring this device out of the ruins with him, but he wasn''t sure if it was possible. The device was exceptionally volatile, where any form of movement seemed to be able to cause limitless repercussions.
The man caught a sudden motion from the peripheral of his vision and quickly turned to see a featureless pink face leaning over his shoulder. He let out a panicked scream and promptly swam away from the object.
Now that he was further away, he could properly make out the full shape of the entity. It looked like a featureless human without legs or arms floating in the air. Its face was a blank canvas containing no features, no eyes, nose, mouth, or ears. The entirety of the entity was this impossibly smooth and bright pink colour, which contrasted drastically with the darkness around it.
The pink creature spared the man only a cursory glance before turning its empty head back to the blackboard. It was nearly impossible to discern any expression from the blank face, but it seemed as though the pink creature was actually reading the ancient text!
The pink creature ceased scanning the board as its vacant face fixated on one of the formulas. Suddenly, a pink shape materialized out of thin air in front of it. The pink shape began to morph and change, grow and shrink, much like his arm had when he waved it toward the room''s ceiling.
Eventually, the shifting pink shape settled into a single arm that seamlessly attached to the creature as if it had always been there. The arm terminated in a small seven-fingered hand which pressed against the blackboard, erasing a short horizontal dash that was drawn right in front of what the man assumed was one of the ancient civilization''s numerical symbols.
The pink creature then grabbed the blackboard at its edge, and both the creature''s hand and the board slipped out of existence. The man frowned at seeing his most prized discovery being so casually stolen.
The creature then turned to face the man. The motion was accented by the chime of a bell, and another pink shape appeared in between the creature and the man. It looked like the creature was materializing another arm, but this time, it was holding on to a glowing parchment which it was offering to the man.
He cautiously swam closer to the pink creature and glanced at the parchment: it read.
| You have been invited to |
| The Tournament |
| You are The Archeologist |
Chapter 53: Spoken Stories pt. 1
The arrow sliced past his cheek, stealing a strand of his platinum blond hair as it zipped by. He dropped low, narrowly evading a crackling bolt of magic, and sprang forward with explosive speed. With a fearless charge, he dove headlong into the throng of enemies, his movements a seamless dance of precision. He ducked and weaved through the storm of blades, each strike missing him by a hair''s breadth. The few blows that did connect to him were too insignificant to merit his attention.
A blade drove clean through his palm, the hilt slamming against his hand, the only barrier keeping it from splitting his skull. Gritting his teeth, he clamped his injured hand around the weapon''s hilt, yanking it downward with brutal force and dragging its wielder along with it. In one fluid motion, his free arm lashed out, an elbow smashing into the enemy''s throat. The blow left his assailant choking, their grip loosening just enough for him to wrench the sword free from his body.
He used his stolen sword to offhandedly slay its owner, then curiously raised his wounded hand to his face and gazed through the ragged hole torn through flesh and bone. Tendons writhed and stretched like living threads, knitting themselves back together. Slowly, the skin followed, creeping over the wound until there was no trace of the violence it had endured.
He tore his gaze from the mending wound and turned back to the battlefield ahead of him. Scores of enemies still stood, their weapons gleaming in the dimming light. He would not stop¡ªnot until every last one was dealt with. Fury burned within him, fueling his every step, but it did not cloud his mind. Instead, he exuded a chilling calm, a predator''s serenity, as he moved with deadly precision. Each motion was instinctive, seamless, as he cut down foes with ruthless efficiency, segregating limbs from life.
At last, only the wizard remained. With no guards left to shield her, she was as good as dead. She stumbled back, any of her spells would take too long to cast at such close range. He closed the distance with measured, deliberate strides, his presence as suffocating as the inevitability of her end. In her eyes, he saw it¡ªthe same raw hatred that had driven him to this point. It pulsed in her gaze, mirroring the carnal disdain that burned through his every pore. They had become two sides of the same coin, bound by fury and loathing, and he knew this moment would mark the culmination of their shared rage.
Strangely, now that he had finally returned the favour¡ªkilled all that she loved, just as she had all that he had loved¡ªhe felt no sense of closure, no satisfaction. The emptiness gnawed at him, hollowing out the rage that had driven him this far. Experiencing that malice from the other side, seeing it reflected in her trembling gaze, was unsettling. Terrifying, even.
There was no turning back now. He raised his sword high above his head, the blade poised to pierce her heart. Her life flashed in her eyes¡ªmemories flickering like dying embers. They both knew she wouldn''t survive. When stripped of everything else, when the world reduced itself to this single, dreadful moment, all that remained between them was vengeance.
His sword descended, but before it could connect, she unleashed one final, desperate retaliation. Reaching deep into her magical core, she ignited it, turning her spiritual form into a self-destructive cataclysm. Her entire body turned into a bomb, and she exploded into a nightmare of arcane demolition. The suicidal assault caught him entirely by surprise, leaving him no time to react. The blast vaporized his blade, reducing it to ash, and tore through his body with brutal force, puncturing his intestines and launching raw energy skyward.
The unleashed magic flared up into the heavens before rupturing in a breathtaking display of power¡ªa firework of pure arcane fury. It illuminated the battlefield-turned-wasteland in eerie, brilliant light. A second later, the sound reached the ground, a deafening boom that rattled the ground. The bass reverberated through his chest, stealing his breath, and shattering his eardrums in its wake.
He glanced down at his mangled torso, watching as a torrent of blood spilled from the gaping wound, pooling around the wizard''s smouldering remnants. "Well, darn," he muttered, his voice tinged with both irritation and resignation.
"Well, this is what happens when you get too cocky," the elderly woman chastised, her tone sharp yet oddly measured. She stood over the sobbing child, who perched precariously on a hard wooden chair, trembling as tears streamed down their cheeks. The jagged end of a bone jutted grotesquely from their knee, stark against the pallor of their skin.
The woman leaned in, dabbing at the wound with a damp cloth, her movements unflinching despite the child''s pained whimpers. Every touch sent waves of searing agony through the little body, their cries echoing off the walls. "Lucky for you, it''s not as bad as it looks," she muttered without empathy.
Then, without warning, she gripped the exposed bone with firm hands and shoved it back into place with a sickening crunch. The child let out an ear-splitting scream, their agony twisting through the air like a tangible force.
Undeterred, the woman simply wiped her hands on her apron and pulled out a long roll of bandages. "Now maybe this will serve as a valuable lesson for you." the elderly woman said, her tone cutting as she tied the bandage around the child''s leg. "Your powers don''t make you unstoppable. Get too overconfident and you''ll end up like your uncle."
"Don''t say it like that mom, you make it sound like I died."
The man with platinum blond hair chimed from his resting spot in the corner of the room. He was propped up on a makeshift bed with a thick blanket draped over the gaping hole in his abdomen. It had been only a few weeks since he received the brutal injury in his last battle.This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.
The journey home had been gruelling, each step a test of will, but he''d finally returned yesterday, where he could rest in relative comfort. Still, his recovery was far from over. His intestines hadn''t healed enough to function properly, and eating was out of the question. The gnawing ache of starvation was almost worse than the maddening itch of his body stitching itself back together.
The old woman sighed, shaking her head as she began tidying up. "What am I going to do with this family?" she muttered, more to herself than anyone else.
From his spot in the corner, the man with platinum blond hair turned to his nephew, who was still sniffling, clutching at his bandaged leg. "Don''t sweat it, kiddo," he said, offering a crooked smile. "Your leg''ll heal up in no time. Now, if you''d lost the bone, that would''ve been a problem. But as long as you''ve got all the pieces, patching it up''s no big deal."
He leaned back, shifting slightly under the thick blanket that covered his still-raw injury. "Besides," he added with a teasing lilt, "you might just be the next family prodigy. I''d even bet money you''ve got the second-best healing powers in the family after me¡ªwell, third-best if you include Greatest Gramp, but let''s be real, he''s in a league of his own. Ain''t that right, Gramps?"
Everyone in the room turned toward the elderly man seated by the fireplace, his frail frame dwarfed by the large chair fitted with oversized metallic wheels. He was impossibly old, his skin folding into layers of wrinkles that seemed to defy belief. His pure white hair, thin and wispy, clung stubbornly to his scalp¡ªa testament to the relentless passage of time.
The man''s eyes remained closed, though he was clearly awake, his chest rising and falling in shallow, laboured breaths. Age had stolen even the simplest of strengths from him, and the effort required to form words was far beyond his ability. All he could offer in response was a low, rasping grunt.
The boy''s chest swelled with pride at the compliment. He bit down on his lip, determined not to cry¡ªhe couldn''t let himself betray the image of a future prodigy. Even so, the sharp throb in his leg refused to be ignored, and he needed something, anything, to take his mind off the pain.
His gaze flicked to the ancient man by the fireplace, then back to his uncle. "Why do we call him ''Greatest Grandpa,'' anyway?" he asked, his voice small but laced with genuine curiosity.
Both his uncle and grandmother burst into laughter at the boy''s question. It was his grandmother who answered, a warm smile tugging at her lips.
"You see, Greatest Grandpa isn''t just your great-great-grandpa," she began, emphasizing each "great" with a playful tone. "He''s your great-great-great-great¡ªwell, so great that we''ve lost count of how many ''greats'' we should say, Grandpa. Eventually, we figured it''d be easier to just call him ''Greatest Grandpa.''"
The boy''s eyes widened as he turned to the ancient man by the fire, now studying him with a newfound sense of wonder. "So¡ is he your Greatest Grandpa too, Grandma?"
His grandmother chuckled softly, her smile deepening. "That''s right," she said. "And he was my grandma''s Greatest Grandpa, and her grandma''s Greatest Grandpa, and so on and so on. When I was your age, he looked exactly the same as he does now."
She bent down and scooped the boy into her arms with a gentle grunt, a few cracks from her spine and knees punctuating the effort. "Now, off to bed with you," she said, her voice kind but firm. "You won''t heal properly without a good night''s rest."
The grandmother left the room with the young boy, leaving only the man with platinum blond hair and his greatest grandfather. The younger man slowly pushed himself upright, a strained grunt escaping his lips as the pressure around his stomach flared. He shuffled forward, his movements stiff and careful, and finally approached the old man.
"Well, looks like it''s just you and me for the next couple of months," he said, forcing a pained chuckle. "Guess we''ll be spending a lot of time together, huh?"
The old man managed the slightest of smiles, his fingers twitching ever so slightly as they began to form abstract symbols against his armrest. The family had developed their own pseudo-sign language over generations to communicate with their living ancestor. No one knew exactly who had created it¡ªjust that it had always been a part of their family and thought to every child. Some speculated that Greatest Grandpa himself had devised the language, anticipating the slow decline of his ability to speak, but the truth had long been obscured.
Greatest Grandpa had always been coy about revealing such details, a master of secrecy when it came to the family''s history. The younger man, watching the careful movements of the old man''s hands, couldn''t help but chuckle inwardly. He had always suspected that Greatest Grandpa enjoyed these little mysteries, that perhaps he was a bit of a prankster, delighting in the odd little ways he kept the family on their toes.
The young man recognized the subtle gestures of Greatest Grandpa¡ªan unspoken welcome home, a sign of happiness to have company again. And the young man, too, was grateful for the company. He had just returned from a wild pilgrimage, one filled with adventure and action. He had forged and lost bonds with friends, battled in glorious clashes, and tangled in dubious plots, all culminating in a tragic, climactic showdown where he had finally exacted vengeance for his loved ones.
Now, he longed to share it all. With no loved one to bask in the glory of his triumphs and the weight of his sorrows, he felt an overwhelming need to regale his family with every detail of his journey¡ªfrom the highest of highs to the lowest of lows. Recounting the stories was almost like reliving the moments with those he could never see again. And what better audience than Greatest Grandpa? A nearly silent listener, surely with nothing better to do than to endure his stories.
The young man poured out his story, recounting everything from the very beginning all the way through¡ªeach twist and turn of his adventure, each victory and loss. There was a profound catharsis in speaking the words aloud. It gave him the space to reflect on everything he had done, and a deep sense of accomplishment and satisfaction washed over him with each retold moment.
He thought about his lover. Just weeks ago, he had been in a pit darker and deeper than he could''ve imagined, consumed by a grief so raw he thought he would never feel whole again. Yet, as he spoke, memories of them together began to surface¡ªmoments of joy, laughter, and love. They had lived a full, beautiful life.
He had always known, deep down, that he would outlive her, such was the curse that ran through their family. But as the memories flooded him, he realized there was no reason to wallow in the sadness of loss. They had built something extraordinary together, and that was something worth cherishing, not mourning.
Of course, telling himself this was far easier than truly feeling it.
Chapter 53: Spoken Stories pt.2
The young man narrated his tale from noon until night and back to day again. Neither he nor Greatest Grandpa could sleep anyway; the energy and pain in continually healing their weakened bodies wouldn''t allow for rest. At least that''s why the young man couldn''t sleep; Greatest Grandpa never said anything nor asked for the young man to stop his story so that he could sleep, so the young man just assumed that Greatest Grandpa was in similar straits.
The hours slipped by unnoticed, the stories flowing from one chapter to the next, as if time itself had slowed in the presence of this odd, unspoken companionship.
The day star fell and rose once more before he finished running through the whole story up to his arrival at the very building they stood in. H He paused for a moment, thinking back on his many escapades, then to the stories that had once inspired them¡ªthe stories of Greatest Grandpa, told to him when he was younger. His favourite stories had always been those of The Tournament. The very same tournament that would begin anew this year.
"I hope I can heal in time for The Tournament. I wouldn''t want to miss out on such an awesome opportunity," he said, his voice thoughtful. Then, glancing at Greatest Grandpa, he added, "Hey, Greatest Grandpa, as someone who''s seen the earlier Tournaments, you think I''ll get invited, right? I mean, with my healing, I''m basically unstoppable, aren''t I?"
He didn''t speak it aloud, but a part of him was eager to heal in time not just for the challenge, but for the prize¡ªthe wish granted to the victor. There were a few things he would wish differently now.
The young man looked up at Greatest Grandpa, but before the elder even had a chance to begin signing his response, the young man cut in. "Actually, never mind. I don''t want to know. Let it be a surprise." He chuckled to himself, a touch of uncertainty in his laugh. "Anyway, enough about me. How about you? Got any new stories to share?"
The young man chuckled at his own joke, but to his surprise, Greatest Grandpa grunted an affirmative and signed back to him. "There is something I would like to show you."
"Yeah, of course. Just guide the way." The young man pushed himself to his feet, moving as quickly as his aching body would allow, which was to say, uncomfortably slowly. He reached for the handles that protruded from the back of Greatest Grandpa''s chair. The chair was specially designed to be mobile so that any of the family members could move Greatest Grandpa''s old withered body wherever he pleased. It also functioned wonderfully as a supportive bar for his own weak body.
It was at times like these that the young man remembered that he wasn''t actually so young anymore. His healing abilities, so powerful and swift, made it easy to forget that his body, despite its youthful appearance, was still that of a seventy-three-year-old man.
Greatest Grandpa directed the young man to carry him out of the house and down to the village square. At the heart of the square lay a large clearing, where a perfectly circular plot of grass gave way to a miniature park of sorts. A behemoth sequoia rose in the center of it all, its immense trunk and towering canopy overshadowing the entire park.
It was a miraculous sight, a true wonder that drew the attention of adventurers and travellers alike, making the village a popular stop along their journeys. The tree had always been a favorite gathering spot of his when he was younger, a place filled with memories of laughter and shared moments. But now, standing at its base once more, it was nothing he hadn''t seen before. He couldn''t understand why Greatest Grandpa had brought him here.
The young man waited for his elder to speak¡ªor rather, to sign an explanation¡ªbut when none came, he couldn''t help himself. "So, what did you want to show me?"
Greatest Grandpa gave a weak nod, his chin lifting as if pointing toward the tree. Slowly, with deliberate effort, he signed his response. "What I have been doing recently."
The young man blinked, still confused. "I don''t get it. What have you been doing?"
A grin tugged at the corners of the old man''s lips when he heard his descendants'' question. "I''ve been watching."
The young man turned his gaze back to the towering sequoia before him. If this was yet another one of Greatest Grandpa''s pranks, he certainly didn''t understand it. The tree appeared precisely as he remembered it¡ªtall, sturdy, its thick trunk and sprawling branches casting their familiar shadow over the village. Perhaps it had grown taller since he left, but beyond that, nothing seemed different. Nothing worth showcasing to others, at least.
"I don''t understand," he admitted, his voice tinged with chagrin.
Greatest Grandpa took his time to sign back an explanation, each movement deliberate.
*"At one point in time, this place was an open battlefield, and I watched as men and women of heavy resolve laid down their lives for what they believed in. The blood and ash from their turmoil seeped into the soil and became the fertilizer for a tree that I had planted there. I watched as that tree grew strong and tall. I watched as citizens from either side of that prior battle, their memories of conflict long washed away, came together here. I watched as they chopped down that tree grown of their ancestor''s blood and used her lumber to build a firm town. The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
I watched as that stump recovered from its wounds and grew alongside the new town. I watched as neighbours came and traded goods and values. I saw as others coveted what the town had built here. I watched as outsiders set fire to every hut and farm. I watched the town set ablaze and smoulder to nothingness.
But the tree, too mighty and strong, survived the attack. And I watched as the villagers, undeterred by their tribulations, came together and chopped the tree down once more and built again.
One more time, I watched both the tree and the village lick their wounds, growing stronger and closer than ever before. I watched families come and go, some born in filthy sewers, only to die in mansions high on hills. Others nurtured in ivory tragically fall to dirt. I watched conflict and consolation orbit around this tree, and now¡ I watch more.
See that branch, third from the left? It has a slightly lighter green leaf than the rest. That leaf was just a little bit lighter yesterday. And though it might not be here in a year¡ªor even tomorrow¡ªI''m glad I managed to catch it on the by."*
The young man stood motionless, his gaze fixed on the tree as he reflected on his ancestor''s tale. "I understand what you mean now," he said slowly, his voice thoughtful. "I was conceited and foolish in my earlier stories. In the moment, everything felt like the most important event to ever occur, but if I step back¡ I can see it''s just one piece in an endless cycle. Revenge begets revenge, and with such I now have my current injury. I, like the villagers in your story, should rather build anew and push forward undeterred by the err of those around me."
"No, that''s not it."
The young man turned in surprise to find another villager standing next to him. He was so wrapped up in his thoughts and in Greatest Grandpa''s story that he hadn''t noticed the crowd that had quietly gathered around them. The villager spoke again, this time with a hint of gentleness in his tone.
"The story''s not just about personal growth or revenge. It''s about the power of community and cooperation. Greatest Grandpa was showing you that if, instead of going off to seek revenge alone, you had sought help from others, you could have avoided this injury altogether."
A woman carrying her infant child scoffed at the villager''s words. "Are you crazy? You men are always trying to solve everything with violence." She shot a pointed glance at the young man, her eyes sharp with disapproval. "The story obviously had an anti-war message."
An older man, who had been silently watching the exchange, chuckled softly as he stroked his long beard. The young man recognized him as his great-great-grandfather, a man with a knowing smile that often carried the weight of years well spent.
"None of you know Greatest Grandpa like I do," the old man said with a hearty laugh. "You''re all so focused on the villagers in his story, as expected from young''uns like yourselves. But you''re missing the heart of it. You need to focus on the tree. The story is about sacrifice. It''s not that revenge itself is wrong, but rather the reason behind it. You did well in fighting those bandits, not to avenge your fallen comrades but to stop them from hurting others again. That''s what matters."
Before the young platinum-haired man could speak, a young child in the crowd piped up, arms folded stubbornly. "That can''t be right! I''ve talked to Greatest Grandpa before, and he says violence is bad!"
The crowd erupted into a chaotic discussion, each person clamouring over the others, debating the moral nuance of Greatest Grandpa''s story. The volume of voices blurred everything into a garbled mess, and the young man found it nearly impossible to hear his own thoughts over the din.
"Enough!" he finally shouted, his voice cutting through the noise. "Why don''t we ask Greatest Grandpa himself?"
The crowd instantly quieted, all eyes shifting toward the elderly man in the chair. His expression was unreadable, his eyes still closed as they always were, and his frail form unmoving. The young man, taking a deep breath, approached and kneeled before his ancestor, meeting him at eye level.
"Greatest Grandpa," he said softly, his voice both a plea and a reverence, "can you tell us what the purpose of your story was? What were you trying to tell us?"
Greatest grandpa ever so slowly began to sign with his fingers to speak. "I just thought you''d like to know about my tree and how it was doing."
Greatest grandpa''s woefully anticlimactic answer was accented by the miraculous chime of a bell. In front of the young man there was what seemed to be a small pink rhombus that grew out of thin air, or it was a rhombus, but its body would reject any stable state. It would shift and transform, shrink and grow, continuously morphing into other forms. The pink shape finally locked into a form resembling that of a featureless human with only one limb. The arm was outstretched, holding a glowing parchment that was presented to Greatest Grandpa.
Surprised by the unexpected visitor, Greatest Grandpa opened his eyes. The entire crowd let out a shocked gasp as they took in Greatest Grandpa''s revolting blue eyes. Greatest Grandpa didn''t pay any heed to the rejecting onlookers and instead focused on the glowing parchment: it read.
| You have been invited to |
| The Tournament |
| You are The Amaranthine |
Chapter 54 pt. 1: Pray
The rabbit lay lifeless on the forest floor, its breath stolen by the cruel noose coiled tightly around its neck. The rope had bit deep into its fur; its eyes were red and bulging, its body cold and still. Claw marks had excavated desperate grooves into the dirt around the surprise grave. It was the ending scene of a struggle finished without salvation.
The young girl ignored the macabre scene, which had long since turned rote for her, and worked to loosen the deadly snare with her small hands. She worked with practiced efficiency, her hands deft and sure with an ease born of experience. It didn''t take too long for her to eventually unbound the rabbit and reset the trap, ready for its next execution.
She picked the rabbit up by its hind legs, studying the lifeless body with clinical detachment. It was said that to spare a rabbit was to have good luck all day, it was a shame then that luck tasted so good.
She was quite satisfied with her catch. It was a plump young rabbit. The young ones always had the best taste. They were sweeter, less gamey, and most importantly, they didn''t smell as much. She wiped a streak of drool from her chin.
Should she feel bad for this creature? Was this apathy irregular for an eight-year-old girl? She thought back to Ritzy back at the orphanage. Ritzy was one of the lucky ones who had the luxury of arriving at the tragic care home with at least a few personal belongings. Her most prized possession was this raggedy stuffed bunny she carried around with her everywhere. That''s probably where Ritzy''s got all her luck from. A rabbit commodified and eternal, mechanized luck: how partisan.
Ritzy would never have been able to work the rabbit traps. She''d freak at the sight of a dead animal, let alone retrieving a rabbit from the trap. The image of the dainty girl even trying made her smirk faintly, though it vanished as quickly as it came.
The girl was nothing like Ritzy. For one, she didn''t have a stuffed bunny¡ªor any personal belongings, for that matter. And when she looked at the adorable creature dangling from her fingers, she didn''t see a symbol of luck or innocence. She saw a meal trapped behind a dastardly prison of fur, plain and simple. Cute? Perhaps. But cuteness didn''t make it any less delicious.
In her mind, it was already chopped, cooked, and simmering in a pot. Ritzy may not have approved, but what she didn''t know wouldn''t hurt her¡ªthough it might fill her belly. The girl''s lips curled faintly. Higher ethical standards didn''t mean Ritzy was any less desperate for food than the rest of the orphans.
The girl finished her rounds with four plump rabbits tied in a bundle¡ªa fine haul if she did say so herself. Still, she knew it wouldn''t be enough to satisfy the house mother. It was never enough to satisfy the house mother. The girl didn''t have to worry too much about that though, since the house mother seemed to have taken an undeserved liking to her recently.
She would always get the most nutritious portion at mealtime and hardly ever got any beatings of late: she wasn''t used to such luxury. Perhaps after so long with Ritzy, some of that luck was rubbing off onto her as well. Doubtful.
The girl emerged from the shadowy forest and stepped into the small, withering village she reluctantly called home. It was a typical rural settlement of Aegis filled with the homeless, the drunk, the orphaned, or sometimes all three in one. The air carried a faint bitterness, the kind that came from too much desperation and too little hope.
Now and then, the town even hosted the local bandits, who swaggered in to claim their share of what little the struggling farms could yield. No one dared to protest; survival here meant knowing when to stay silent.
As soon as the girl set foot on the main street, she felt their eyes on her¡ªhungry, desperate, and unblinking. Well, she didn''t really think the eyes were on her, but rather on her back where those four rabbits dribbled about with the sway of her steps.
She knew better than to linger. Standing still was as good as asking for trouble. Tightening her grip on her bundle of rabbits, she quickened her pace, weaving through the crumbling streets with purpose. The orphanage wasn''t far, but it felt like miles away under the weight of those hungry gazes.
The adults mostly kept their distance, content to watch with hollow eyes, muttering among themselves in debate. They rarely acted, except during the leanest harvests when desperation made thieves of everyone. For now, with the fields yielding at least some meagre growth, a fragile respect for the sanctity of youth held them at bay.
The village children, however, felt no such restraint. They had no qualms about darting forward to harass her, laughing and jeering. One of the children, particularly big and brave and acting as the troupe''s leader, called out to her, his voice carrying a mocking lilt, "Hey Waif, what you got there?"
Waif didn''t flinch. She kept marching, her eyes fixed ahead, ignoring the group of children closing in and circling her like a pack of wolves. She''d learned long ago that words were only bait. Her pace never faltered; she just marched forward, her silence sharper than any retort.
One of the children darted forward, quick as a rat, and tugged at the rabbits slung over Waif''s shoulder. They recoiled instantly when sticky, congealed blood smeared onto their fingers.
"Eww, gross! She''s holding dead animals!" the child shrieked, shaking their hand as if the stain could somehow infect them.
The others laughed nervously, their jeers hollow, as they drifted into a loose orbit around Waif, careful to stay just out of reach. Not because they feared her striking back, but to them, she was dirty, tainted in ways they couldn''t articulate but instinctively avoided, somehow even lower on the hierarchy of paupers.
One voice piped up, smug and cruel. "She probably killed them because she was jealous they had families."If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.
Another chimed in, their words carrying a theatrical shiver of mock fear. "Are we next?"
Waif spun on her heels, her mouth already open to unleash a volley of screeched slurs. But she froze when she saw their reaction.
The children flinched back instinctively, then erupted into a hushed chorus of giggles, their laughter sharp and mocking.
She clenched her fists, trembling with the effort to hold herself back. There was no point. She knew better. Nothing she could say or do would make them stop¡ªit would only feed their glee. Swallowing her frustration, she turned back and resumed her march to the orphanage, her steps stiff with suppressed anger.
The children followed at a distance, their delighted taunts trailing her like gnats. Waif bit her lip hard, trying to steady herself, but her vision blurred as tears threatened to spill. She wouldn''t cry. She couldn''t cry. Not in front of them. She couldn''t give them the satisfaction.
But despite her best efforts, her eyes puffed, and her vision blurred.
"Hey, look, guys!" one of the kids called, their voice gleeful and triumphant. "Waif is crying!"
Waif''s face flushed with heat, and her steps grew heavier, each one dragging her closer to the edge. The tears hadn''t fallen yet, but the threat of them was like blood in the water, drawing the children in.
One of the children taunted, their voice dripping with amusement. "Why don''t you go pray to your god for help, Waif?"
Before she could even respond, another chimed in, eager to join the cruelty. "She can''t, ''cause her god is dead!"
The words struck harder than any fist, and the children burst into laughter, their voices shrill and merciless. They doubled over, clutching their sides as they revelled in the sight of her humiliation. Waif''s pace quickened, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she tried to distance herself from the jeering voices.
But even as her legs carried her forward, the tears broke free, spilling down her cheeks in silent surrender. The children''s laughter faded into the background as she forced herself to keep walking, head down, shoulders tight, determined to leave their cruelty behind her¡ªif only for a little while.
She soon reached the orphanage¡ªa small, nearly dilapidated Devadootian church, its stone walls crumbling in places, the roof sagging with age. Despite its wear, the building was surprisingly large compared to the other hovels of the hamlet. In another time, long ago, it might have been impressive. But today, the empty silence that greeted her, the absence of any visitors despite it being church day, shattered any illusion of grandeur. The place felt less like a sanctuary and more like a forgotten relic, a hollow echo of something once meaningful.
As soon as Waif crossed the threshold of the orphanage''s fenced confines, her thoughts didn''t turn to delivering the rabbits. Instead, her gaze fixed down the church hall to the front pew. It was only her infallible deference which kept her pace measured. She reached the front of the hall and knelt, her small body trembling.
She wasn''t alone in the sanctuary. Other children and caretakers filled the room, each absorbed in their own prayers, seeking small mercies or minor salvations. But Waif paid them no mind. When she prayed, she felt as though the world around her vanished. She felt like she was the sole human in an empty universe. It was only her and the devadoots.
She clasped her hands tightly, squeezing them until her palms turned raw, redder than her puffy eyes. Her knuckles ached from the pressure, but she didn''t release them. She needed to hold on. She needed to believe.
She prayed with every ounce of her being, hoping¡ªno, begging¡ªthat the devadoots would return. That they would descend from their heavenly heights and reclaim their honour. She longed for the devadoots to show the world that they really were gods and deserved veneration; she needed them to justify her faith, her sacrifices.
When Waif finally unclasped her hands and opened her eyes, she found a caregiver standing before her. It was one of the good ones; their presence was unexpected but not unwelcome. The woman''s gaze softened as she noticed that Waif had finished praying. She knelt down in front of her, meeting her eye to eye, a solemn expression of concern etched on her face.
"Is everything all right, Waif?" she asked, her voice quiet, as though afraid to disturb the fragile space Waif had created for herself.
Waif wiped the tears from her face, her hand shaking as she sniffed and sucked in a few ragged breaths, trying to steady herself. It wasn''t enough. The weight of her emotions pressed down on her chest, but she forced the words out, her voice hoarse with the effort.
"Why does everyone hate us?" she asked, her voice trembling. "It''s not fair... Why couldn''t the White Witch kill the non-believers instead?"
Waif knew she was being selfish, rash even, but the frustration boiled over and she couldn''t contain it¡ªno matter the consequences, even if it meant being struck for mentioning the White Witch''s name.
For a brief, tense moment, the caregiver''s face darkened, her expression sharpening with the warning of a strike for Waif''s sacrilege. But just as quickly, the anger melted away, replaced by something softer¡ªsomething closer to pity.
"Waif," the caregiver began, her voice low and steady, "you know better than to utter that vile creature''s name, especially in the hopes of fulfilling a wish. Would you cast aside the devadoots for someone like her?"
Waif''s heart sank, and she lowered her gaze in shame. "No, ma''am," she replied, her voice solemn and regretful. "It just feels so unfair."
The caregiver gently pulled Waif into a warm, comforting hug. "I know, honey," she said softly, her voice a balm to Waif''s frayed emotions. "But those children... they''re corrupted. You aren''t like them. As a worshipper of the devadoots, it''s important for you to rise above it. You have to be better, Waif. Especially you. You''re a representative of our cause, a role model for everyone here."
Waif''s heart fluttered with uncertainty, her surprise evident as she pulled back just enough to look the caregiver in the eyes. "I am?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, unsure she''d heard correctly.
"Yes, Waif, you are," the caregiver continued, her voice cheerful, "So, you must always be on your best behaviour. Be a good girl, all right?"
Waif responded with an uncertain nod. Best behaviour had never been a quality that had been associated with her before.
"Good," the caregiver smiled, a soft gleam of approval in her eyes as she reached out and pinched Waif''s cheek. "Now, I see you managed to catch a lot of food for us today. See¡ª" she gestured to the rabbits with pride. "Another example of how you''re like a big sister to many of the people here. Why don''t you take those to the kitchen? We''ll have a feast tonight!"
The thought of actual meat for supper, warm and filling, instantly pushed away any lingering darkness. Waif felt bad admitting it, but she was also excited that thanks to the strange prestigious treatment she was receiving of late, she would almost certainly be given a larger portion of meat than anyone else.
She replied, her voice a little more steady as a spark of excitement started to replace melancholy. "Yes, ma''am,"
Waif stood up and began to make her way toward the exit of the sanctuary, but just as her hand touched the door, the caregiver called out to her.
"Oh, and Waif, when you''re finished with that, the house mother would like to speak with you."
Waif froze. A chill ran down her spine, and her stomach tightened in dread. The house mother never called for anyone unless it was for something unpleasant.
Chapter 54 pt. 2: A Rabbits Foot
Waif left the sanctuary and soon arrived at the kitchen, a humble yet bustling place, guarded as well as an orphanage could manage. Outside of the divine, the kitchen was the most sacred space in the orphanage. It was this room that breathed life into the children of the orphanage. The kitchen wasn''t simply a room; it was the beating heart of their fragile world.
Too many mouths to feed meant that no one rested easily with a full stomach. The kitchen was a frequent battleground, visited by desperate thieves who couldn''t bear another day of gnawing hunger. Waif didn''t blame them. Survival ruled this orphanage, and food was its cruel currency. If you couldn''t guarantee a place at the table, you had to take what you could¡ªsteal it, if need be.
It wasn''t just theft for the greedy, though. Food was the primary form of punishment under this roof. Even minor missteps could mean missing a meal. It wasn''t necessarily a punishment of cruelty more so than simply being a practical solution. There just wasn''t enough to go around so they let the miscreants suffer for it.
Waif herself often had to resort to thievery back before she received her sudden noble treatment. Back then, stealing wasn''t a choice but a necessity. She had been punished so often that she''d have likely died of starvation if not for her creative nutritional solutionism.
Thievery was the only reason she had lived this long. Even with her newfound treatment, she still occasionally stole from the kitchen. It wasn''t because she was gluttonous, she would never dare eat so wastefully in front of the devadoots. She stole for Ritzy.
Ritzy was small, fragile, and too stubbornly innocent to fight for her share. She still hadn''t learned the orphanage''s harsh rules. This, of course, meant Waif had to lie about where she would get the extra food for Ritzy. Waif was told that the devadoots didn''t like liars, but hopefully, they understood she was doing it with good intentions.
This time, Waif didn''t have to sneak into the kitchen. The four rabbits slung over her shoulders acted like a badge of honour, granting her unrestricted access. She walked through the door with purpose, the scent of boiling broth and baking bread enveloping her like a warm embrace.
Inside, a few of the more trusted and well-behaved children were busy at work, peeling vegetables, stirring pots, and portioning out thin scraps of bread. Their eyes lit up when they spotted Waif''s haul. Meat was a rare and much-celebrated event, and her arrival enticed a round of
excited whispers to spread quickly. Soon, the kitchen was buzzing with the kind of energy rarely felt in the orphanage¡ªa fleeting taste of hope.
One of the caregivers approached, her broad smile illuminating the dim, smoke-filled kitchen. "Wow, Waif, you''ve really outdone yourself this time," she said, her voice carrying a faint trace of sorrow beneath the praise. "You''re getting so good at this!"
Waif still blushed, unsure how to handle the unfamiliar warmth of compliments. "It''s the traps that do all the work," she murmured, shifting the weight of the rabbits on her shoulders. "I just found the best places to put them, is all."
"You don''t need to sell yourself short, Waif," the caregiver replied gently. "You did a wonderful job." Her smile lingered for a moment before her voice turned hopeful. "Now, have you been teaching Oust all of your secret spots? It''d be good to have others who can hunt as well as you."
Waif perked up, always happy to have already satisfied a caregiver''s desires. "Yes, ma''am. I''ve already taught him all of my tricks; I didn''t even need to bring him with me today," she said, a note of pride slipping into her voice.
"That''s good to hear." The caregiver''s words were encouraging, but her expression faltered. Despite the praise, there was something unspoken in her downcast gaze¡ªa reluctance that embittered the otherwise commendatory mood.
The two stood facing each other in a strange, passive silence that stretched longer than Waif was comfortable with. She wasn''t used to acting without permission, but the house mother was expecting her, and the thought of that terror''s wrath loomed far larger in her mind than upsetting any single caregiver.
Waif finally broke the stillness, her voice timid but firm. "Well, I have to go see the house mother now, so I''m going to go."
The caregiver''s face shifted from cheerless to utterly crestfallen. Before Waif could react, she was pulled into a crushing embrace. The caregiver''s arms wrapped tightly around her, and her voice trembled as she spoke. "I''m really proud of you, Waif. You''re a strong and honourable person. Never forget that."The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
Waif stiffened, caught off guard by the sudden display of affection. The caregiver''s behaviour was beyond strange to Waif, but she didn''t let it show on her face. This whole week had been uncharacteristically kind for the orphanage. For the first time, she felt more like a cherished child in a family than just another mouth that needed feeding. It was unnerving.
"Thank you, ma''am," she said, her words cautious. "But I should really go."
The caregiver released her and stepped back, revealing tear-streaked cheeks that left Waif stunned. The sight of her crying pierced through Waif''s unease, stirring a pang of worry in her chest.
"Yes, of course," the caregiver said, her voice thick with restrained emotion as she wiped at her face. "We wouldn''t want to keep the house mother waiting, now would we?"
Waif nodded, her uneasiness deepening. She gave the caregiver a small, uncertain smile before turning to leave the kitchen. The image of the caregiver''s tears clung stubbornly to her thoughts, a heavy weight pressing against her mind.
The walk to the house mother''s office was short, but each step felt heavier than the last. Even crossing the length of the building¡ªa matter of minutes¡ªfelt like an eternity.
At the end of the hall stood a large wooden door, its presence looming like a monument to dread, a barrier that segregated the house mother''s office from the rest of the orphanage. It was all her domain, but that room was the vile woman''s lair.
A palpable force seemed to emanate from beyond the door, an oppressive pressure that whispered warnings into Waif''s ears, calling her to turn back.
Waif''s chest tightened as her knuckles hovered over the wooden frame. A deep breath steadied her trembling hand. Whatever awaited her on the other side, she had no choice but to face it.
Waif hesitantly knocked on the door. "House mother, this is Waif, I was told you wanted to see me."
A painful silence followed, stretching unnervingly long. Eventually, an instantly recognizable voice cut through the quiet¨Ca low, monotonous tone, calm yet commanding. The house mother''s words seemed to slip through the cracks in the door as though it wasn''t even there. "Yes, Waif. Please, come in."
Waif''s trembling hand reached for the doorknob, her fingers brushing against the icy metal. The cold seemed to seep into her skin, amplifying the chill that already ran through her veins. Her grip faltered as hesitation shackled her muscles, locking her in place.
Taking a shaky breath, Waif forced her fears to the back of her mind, burying them beneath a thin veneer of resolve. With one final push, she turned the knob and stepped inside, crossing the threshold into whatever fate awaited her.
The room was unadorned, stripped of all but the barest essentials. Naked walls stretched downward, their pale surfaces unbroken by decoration, meeting a scuffed and largely empty floor. In one corner, an old, withered desk crouched like a forgotten relic. It was a simple piece, devoid of drawers or compartments, its surfaces clean yet worn, as though it existed only for function, not comfort.
Behind the desk sat the house mother, her posture rigid and unyielding, a mirror to the room''s stark austerity. She was a figure of quiet dominance, her gaze heavy and inscrutable, cutting through Waif as if peeling back layers to expose the truth hidden within. Her dusty, unkempt hair draped down her head in loosely tangled strands, brushing her thin shoulders like a shroud.
She looked every bit the part of the orphanage''s head, a role she seemed almost born into¡ªperhaps literally, as whispers among the children often claimed she had once been an orphan herself. To them, she was a terrifying figure, her presence heavy with authority, though perhaps not entirely deserving of the fear she inspired. Her job was to maintain order within the sanctuary''s chaotic walls, while the children¡ªconsciously or not¡ªseemed to see it as their duty to undo that order at every turn.
Waif fidgeted nervously, her fingers twisting the hem of her ragged sleeve as she braced for the reprimand she assumed was coming. Both the little girl and elderly matron were smeared with coats of grimy filth, but while Waif wore it with piteous shame, the house mother somehow made it look dignified. The house mother''s posture was held with import, and her voice never wavered. She always had that monotonous yet powerful drone.
"Waif," the house mother began, her tone as even and heavy as a tolling bell, "you are being adopted by a very important and endowed family. When you meet them tonight, I require you to be on your best behaviour."
The house mother paused, her gaze boring into Waif as if daring her to falter. "You will be given a bath and a change of clothes in preparation for the meeting."
"I get to bathe!?" Waif blurted, her eyes wide in disbelief, the idea of cleanliness so foreign to her that it momentarily broke through her usual composure.
The house mother raised a single brow, her surprise quickly morphing into quiet disappointment. "Your focus should be on the adoption, Waif," she replied, her voice steady but carrying an unmistakable edge. "I can''t have you blundering this meeting. It is very important¡ªfor the orphanage."
Waif composed herself, not wanting to give the house mother any reason to get angry. "yes, ma''am."
The house mother let out a tired sigh, the exhalation of air taking some unseen burden with it. The house mother pushed her seat back and slowly stood, her decrepit bones groaning more than her age would desire. The house mother approached Waif, wrapping one arm around her and opening the door with the other. "Now, Waif, let us pretty you up for your new family."
Chapter 54 pt. 3: A Dead Rabbit
Waif had never taken a proper bath before¡ªnot one that involved more than scrambling in the river and using pebbled mud to scrape herself clean. She wasn''t going to the river, though. This time was different. This time, she was led outside, behind the church, to a large wooden basin filled with heated water. Actual heated water.
A caretaker stood ready to assist, prepared to use soap¡ªreal soap. On the monumentally rare occasions that Waif saw some of her friends get adopted, none were ever treated to such absurd extravagance.
Waif hurriedly undressed her ragged clothes and tattered underwear, giddy at the chance to jump into the bath and free herself from the grime that had been her eternal companion.
Just before reaching the tub she froze. A sudden wave of apprehension swept over her, stilling her eager body. Could she so flagrantly abuse such extravagance? Was she worthy of this wealth?
The caretaker gently gathered Waif''s clothes from the floor, carefully folded them, and placed them on a nearby stool. The caretaker then approached Waif gazing at her naked form and frowned as she saw the layers of grime and scum caked onto Waif''s body, almost blending as one with her skin through years of neglect.
Even through the disgusting dredge, the signs of malnutrition were painfully obvious¡ªWaif''s thin frame and the sharp jut of her ribs spoke volumes. She was healthier than some of the other children, but only just. A simple touch could count every bone beneath the fragile surface of her skin.
The caretaker noticed Waif''s eyes fixed on the warm water, her expression a mixture of hunger and awe, yet still unmoving. The bath was such an opulent treasure that despite the desperate desire to partake, she also felt it too precious to taint with her presence.
"You can enter the bath, Waif," the caretaker said gently, her voice a quiet reassurance. "It''s for you."
Waif turned to the caretaker. No matter how many times she was told the bath was for her, she still couldn''t comprehend. The vestiges of disbelief battled with building hope. A springing enthusiasm energized her voice as she asked one last time to make sure. "Can I really?".
It only took a simple nod from the caretaker for the mental constraints to finally lift off of Waif. With a quick, unthinking movement, she stepped into the warm water.
As she sank into the blissful embrace of the lukewarm bath, she could feel a tangible mass lift off her skin. The water quickly darkened, swirling with dirt and filth, turning a murky brown that soon edged toward a putrid black. The caretaker''s expression changed as she witnessed the rapidly darkening liquid from concern to disgust.
The woman took an apprehensive gulp, then with a slow exhale, she took the bar of soap and scrubbed away at the naked Waif.
Waif tried her best to remain thankful and quiet, but she couldn''t help to let out a few groans of pain as the caretaker ground the soap against her flesh. Waif''s skin found itself the arena for a savage battle between soap and soil. As the grit washed off, Waif couldn''t help but marvel at the natural skin tone beneath. It was a pale white untarnished from the heat of the day star thanks to its long standing muddy veil.
The liquid that Waif now sat in had become viscous, she could feel the course speckling scratch against her submerged skin. The waters had become so infected it was hard to call water anymore. No matter how hard the caretaker tried, she reached a point where she was rubbing dirt to dirt, and Waif remained unclean.
"I''m sorry, Waif. Could you just give me a moment?" The caretaker stood abruptly, her face tight with frustration. Without another word, she left the area, her footsteps retreating into the church.
The walls of the building were thin and so littered with warped holes and damaged boards that they barely even functioned as visual barriers, let alone auditory ones. The conversation inside was clear:
The caretaker''s voice snapped, sharp with exasperation. "I can''t clean her anymore; she''s literally just sitting in her own filth at this point."
The house mother responded, unflappable as always. "He insisted she be thoroughly cleaned. We''ll need more water to finish properly."
"We''ve wasted too much water already!" the caretaker bitterly complained, "We need that water for the rest of the children."
Then, the final decision came, cold and final: "If he doesn''t agree to sponsor us, water will be the least of our concerns. This must happen. Get more water."
The caretaker capitulated, "Yes, ma''am."
The caretaker walked back outside, her eyes heavy with an unreadable solemnity. "Waif, I and a few of the other caretakers will need to replace the bath water. Why don''t you exit the tub for now and wait?"
Waif obediently obliged the adult. Her small hands, raw from excessive scrubbing, shook as she climbed out of the tub. The cold air met her skin with biting force as she reluctantly stepped onto the dirt ground, the wetness clinging to her in thick droplets. She made her way to the church wall, seeking some semblance of warmth and protection, and sat against the cold stone, her knees drawn to her chest in a feeble attempt to combat the cold.
A small fence was the only protection she had to hide her exposed body from any passerby outside. Most completely ignored her, others displaying only pity for the state of her body, but it didn''t stop Waif from feeling visually violated.
It was an uncomfortable, dirty feeling, dirty in a different way than the black water being drained from the tub. Waif loved the bath, but she decided she never wanted to feel how she was feeling now again.
A steady stream of caretakers came and went, dumping buckets of water into the bath. Waif was astounded at how many caretakers were taking the time to assist in this endeavour of treating Waif so specially. Waif wondered if Ritzy would be jealous if she heard about this.
Ritzy had always been a bit of a diva in her own way, complaining often about how she used to bathe in the grandest of tubs, her hair tended to like some princess, and how her parents always served the finest foods.The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
Waif chuckled inwardly at the thought¡ªPerhaps Ritzy would have something else to complain about if she knew what she was missing out on.
Eventually, the tub was refilled, and the caretakers resumed their work. As the warm water enveloped Waif once more, it felt like a gentle embrace. The soap slid over her skin effortlessly this time, as if the water itself knew how to treat her properly. A few minutes later, the task was done. Waif stood up slowly.
She gazed down at her body in awe. For the first time in her life, she saw herself¡ªreally saw herself. Her skin, now free of trial and tribulation, seemed to glow in the pale daylight.
She traced her hands along her arms, marveling at the smoothness, the softness. I''m beautiful, she thought, the words almost foreign in her mind. She had never known she could love herself, but in that moment, looking at her clean, radiant body, she actually felt content.
It was like seeing a different person entirely. Like there was a stranger buried beneath those layers of dirt and hardship, she only now broke from the filth like a cocoon metamorphosizing into something new. Something better.
Only then did everything finally click for her. She was going to be adopted, baths would become a normal occurrence, and she could have rabbit stew every day. She imagined herself with a whole haunch to herself, savoring every bite without the fear of scarcity.
Ritzy would also get adopted afterward, and they would become real sisters. They would live together, loved unconditionally by their new parents forever. She wouldn''t have to hunt, or set traps, or clean, and she would only be beaten when she really deserved it.
Her reverie was broken when a caretaker wrapped her in a roughshod towel, the fabric harsh against her still-sensitive skin. The caretaker''s hands moved quickly, aggressively rubbing her dry, and Waif flinched slightly at the briskness. She was too tired from the mirth of a warm bath to protest the abuse. All she wanted was to slip into the new clothes she had been promised.
But when the clothes were finally presented, Waif couldn''t help the slight frown that tugged at her lips. She had tried to temper her expectations, knowing she was probably being too whimsical in her hope for a large, elegant princess-like gown. Yet, she had anticipated something a bit more substantial than this.
She was dressed in a single, soft red dress that was made of an impossibly smooth material, so gentle it almost felt as though she were being embraced by a cloud. It was lovely in a way, but strangely impractical.
The dress was buttoned at the back, and it only fell to her upper thigh, far shorter than the dresses she had imagined in her dreams. Waif had never worn clothes with buttons, and she needed the caretakers to close them for her since she couldn''t reach behind herself.
Waif thought it was a strange design for clothes to be impossible for the wearer to put on themselves. Besides that, the dress was extraordinarily thin, with hardly a protective layer at all. She pinched the fabric between her fingers and could hardly feel it interfere with the touch of flesh.
Maybe the material it was made of was a super rare expensive thing. Maybe her dress was all the material that existed in the world; that would at least explain why it seemed a little small on her.
The dress was so thin, in fact, that Waif could actually see her own body through the fabric, but maybe that was just because she was so close to it. Surely, at a distance, it wasn''t see-through; that was the whole point of clothes, wasn''t it? To cover up and keep warm? Even if Waif had never felt something so soft before, it didn''t feel right.
Waif turned to the nearby caretaker, her brow furrowed with uncertainty, and asked, "Doesn''t it come with underwear? It''s a little¡ drafty."
The caretaker''s laugh came out strained, carrying an edge of discomfort. "Don''t be greedy now, Waif. You should be grateful you got this¡ beautiful dress. I think we just weren''t expecting your underwear to be quite dirty."
Waif''s face scrunched in doubt. As if her clothes were any worse than anyone else''s. She shifted uncomfortably as another gust of wind snuck through the thin fabric, chilling her skin. She hugged her arms around herself, trying to preserve some semblance of warmth. "Can I put my old clothes on? They were warmer."
The caretaker placed a guiding hand on Waif''s shoulder, and Waif couldn''t help but feel the tension carry across through that grip. The caretaker chided her with a stilted awkwardness. "Now, now Waif, these clothes were provided specifically by your new father. You want to make him proud when you meet him for the first time don''t you?"
Waif''s momentarily blanked as the words sank in. Her father. A strange warmth bubbled inside her at the thought. She''d never used that word before, not for herself. The corners of her mouth hesitated before curling upward into a small, timid smile.
Maybe he had a peculiar sense of fashion, but what did she know about rich people? Perhaps this was just how they all dressed. If her new father had chosen this for her, it must of meant something special.
Her resolve firmed, and she nodded. "Yes, ma''am," she said, her voice steady.
"Good. Now we are going to go meet him. You must only speak when spoken to, and you must be well-behaved." The caretaker spoke guiltily, but Waif couldn''t quite place the reason.
"Yes, ma''am."
As they entered the church, Waif held her head a little higher. The awkwardness of the strange dress and the biting wind faded into the background. Her heart swelled with hope¡ªif this was what her new life required, she''d do her best to meet those expectations. After all, how could she disappoint her father before she even met him?
They soon arrived back at the house mother''s office, but this time, it was not only the house mother inside. There was also a stranger, his presence dominating the otherwise modest office.
Waif''s breath hitched as her eyes landed on him. He was a towering man, his broad frame wrapped in layers of colorful silks that shimmered even in the dim candlelight. Each fold and hue seemed impossibly vibrant, as though he carried a piece of another world with him.
This was him. The world-shattering thought bounced erratically in her mind. This was her father.
She plastered the biggest, friendliest smile she could muster onto her face. Her cheeks strained against the unfamiliar gesture, but she held it steady. The man''s back was turned, his broad shoulders rising and falling with steady breaths. His posture was impeccable, exuding confidence and authority, but it obscured the face of her new family.
The seconds stretched, and Waif took the opportunity to pat down the soft red dress, smoothing out any creases. She straightened her spine and clasped her hands behind her back, fingers fidgeting nervously.
She swallowed down the knot of anxiety tightening in her throat.
Finally, the man turned.
Dark hazel eyes locked onto her but did not meet her gaze. Instead, they dropped lower, fixing uncomfortably on her chest. Waif felt the blood drain from her as realization struck. The dress was just as transparent from a distance as it had been up close.
The man''s lips curled into a smile¡ªwarm on the surface, but it chilled Waif to the core.
Her own smile faltered, then vanished entirely. A cold, creeping dread took hold of her, settling deep in her stomach like a stone. That awful, crawling sensation she''d felt by the bath, sitting exposed against the church wall, came flooding back a hundredfold.
This was not her father.
The thought was sudden but absolute, snapping into place with bone-jarring certainty. The air in the room felt heavier now, oppressive as if the man''s gaze alone was draining the life from it.
Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, drowning out all other sounds.
It could not be her father. In that instant, Waif realized she did not want to be there. Her instincts screamed at her to move, to act, immediately.
Chapter 54 pt. 4: Prey
Waif spun on her heels and bolted through the door without a second thought. Her bare feet slapped against the floorboards as she sprinted, her breath quick and ragged, chest tightening with fear. Behind her, panicked shouts echoed through the halls, joined by the thunder of hurried footsteps.
The adults were surely faster, with their long strides and stronger legs, but none of them could match Waif''s nimble speed or her knack for weaving through tight spaces. She darted past startled caretakers and slipped through gaps too narrow for adult frames, her small size now her greatest asset.
The cool night air struck her as she burst outside, the irritating chill biting against her exposed skin once more. She didn''t stop. She couldn''t. The sound of pursuit was close behind, growing louder, but Waif''s feet carried her toward her sanctuary¡ªthe forest.
No one could rival Waif''s ability to navigate the woods, especially not in the dead of night. The towering trees and undergrowth seemed to welcome her, their shadows wrapping around her like an old friend. The greenery practically parted for her as she slipped between the trunks, dodging branches and weaving through the labyrinth of foliage.
Astonishingly, the caretakers continued to give chase, their shouts piercing through the night. This wasn''t normal. Children left the orphanage all the time, slipping away into the woods or the streets, and the caretakers never cared. They didn''t chase them. They didn''t even look for them.
Waif''s breath hitched as her legs burned with exertion. She didn''t understand. None of this made sense. Why had they fed her so well this past week? Why had they stopped hitting her, even when she misbehaved? Why had they bathed her?
Her mind raced faster than her legs. None of it had been for her. It couldn''t have been. Why did she need to be adopted? Why now? She thought of the man in silks, of his too-wide smile and the way his eyes had locked onto her with love, not loving.
It wasn''t fair. Only now, after everything had been done, did Waif realize she didn''t want any of it. She didn''t want the meals, the bath, the dress, or the promise of a new home. All of it felt like a trap¡ªa beautifully wrapped snare waiting to tighten around her.
Was this the plan of the devadoots?
Waif wasn''t sure how much longer she could keep running. Her legs felt like lead, every step dragging her closer to collapse. It had been hours now, and yet the caretakers refused to give up their relentless hunt. She could hear their voices cutting through the forest, no longer panicked but methodical. They weren''t just chasing her¡ªthey were sweeping the woods like predators closing in on their prey.
Her pulse thundered in her ears as she darted through the underbrush, every crack of a branch or rustle of leaves igniting her fraying nerves. She caught glimpses of strangers among the search party, men clad in mismatched armour with swords and cudgels at their sides. A militia. She had been entwined in something far too large for her to handle. No corner of the forest was left unchecked; no hollow root or canopy of branches would be safe enough.
Waif''s chest tightened, panic threatening to overtake her. She needed to find somewhere they couldn''t reach her¡ªsomewhere that would swallow her whole and keep her hidden no matter how long they searched.
And then, as if summoned by her desperation, she saw it: the mouth of a cave yawning before her like a dark promise.
She didn''t hesitate. There wasn''t time to weigh her options. The day star was already beginning to rise, its growing light threatening to betray her to the hunters. Without a second thought, she plunged into the blackness, the cool air within wrapping around her like a shroud.
But the cave mouth was no sanctuary. Its shadows would be fleeting once the light of morning reached the forest. She had to go deeper, deeper into the uncharted dark.
Blinded by the pitch blackness, Waif stretched her arms out, letting her fingertips brush against the damp, rough surface of the cave walls. Step by cautious step, she pressed onward, the jagged stone guiding her into the depths. Her frantic pace slowed, her ragged breaths filling the cavern with an eerie echo. Each step sent a ripple through the silence that sparked more worry of capture.
And then, the darkness began to lift.
A faint glow emanated from somewhere deeper within the cave, its soft, otherworldly light cutting through the shadows. Waif''s heart thudded as she moved toward it, the pale luminance growing stronger with every step. The dim glow blossomed into brilliance as she turned a final corner¡ªand stopped, frozen by the sight before her.
The cave opened into a massive chamber. High above, a gaping hole in the roof let a stark, narrow beam of daylight pierce through, striking the centrepiece of the room: an immense stone statue.
The figure was a towering monolith carved in breathtaking detail. A heavily adorned suit of armour, its plates etched with ornate patterns, knelt solemnly in the chamber''s heart. The craftsmanship was beyond anything Waif had ever imagined¡ªevery fold of fabric, every seam in the armour, every tiny scratch and scuff was rendered so precisely that it felt alive. The statue, standing at least three times the height of a grown man, exuded an aura of quiet power and tragedy.
Yet it was not untouched.
A monstrous black spear had been driven straight through the statue''s chest, piercing where the heart would have been. The weapon was utterly alien, a pitch-black so profound that closing her eyes felt brighter than gazing at it. It seemed to drink the light around it, swallowing it into an abyss so deep she thought she could feel its pull. If she focused, faint sparks of energy flickered and vanished within the void-like shaft.
The spear''s blade was embedded seamlessly into the stone floor like the ground had merely conceded the space rather than an actual piercing attack. Suspended at the weapon''s end by a small thread was a tiny brass bell, no larger than her palm. A single numeral, "1," was etched onto its surface, the engraving so fine it seemed to gleam.If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.
Waif''s breath caught as the silence shattered.
The bell moved¡ªjust the faintest swing¡ªand a delicate, crystalline chime rang out.
"Did you hear that?"
"It came from inside the cave."
The voices were muffled but unmistakable, their tones laced with urgency and intent. The hurried stomp of boots echoed down the narrow tunnel, growing louder with every passing second. Waif''s chest tightened as panic surged through her.
Waif hurriedly scanned the room. Some strange pink object was moving around strangely in the center of the room. She didn''t have time to deal with that, she needed to hide somewhere.
She whirled around, scanning the massive chamber frantically. In the center of the room, some strange pink object sprang from out of nowhere. It would shift and transform, shrink and grow, continuously morphing into other forms. She couldn''t spare a second to figure it out¡ªshe needed to hide. Now.
Her wide eyes darted to the statue. The spear.
Where the black spear pierced straight through the colossal stone figure, there was a small gap. Within that gap, she caught sight of the hollow interior of the statue. Her mind raced. If she could just pull the spear out, maybe¡ªjust maybe¡ªshe could climb inside.
Her bare feet beat against the cold stone floor as she darted toward the statue, her heart pounding so loudly it drowned out the echoing footsteps closing in behind her. The towering figure loomed above her, its massive presence both awe-inspiring and terrifying. Waif scrambled up the giant of stone, gripping the carved plates of armour as handholds, her small fingers slipping on the smooth, weathered edges.
At last, she reached the chest and wrapped her hands around the black spear. The instant she touched it, a surge of unimaginable torment ripped through her, an overwhelming tide of raw, searing emotions that emptied her mind and left her stunned.
For a few agonizing moments, she could do nothing but cling to the spear, her body trembling under these oppressive foreign thoughts. Her very soul ached under the pressure, her hormones went haywire, bile immediately burst up her throat, and her vision blurred. She was scared, and angry, and lonely, and bored, and excited, and she was feeling everything all at once.
Then, as suddenly as it had come, the sensations disappeared, allowing her to catch her breath.
She spared no time to recollect herself or even try to understand what had occurred. Her mind was solely on dislodging the spear, so she pulled.
It wouldn''t budge.
It was wedged tightly as if the statue itself refused to let it go. Waif gritted her teeth and yanked a second time, but the weapon didn''t even tremble. Panic clawed at her chest as the echoes of pursuit grew louder, each step pounding closer to her hiding place. Desperation drove her to try again, pulling with every ounce of strength she had.
Nothing.
Her breath hitched as she glanced back toward the cave entrance. They would find her any moment now. She needed to hide¡ªneeded the spear to move.
Waif squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her forehead against the cold shaft, whispering a frantic, wordless prayer. She didn''t know which devadoot might grant her wish, so instead, she prayed to the spear itself. With a final, trembling effort, she pulled a fourth time.
The massive spear, impossibly larger than her, shifted with her desperate tug. At first, it resisted stubbornly, but then, with a low groan, it loosened. A glimmer of hope flickered in Waif''s chest¡ªuntil the frantic echoes of footsteps reached her ears. Her pursuers rounded the corner and flooded into the chamber.
She made eye contact and knew all was lost. Absolute fear pulsed through her body, the tremor of nausea making its way down gooseflesh arms and into her ghost-white hands. Then, the weapon pulled again. But she hadn''t pulled.
The spear lifted of its own volition and jettisoned out the statue and across the cavern. From its black, fathomless shaft, a cascade of oily tendrils erupted, unfurling with an unnatural, rippling grace. The writhing appendages surged toward the intruders with blinding speed, each striking a target with terrifying precision and piercing clean through their bodies.
The spear tip landed delicately on the cave floor; without puncturing the ground, the spear was impossibly balanced on its tip.
The spear''s tip found the ground without even denting the stony surface. It balanced impossibly on its edge as though gravity dared not challenge it.
Waif stared in horror as the intruders'' skin turned pallid, then inky black, their bodies melting into grotesque, bulbous shapes. Limbs and faces dissolved into viscous masses, their humanity stripped away as they were sucked into the spear''s waiting tendrils like drawn from a straw. The monstrous stalks writhed almost ecstatically as they consumed the last remnants of the caretakers.
Once no trace of the attackers remained, the violent tendrils retreated back into the abyss of the weapon, leaving only it and Waif in the chamber. Even the pink object was no longer there, having only left a single glowing parchment in its place.
Waif exploded into a blood-curdling screech, the raw sound tearing from her throat as the only response she could muster for the incomprehensible horror that had unfolded before her. She clutched her ears as if she could block out the memory, but the grisly sound of ungodly slurping refused to leave her mind.
Then, as though slicing through her terror, a voice emerged.
"Come."
The moment it spoke, her screams choked into silence. The voice had no origin, no tone, no character, no warmth. It simply was, reverberating inside her skull, impossible to ignore. She didn''t want to accept it; she pleaded to her own mind against acknowledging it, but deep down, she knew the voice came from that spear.
Her limbs trembled violently, but they moved. Not from her own will¡ªher body betrayed her, driven by the authority in that alien voice.
"Take me. Take the invitation."
Tears welled in her eyes and spilled freely, clouding her vision. Waif tried to force herself back, tried to stop her feet from advancing, but it was futile. The voice was too strong, its pull too deep. In response to the terrifying voice, she turned to the glowing parchment on the floor and approached it.
Hands shaking, she bent to pick it up. The faint warmth of the parchment sent shivers up her arms. Through her blurry tears, she squinted at the strange symbols scrawled across its surface. She wiped her eyes, blinking away the flood, but the words made no sense to her. Waif had never learned to read.
"Bring it to me." The voice urged, so powerful and commanding she felt it draw up from within herself. The essence of that spear was a calamitous stain on her hands; she pulled the spear, she killed the caretakers.
"Bring it to me." the voice repeated, patient yet unyielding.
Waif obeyed. When she didn''t know what to do, Waif always obeyed. She thought she could break the cycle of her life; she thought she could run away, but now, just as before, she obeyed. Her trembling hands lifted the parchment toward the spear.
"It reads:
You have been invited to
The Tournament
You are The¡ª
Chapter 54 pt. 5: Never Pray
Being an angler was to be a master of patience, persevering through hours with a tether extended, bobbing along the tides, and waiting. Lots and lots of waiting.
Angling wasn''t necessarily about the catch. It was a holistic experience; it was about the tranquillity, the endeavour. The zen-like state of stillness.
Then his tether would catch, and he''d instantly toss all those lofty lies he told himself aside. He''d caught one!
With a practiced motion, he ripped the hook from the soul sea and inspected his captured prize. It was another painfully minuscule wandering soul, hollow and aimless. Disappointing. As always. He sighed, absorbing it into his massive soul anyway¡ªmore out of habit than hunger¡ªthen flicked his tether back out with a snap.
He hated fishing.
It was all so boring. No matter what he tried to pass the time, he could never stave off the boredom for long. He''d tried singing once. Long ago. He ran out of songs eventually and kept singing until the thought of each and every one of those songs made him sick. Then he got bored of it.
He tried counting as high as he possibly could. He got to a million and something before he got distracted by his own boredom and lost track. His next best attempt was interrupted partway through when he simply got bored of it.
He tried not thinking of anything, but then he thought about not thinking for so long that he didn''t think he wasn''t thinking about not thinking anymore¡ or so he thought. He got bored of it.
He tried watching the stalagmites grow around the slow drip of a draining fountain in his tiny cave prison, but even that lost its lustre after a hundred years or so. There wasn''t much to do while trapped in this eternal prison with nought but a scant few disillusioned souls drifting by for company.
The souls were always so faint they weren''t even capable of a good conversation. He attempted it a few times but eventually gave up. He got bored of it.
Soul fishing was the only hobby to survive his centuries of solitude. He didn''t stick to the soul fishing because he particularly enjoyed it, but it at least helped him improve on his physique. His vanity was something not even endless time could strip away. It was still boring, though.
He couldn''t quite recall the last time he wasn''t bored.
No, that wasn''t true. He remembered it perfectly. How could he forget?
It was the day he''d had his soul torn out of his own body, ravaged for its secrets, and then¡ªthrough some idiotic cosmic mishap¡ªshoved into his spear instead of back where it belonged in his actual body. Desperate¡ªand foolish¡ªat the time, he''d turned to the devadoots for help, only to be "rewarded" for his faith with betrayal.
They''d turned his original body to stone. Then they''d taken his newly sentient spear body, stabbed it into the petrified husk of his no longer sentient human body, and ritually leeched energy from his soul for centuries.
That part? Definitely not boring. Depraved, yes. Treacherous, absolutely. A vile, unforgivable betrayal of a worshipper''s trust? Most certainly.
The boring part had come later¡ªafter every devadoot who knew of his existence had been wiped out, leaving him utterly alone for two hundred twenty-four years, three months, two weeks, and a day. Yes, he''d been counting. What of it?
At least with the devadoots dead, it left his soul unmolested. Free from their meddling, he finally had the privacy to begin the slow, painstaking process of rebuilding himself.
It started with pacts¡ªtiny, insignificant agreements with wandering wisps of existence. These souls were so insignificant they barely qualified as entities, but they were all he could manage at the time.
Over a couple dozen years, those pacts added up. Piece by piece, his soul grew stronger until he could flex his influence and reel in larger prey. That was when his endless fishing began. At first, it was exhilarating¡ªeach catch a challenge, each victory hard-earned. But as his power grew, the excitement faded. The hunt became trivial, predictable...boring.Stolen story; please report.
He had just reeled in another soul without even realizing it, his boredom so overpowering that he''d caught it on autopilot. That''s how easy it had become.
It might have come as a surprise to most people, but life as an inanimate object was incredibly boring. Some might have even gone as far as to call it painfully boring. Still, it was life. Or, well, technically, it wasn''t life¡ªnot in any real sense. He was just a disconnected soul stuffed into a physical container, which didn''t count as living by any stretch of the term. In fact, it pretty much defined death.
Life, death¡ªafter existing a few hundred years of being a stick jammed into his own heart, it all became semantics. Now, he lived? Died? Now, he experienced the world one mind-numbing day after another in his cramped cave chamber, desperately searching for anything, anything new to distract him from the endless monotony.
Miraculously, this day appeared to be one of those special exceptions to his dreary eternity. Every now and again, a wild creature would wander into his cave prison, and he always cherished those unique encounters.
He heard it first¡ªa ripple of panicked footsteps echoing down the cave entrance. His trained soul sense sharpened, honing in on the source. A youthful soul, brimming with a remarkable logoic presence, darted into his domain, pursued by a cluster of larger, heavier souls. Adults, most likely, and of the same species as the child.
His analysis wasn''t infallible, but after centuries of honing his soul sense, it was as close to perfection as one could get. He could feel the raw potential emanating from the young soul¡ªso vibrant, so unspoiled. It was rare to encounter such a beacon in the endless gray of his existence. He wasn''t sure if he wanted to absorb the youthful soul or attempt to communicate; it seemed both too delicious to pass up and too rare a find to spoil on a single meal.
When the soul entered his prison chamber, his excitement surged to an unprecedented peak. A human! There was a human here, and the human was seeing him. No¡ªlooking at him. His excitement fizzled into a peculiar shyness. Why was a spear getting shy?
Of course, he didn''t feel like a spear. Spending his entire post-spear existence embedded in his own petrified body gave him a lingering sense of connection to it. He wondered if it made for a decent statue. He really hoped it did. He hoped the small skylight caught his good side.
This human looked young¡ªvery young. Then again, it had been an absurdly long time since he''d seen a living human, so his memory of their aging process was understandably hazy. Still, everything about this one screamed "child." It would explain the appearance of the soul she was housing.
Although souls could be deceiving. For example, If someone were to sense his soul, they wouldn''t see a spear at all. They''d see the remnants of a centuries-old human who, in his prime, had been the most powerful creature to walk the planet.
The human child gazed upon him, her wide hazel eyes shimmering with awe. For a brief moment, he was utterly speechless¡ªmetaphorically, of course. In that instant, he made a decision: he wouldn''t eat her. Her soul was too pure, too vibrant, and he was far too overjoyed by her presence to snuff out such a beautiful thing.
She looked utterly enraptured, her gaze locked on him with a reverence that sent waves of bliss rippling through his being. Oh, the unmatched ecstasy of being seen! Acknowledged by another existence after centuries of solitude¡ªit was almost overwhelming.
Even the souls he absorbed didn''t grant him this kind of recognition, and he was literally absorbing them! They had been consumed unwillingly, rippped apart, remoulded as he deemed fit, and drawn into his spiritual body, all without so much as a glance his way. But this child? She looked at him as though he were a miracle.
He watched her with as much adoration as she offered him. He couldn''t remember the last time he felt this¡ happy. This human deserved a reward, something to show his gratitude for paying him this visit and acknowledging him after all these lonely years.
His musings on how to reward the human were abruptly interrupted by the soft chime of a bell.
"Did you hear that?"
"It came from inside the cave."
The voices echoed down the tunnel, faint but drawing closer. The little human snapped into action, her movements sharp and purposeful as she turned toward the sound. He felt the souls of her pursuers breach the cave''s threshold, their presence like a rush of cold air against his senses.
While all this was happening, a small pink rhombus grew out of thin air in the center of the chamber, or it was a rhombus, but its body would reject any stable state. It would shift and transform, shrink and grow, continuously morphing into other forms.
Whoa, hold on¡ªhold on. This was far too much stimulus all at once. Sure, he''d lamented his boredom countless times, but he hadn''t expected his grievances to be answered by such a whirlwind of activity. It was chaotic, impossible to keep track of all the moving pieces. He needed to prioritize and narrow his focus.
Primary subject: the tiny human.
Chapter 54 pt. 6: Never Prey
The young soul jumped onto him and started climbing his former used-to-be body, using it as if it were some common ladder. How rude! Did she even realize where she''d just planted her foot? That was a sacred spot! Well, it had been sacred once.
Now, she was right next to him¡ªthe real him, the spear him. Her shallow breaths tickled the air around him, and he could almost feel the pounding rhythm of her energized heartbeat. She was so close, so alive.
The human grabbed him! Okay, things were happening! What was he supposed to do now? Was this human intending to use him as a weapon to fight off those pursuers? She was so small, way too small to hold something like him.
And then it hit him. The spear had¡ grown. How had he not noticed it before? He''d absorbed so many souls over the years; they must''ve changed him, reshaped him, made him more than what he once was.
No. Focus. This was too much to process all at once. He needed to ground himself, to focus on what was happening. There was so much going on. The human. The bell. The pursuers. The strange swirling pink object. He was being pulled in every direction. He couldn''t afford distractions.
Speaking of focus, was this human trying to absorb his soul!?
That was an absolute violation of his privacy¡ªand a terribly planned one at that. The moment her soul nipped at him, his soul reacted instinctively, surging with power. Without any effort on his part, his logoic body pushed back, automatically overpowering hers.
He could feel her soul, fragile and weak, practically quivering beneath his touch. His amorphous spiritual form reached into her, stretching across every inch of her consciousness, probing her senses and vital functions and rapidly moulding them to fit his own shape better.
But something was wrong. The resistance was almost nonexistent. Her soul was barely holding together¡ªbarely putting up a fight¡ªand it was quickly denaturing in his grasp, bending, breaking. Was this really what living souls were like? So¡ weak? He would have thought that a living soul would at least put up more resistance, even if it were a young one.
He thought of his impromptu attacker. This human''s soul was too drastically underpowered to successfully cause any damage to his vastly superior spiritual body.
Then, a thought flickered through his mind. If there was no danger, why not just let this play out? Consuming another random soul was boring, but this¡ªthis was different. The human was attempting to interact with him, trying something new, even if poorly executed. He could give it some time. See how far she''d go before the inevitable happened.
He took a leap of faith. With cautious intent, he retracted his soul, just barely in time to prevent the complete absorption of the human''s existence and waited to see how she reacted. His presence lingered near to hers, offering connection without force, watching for her response.
He allowed her to take the lead on how she wanted to bond. But¡ nothing. No reaction. The human remained oblivious, her soul passively remaining to itself as if she couldn''t even sense his offer.
Wait. Was it possible she couldn''t even sense souls at all? How did she start absorbing his soul then? Very curious indeed.
He couldn''t help himself¡ªthis strange human was starting to excite him. Her sheer unpredictability was a breath of fresh air in his otherwise stale existence. It may have been a bit presumptuous of him to do without permission, but given how woefully inadequate this human''s sense of soul was, she''d never manage on her own.
He took action, forcefully tying their souls together in a spiritual bond.
The moment the connection was forged, an overwhelming wave of sensation washed over him. He could feel her¡ªnot just as a presence, but as a person. A child. Eight years old. Terrified and desperate. The rawness of her emotions hit him like a tempest. Her fear was palpable, her thoughts chaotic, but one desire shone through with crystal clarity: She wanted to escape.The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
Through the tenuous bond, he pieced together fragments of her intent. She didn''t just want to run; she wanted him to move. She wanted the spear¡ªhis body¡ªto act, to become her salvation and shield her from those who hunted her.
He didn''t fully grasp the details of the situation¡ªwhy this little girl was being chased or what exactly had led her here¡ªbut some truths were self-evident. A group of adults pursuing a defenceless child into the depths of a cave? He didn''t need to know more to pick a side.
Even if, by some unlikely twist, she was the villain in this story, it didn''t matter. The moment their souls became bound, she had become his human. Her fight was now his fight. For better or worse, he was with her until the end.
He let her desperate desire ripple through their newfound bond, and her will seamlessly became his. With her plea as the catalyst, he tore himself free from the stone, a thunderous momentum propelling him toward the assaulters.
As he closed in, six black, viscous tendrils unfurled from his metallic form, each one moving with surgical precision. They struck their targets without hesitation, piercing deeply into their cores. He could feel the terror in their souls as he devoured them, their essence dissolving into his being.
The rush of consuming living souls, raw and potent, sent an electric thrill coursing through his very form. The sensation was intoxicating, a surge of energy that quivered along his shaft. For the first time in centuries, he felt truly alive.
With his task complete, the tendrils slithered back into him, leaving the chamber still and silent once more. The only remnants of the chaos were the girl, trembling in the aftermath, and the faint glow of the invitation resting on the ground.
Then the girl screamed, a sound so raw and guttural it startled even him. For a moment, the rush of victory faded, replaced by a pang of realization¡ªshe was just a child. She probably wasn''t used to sights like this quite yet.
Instinctively, he tried to comfort her, fumbling to convey his message through their tenuous soul bond. "Don''t worry, you are safe now. You can come closer¡ªI''m not your enemy."
Their connection was still juvenile in its formation, and he had no way of knowing how much of his reassurance made it through. Yet, she quieted, her cries dissolving into shaky breaths. That was a good sign, wasn''t it?
Then, to his relief, she began to move. Hesitant, cautious, but her tiny feet carried her toward him. It wasn''t much, but it was progress. Maybe, just maybe, she understood.
His heart¡ªmetaphorically speaking, of course¡ªached for the tragic child. She looked so fragile, so utterly spent; her trembling legs were barely managing to keep her upright anymore. Whatever cruel fate had brought her here, it no longer mattered. She was under his protection now.
Together, they would rise. Together, they would reach the top once more. This time, that sick Chauffeur would get what was coming for him. He could feel the fire reigniting in what remained of his soul. "You don''t have to worry about any people coming after you; if you take me with you, all your enemies will become my fuel, and we can become mighty again." he sent through their bond, his thoughts charging forward like a tidal wave of conviction.
"Together, we''ll grow stronger. Far stronger than anyone could imagine! This time, I won''t get tossed aside by some Chauffeur or by any devadoot! My soul will be incredible, and we''ll be unstoppable! We should take the invitation and shove it back in that stupid pink moron''s face! Schizo and girl rule the world! You and me to the end of days!"
Oh, how exhilarating it felt to interact with the world again after years upon years of isolated torment! The very idea sent an intoxicating rush through his being. He was back¡ªfinally back. With her to carry his spear and him to smite all who dared oppose them, they would become walking catastrophes, the likes of which the world would never forget.
Admittedly, he might have been getting a little ahead of himself. The excitement was difficult to contain after so long without purpose, but as he tuned into their still-fragile soul bond, he realized something troubling. His words hadn''t uplifted her at all. In fact, he could feel that they had somehow terrified her even more.
The girl picked up the glowing invitation and stared blankly at it, her small fingers trembling. He could feel her confusion through their bond and quickly understood¡ªshe was illiterate. The revelation struck him harder than he expected. "What sort of neglected childhood were you forced through? Here, just bring it to me, and I''ll read it out for you."
He saw that she hesitated; he could feel through their bond that she was still scared. She had probably been scarred and had become incapable of trusting from whatever monsters were bound to her before. But she had no more reasons to worry. There were no longer any evil monsters bound to her; now she had him. "There''s no need to be shy; come on, bring it to me, and I''ll read it for you."
His second invitation seemed to have gotten her moving. She raised the invitation in front of his body? Spear? She raised it in front of him so that he could read it out to her.
"It reads:
You have been invited to
The Tournament
You are The Spear."
Chapter 55: The Flavour of Thought pt. 1
"Hey, Contra, Why do we eat humans?" The powerful bill clamped shut, slicing through soft flesh and brittle bone with a wet crunch. A crimson wave splattered out from the crushed limb and splashed onto her semi-transparent quills, thick scarlet droplets dribbling down to the cold floor. She arched her neck back, tugging at the limb still tethered by stubborn sinew until the last strand gave way with a sickening snap. She took a delightful gulp and swallowed the limb whole.
She was a large mokoi, towering at least two heads above the human she was currently devouring. Her long, flat, transparent bill acted as a grotesque window into the crushed and pulpy remains of her meal, every chew turning flesh and bone into a glistening slurry. The bill tapered into a small, round face with great, big, beady eyes, an almost comical contrast to the rest of her imposing form.
Her body was heavy and bulbous, draped in semi-transparent, hollow quills that revealed the poised poison hidden within. Like her bill, her tail was long and flat, but unlike the transparent viewing port of her bill, the tail was made of powerful muscles wrapped in slick, oily leather¡ªa perfect adaptation for swimming, though there was not much swimming to be found in these caves. She sat comfortably on her broad haunches, her stumpy hind legs curled up in front of her, perfectly at ease as she feasted.
"I don''t know, Pinna. Because they taste good?" Contra offered back dismissively.
Pinna''s companion was a thinner, more humanoid mokoi, lounging lazily against a damp stalagmite. His long, pointed ears twitched slightly, and a constant deluge of slime oozed from his smooth skin.
With a bored expression, Contra lethargically tossed a squishy eyeball into the air, aiming to catch it in his mouth. The eye plummeted, but his timing was off¡ªhis head tilted awkwardly, his mouth just a fraction too slow. The eyeball smacked against his lower lip, then bounced to the floor, rolling to a dusty stop. Contra grimaced at it; his appetite soured.
"I guess. We don''t eat other mokoi, though." Pinna muttered, pulling the corpse closer and rifling through the human''s belongings.
"Sounds about right to me. People tend to avoid eating friends," Contra replied, entirely indifferent to his friend''s existential querying.
He scooped the eye off the ground, battling between his propriety and his gluttony before the obvious won out, and he wiped the dust off and tossed the eye into the air again. This time, his aim was true. The squishy orb landed in his mouth with a satisfying snap, and he crunched down, savouring the juicy treat with a contented smile.
Pinna tore open the dead human''s pack, then hoisted the corpse into the air and gave it a few firm shakes until its contents spilled onto the cave floor.
As Pinna perused the assorted contents, she asked out, "Can humans not be our friends?"
Mixed in with the tools and medical supplies on the ground was a small sack, which Pinna used her sharp claws to slice open with ease. She was pleasantly surprised to find another one of those packed meals inside. She loved it when the humans brought those down.
Contra let out a short, uncontrolled laugh¡ªsomething between a snort and a cackle. "Pfft, yeah, mokoi can befriend humans. And the devadoots are real gods."
Pinna gave her companion a disapproving scowl. "I''m being serious. Why not?"
"Well, for starters, there''s the whole eating them thing." Contra plucked another eye from a nearby corpse, flicked it into the air, and caught it effortlessly in his mouth.
"That''s a begging-the-question fallacy though." Pinna countered. "We aren''t friends with humans because we eat them, but we eat them because they''re not our friends."
Pinna finished eating the human''s meal and licked the last traces of succulent jam from her lips, savouring the lingering sweetness, then returned to sifting through her victim''s belongings, searching for anything else of interest.
"I''m begging your pardon?" Contra paused mid-snack, casting a disconcerted look at his companion.
"Begging-the-question," Pinna clarified. "It''s a logical fallacy where the conclusion is reliant on the statement for its proof. It means that what you said doesn''t make any sense."
As she lectured her friend, Pinna plucked a small booklet from the pile of goods, her large claws struggling to pry it open.
Meanwhile, Contra resumed scouring for the more delectable bits of human flesh. "Well, either way, there is a simple solution to that problem."
Pinna paused, her attention shifting fully to him. "What''s that?"
Contra smirked. "Just don''t eat them."
Pinna jolted upright in shock. "Woah, let''s not jump to anything drastic here!"
Contra threw up his hands in mock surrender. "Hey, no need to go off on me! I was just trying to give you advice. You''re the one who wants to befriend the humans."
Pinna huffed and plopped back down, redoubling her efforts to pry open the booklet. "I don''t want to be their friend per se¡ªI just don''t understand why it''s not an option."
"They literally think of us as inferior beings."
"We think the same thing."
Pinna finally gave up on her claws, clamped her jaws around the book cover, and peeled it open with her mouth, finally revealing the first page of its contents.Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.
Having taken all the best cuts from the nearest corpse, Contra reached for the next one¡ªonly to find it just out of reach. Too lazy to sit up or even extend his arms, he opted for a different approach, prodding at the body with his foot in hopes of dragging it closer."Yeah, but we''re right."
"I know that," Pinna said, her focus still on the booklet. "But the humans probably see it in the exact opposite way. Regardless, the point is moot. Just because they''re inferior doesn''t inherently negate their capability of being friendly. Both humans and mokoi have pets, and we consider them inferior."
As if on cue, the booklet slipped from her claws, flopping shut the moment it hit the cave floor. Pinna let out a long sigh, her quills twitching in frustration.
"You want a pet human?"
"I''m not opposed to the idea." Pinna gave up on the book, tossing it back into the pile of trinkets and then resumed her search for anything more interesting.
"Can you get them declawed?"
With some extra effort, Contra finally managed to hook his foot around a nearby corpse and drag it within reach. He pulled it closer, then nonchalantly plucked out the eyes¡ªthose were always the best part.
Pinna browsed through the options of human-brought objects, her claws skimming over an assortment of odd trinkets until she came across a peculiar piece of cloth. The cloth was vaguely in the shape of an isosceles triangle, the one odd end of which being much longer than the other two. Each face of the triangle had a large opening as if two identical triangles were sewn together at their edges. The purpose of the strange fabric eluded her, but something about it fascinated her.
"Humans don''t have claws."
Contra tiredly rolled his eyes, both figuratively and literally, as for purely internal comedy; he also rolled the plucked human eyes in his palm, joyfully thinking to himself about how he was rolling ''his eyes.'' "I know that obviously. I was just using barbarism. I thought you would catch on, being such a high-and-mighty philanthroper. I just meant that humans can be pretty dangerous creatures. Or did you forget that they killed our Khan?"
Pinna continued examining the strange triangular cloth. The cloth seemed similar in fabric to what most humans wore under their armour, so she reasoned it must be some kind of garment.
"That was only one human. You can''t judge an entire species because of one bad egg. Also, it''s a philosopher, not a philanthroper. And philanthroper isn''t even a word, it would be philanthropist¡ which I definitely am not by the way."
Contra dropped the severed human eyes, his mouth falling open in utter disbelief.
"Pinna! You cannot be serious. First of all, there were five humans, not one. And even if it was just the one, they literally call him a hero. He is single-handedly praised as the greatest human ever, specifically because he is so good at killing mokoi! I think I am well within my rights to think I can judge all of humanity based on this quote-unquote hero''s behaviour." He dramatically waggled his fingers in the air for emphasis, even if Pinna was too engrossed in the cloth to notice.
Pinna remained far calmer than her compatriot, being more interested in this strange cloth than in their conversation. Pinna grabbed the strange cloth and inserted her head into the larger hole while using the two smaller ones as eyeholes: it was a mask!
"So, they''ve developed a fairly negative stigma against the mokoi." she mused, voice muffled slightly by the fabric. "It''s a consequence of an over-enflamed zeitgeist built on an extinct conflict."
Contra blinked a few times. "Do you just like using big words?"
This time, Pinna rolled her eyes. "We had a war. Obviously, there is a lot of bad blood. But does that mean we have to maintain that bitterness forever? Is it not possible that we could work toward changing how we perceive each other? Maybe even¡ª" She gestured grandly with her claws "¡ªsee some form of peace over the horizon in our future?"
Contra reeled back as if she had physically struck him, his whole body recoiling from the sheer absurdity of the comment. He glanced around wildly as if searching for someone¡ªanyone¡ªwho could confirm that he wasn''t the insane one here.
"I can''t believe this. You actually are one of those pro-humanist new-age mokoi. Is that why you came to the Dungeon of Ingress? Not to escape the badlands but to actually get closer to the humans!" He gasped. "No. No, it can''t be. You weren''t always this much of an extremist¡ª" Realization struck, and his eyes narrowed. "This is because you''ve been reading those awful human August Chichi books, isn''t it?"
Pinna''s attention snapped away from the mask, her face contorting in anger. She tried to snarl through her bill, but her vocal anatomy betrayed her, producing something closer to an aggressive purr. "August Chichi is an artist who transcends the races!" she declared, quills bristling. "You know he even made mokoi art, too."
"At knifepoint." Contra huffed, folding his arms.
Pinna ignored the jab, her voice taking on an almost reverent tone. "And even in spite of his tragic life, he still believed in the possibility of a loving harmony between humans and mokoi¡ªall the way to the end."
"But there was an end." Contra spat onto the cave floor, his corrosive saliva hissing as it ate into the stone, leaving behind a small, bubbling pit of acid. "Empty words of a painter. He literally killed himself because he was living with some mokoi. If you ask me, that doesn''t sound very friendly to our kind."
Pinna lifted her head high, puffing up with haughty indignation. "He wasn''t just a painter¡ªhe was a philosopher, like me! And he didn''t kill himself because of some stupid racism. Plus, he wasn''t simply living with the Pleurothallidinae; they held him in captivity. Even then, that wasn''t why he killed himself. Just like all great artists, he had a tormented soul. Those who see the brightest beauty life offers are also cursed to see life''s darkest depths."
Contra stared at her, the tension in his posture slowly melting away under the sheer force of her childlike enthusiasm for her self-proclaimed philosopher status.
He sighed. "You shouldn''t glorify suicide like that¡" his eyes narrowed, finally registering her bizarre attire, "and why are you wearing human underwear on your head?"
Pinna''s face scrunched up in confused contemplation as she mulled over her companion''s words. Then, in a sudden bout of understanding, she vigorously shook her head, swiping the undergarment off her head.
"Oh, ew!" She grimaced, sticking out her tongue in disgust, prompting a hearty laugh from her mokoi companion.
"Well, Pinna, I guess we''ll just have to hope that your ideals can bear fruit in others." Contra said with a sigh of defeat, slumping deeper against his stalagmite, "We''ll all need to start getting chummy with humans whether we like it or not soon since there is no turning back now."
Pinna''s grimace made way to skeptical interest. "So it is true then, the Immersion is actually gone?"
Contra nodded in affirmation. "Yep, apparently, the Immersion has actually been gone for quite a while."
"How could no one have noticed?"
"Mokoi that come to the dungeon tend to not have much reason to turn back and return."
Pinna nodded, understanding. "Fair enough, is the civil war still going strong over there?"
"Impossible to know now. Without the Immersion, there aren''t any immigrants to give us updates. But it''s a pretty fair guess to just say yes."
"I hope my mom is okay." The two of them lapsed into a sombre silence, allowing some stillness for their melancholy.
Chapter 55: The Flavour of Thought pt. 2
Pinna was the first to snap out of the dreary sadness. "So where did the Immersion even go?
The question eagerly yanked Contra out of his grieving. "Oh, you''ll get a kick out of this. Turns out the Immersion thinks a lot like you and snuck out of the dungeon disguised as a human."
Pinna burst into surprised laughter. "No way, seriously?!"
"I couldn''t believe it myself, but it turns out you''re not the only crazy one with a fascination towards those humans," Contra replied, chuckling in half-disturbed humour.
The thought of integrating stealthily into human society filled Pinna''s mind with countless questions. "How do you suppose the Immersion works around the bloodlust?"
Contra could only really shrug in answer, but he tried his best to propose a theory anyway. "It could be that since the Immersion was never meant to be a fighter, they don''t feel the same urge the rest of us mokoi do. Or maybe the Immersion is like you¡ªjust... more extreme."
Pinna tilted her head, unsure of what Contra meant. "what do you mean by like me?"
"Well," Contra started, "didn''t you say that it felt like the bloodlust had been lessening for a while? I mean, if not, then how have you managed to spare that human over there?" He gestured over to the corner of the cave, where a large, unarmored human man was curled into a trembling ball, crying.
Once the terrified human noticed that the two mokoi had stopped feasting on his allies and turned to look at him, he froze in place; even his tears stilled as not even they were willing to test the mokois'' wrath.
"I don''t know how I managed not to kill him on the spot, honestly." Pinna shrugged, her voice thoughtful. "It just sort of came to me, like an epiphany, you know? I just thought, what if I didn''t rip his face off right now? And then I actually went through with the idea." She said the last part, surprisingly proud of herself.
She then looked back to Contra contemplatively, tilting her head. "How about you? Why haven''t you tried to push through me and steal his rich, succulent eyes yet?"
"Don''t tempt me." Contra jokingly replied, but the question lingered in his mind. Thinking the question over more sincerely brought about many odd sensations. The very concept of forcing himself past her and attacking the human had completely evaded his mind until she had forced him to think about it.
He didn''t answer her right away, thinking it through his own head first. "I don''t know," Contra finally said, "I think it''s easier to control the bloodlust since you''ve kind of marked the human as yours. It would feel rude if I just ignored your wishes and killed him. Besides¡ and if you tell anyone else about this, I''ll deny everything, but I kind of get what you mean."
Pinna sprang to her feet, causing the nearby human to release a pathetic yelp. "Really?!"
Contra sighed, rubbing the back of his neck "Yeah¡ I think the bloodlust is starting to diminish for me, too. It''s a really weird feeling, actually." He paused, considering. "What do you think causes it?"
Unlike Pinna, Contra was much more disturbed by his increasing awareness during battle. Things had always been simpler when the bloodlust took over. He didn''t have to think about right or wrong, friend or foe. Humans would just arrive, and the next thing he knew, the wrong people were dead, and the right people moved on. That being, the humans were dead, and the mokoi moved on.
Pinna eagerly jumped onto the line of questioning, her excitement bubbling over. She was thrilled to finally be able to theorize with someone about these strange sensations. She idly wondered if the Immersion would have liked to partake in this discussion with them. "I don''t really know, but I have been thinking about that a lot! Maybe that wretched self-proclaimed Queen Arete was on to something when she gave that weird speech about strings or whatever."
"The one she gave right after the Khan''s death? Like about the shackles of fate and how she was going to be a new virtuous ruler?" Contra scoffed. "You might be reading into that a little too much. To me, that speech sounded more like the mad ramblings of an authoritarian psychopath."
He shook his head with disbelief then continued. "Something obviously snapped in that woman''s brain. I think she was just trying to justify betraying her entire species. If you think about it, it''s almost more her fault the Mokoi Khan died than it was the humans. I guess if you look like a human, then you have to act like one."
Pinna shot Contra a disapproving look, though her voice was lighthearted. "Okay, if we''re going to take a quick second to stoop down into the realm of full-on ad hominem, what is up with that? If you''re going to look human, then at least act like them and put some clothes on. I don''t want to be forced to look at a filthy human''s body all day. What is even up with that whole naked thing?"
Contra shrugged nonchalantly, though his tone was a bit more serious. "Well, pretty much the second I heard that Arete and the White Witch were taking over the Mokoi Badlands was when I noped myself right out of there and came to Ingress. So, I might not be the best to ask. But I heard from some of the later immigrants that she''s compensating now by just being fully winter prepped twenty-four seven."If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
He dramatically mimicked covering himself with an oversized coat, adding a seductive flair to his movements. Unfortunately, the act caused him to toss some of his poisonous mucus around the room, creating an unpleasant contrast to his performance.
Contra''s exaggerated acting made Pinna burst into laughter. "As much as it is fun to make fun of our Holy Tyrant Arete¡ª"
"And easy," Contra added quickly, grinning.
"And easy it is to make fun of her. I still think of that speech a lot. Like, she just so happened to make it right around when I first started to feel changes in my human bloodlust. And it just so happens that the speech has all of these weird parallels to what I''ve experienced. You know, like with the Khan''s cajoling cloud of the mind and her whole spiel on severing the strings of the self."
At another time, Contra may have been infuriated that Pinna would even suggest the revolutionary had even an inkling of merit. But, at this point, he found her delirium entertaining. "Parallels? Really? It would take the full power of a team of the most wingnut conspiracy theorists to glean any semblance of sanity from what she was babbling on about." Contra paused, and his humoured face slowly morphed into horror as he thought about what she had said a little bit more. "Please spare me a heart attack and tell me you do not support her reign."
Pinna practically shouted, her voice laced with offence at even the suggestion. "I would never!"
Contra relaxed, relief washing over him. "Good, good."
"No way, even if she was somehow right about everything in some weird alternate universe, I would still hate her just based on her methodology."
"But she''s not right."
"Not in a million years. I do think there is something we don''t know about going on in the background based on her speech. But it would have to be extreme to justify helping the humans kill the Mokoi Khan. The Khan was the only thing keeping the mokoi united. Look at history, pre-Mokoi Khan: war, post-Mokoi Khan: war, during Mokoi Khan: ¡well still war, but at least it was against humans instead of each other."
Contra was about to make a joke about how the old adage that all conversations led to politics was still true when his attention was stolen away by the chime of a bell sound out from behind Pinna.
It seemed the human in the corner of the room also noticed the sound and began making strange sounds with their mouth. "Um, Pinna, your human is doing that weird thing again."
Pinna turned to face the human, worried that he was trying to kill himself again, but relaxed when she saw what her friend was talking about. "Oh, he''s just speaking human to this new guy."
Contra shook his head, trying to organize the information that had been suddenly thrown at him. "New guy? Is someone else here?"
In fact, there was. Pinna''s eyes were mesmerized by a small pink rhombus. It wasn''t the fact that it was a rhombus that Pinna found enthralling, but rather that it refused to remain so, its body would reject any stable state. It would shift and transform, shrink and grow, continuously morphing into other forms.
The pink shape finally locked into a form resembling that of a featureless human with only one limb. The arm was outstretched towards Pinna holding a glowing parchment.
Pinna, excited to flex her human literacy and perhaps even have a dialogue with what was clearly not a mokoi, happily took the paper. To Pinna''s disappointment, the second she grabbed the paper, the pink entity repeated its strange morphing behaviour in reverse until it was eventually a pink rhombus again shrinking out of existence.
Pinna frowned at the fact that the pink rhombus left in such a hurry. The human, too, was very disappointed, so much so that they were crying and swearing spitefully at the void where it had been. "Oh, the Chauffeur left."
Contra''s eyes boggled as he shook his head again, being struck by this new name. Pinna was rather large, so he was unable to see past her for any of the activities that had just occurred. "Chauffeur? Is there a third person here as well?"
"No, the Chauffeur was the name of the new guy. At least that''s what the human was calling it."
"Oh. It doesn''t seem like this human is a big fan of the Chauffeur."
"He thought that it came here to save him." Both Pinna and Contra burst into a terrible fit of laughter. The human couldn''t comprehend the language the two were speaking, but it could feel from the atmosphere that they should both be insulted and scared.
Contra was kind of sad that he missed out on the event because Pinna''s large body blocked his sight. Of course, he would never dream of saying that directly to her. "So why was the Chauffeur here? It would have been nice if you would have asked them. Why didn''t you ask them?"
Pinna''s short ears drooped ever so slightly. "I wish I could, spent all that time learning their language just to find out I''m physically incapable of vocalizing half of their sounds."
Contra chuckled at Pinna''s misfortune, much to her great dismay. "Well, that sucks. Even if you can''t speak it, you understand them, right?"
"Yeah."
"Well, I must have a somewhat similar anatomy; can''t you just translate what they said and then tell me how to respond?"
Pinna let out an exasperated groan. "Oh yeah, of course, I can just teach you how to speak the language. All you have to do is make this sound that I can''t replicate or explain to you because I am PHYSICALLY INCAPABLE OF SOUNDING IT OUT!"
"Oh¡ yeah. I guess that would make it kind of hard. It''s a shame we won''t get to find out what the Chauffeur came here for."
"Oh, that''s easy; it came to give me this paper."
Contra shook his head and turned his palms up questioningly. "And why did this Chauffeur character give you a piece of paper?"
Pinna didn''t actually think that far into it. She looked down at the parchment that was now stuck in her massive claws: It read.
| You have been invited to |
| The Tournament |
| You are The Friend |
Chapter 56: Hate Thy Neighbour as Thyself pt. 1
The lone figure trudged wearily along the dusty road, each step a laborious effort that sent aching protests through fatigued limbs. Their too-small wooden shoes chafed against cramped toes, scraping away layers of blistered skin with every uneven stride. Still, the figure pressed forward, back held perfectly straight in a stubborn denial of their own languor.
A gusting wind swelled against the figure''s diminutive body, tugging at the traveller''s oversized brown cloak and peeling it away like a curtain. Beneath the tattered fabric, a slender form was revealed¡ªa woman clad in a patchwork of mismatched gambeson armours, each piece painstakingly altered to be more form-fitting and creating a great oversized dress to her knees. Not an inch of skin was left exposed; from neck to foot, she was shielded against the elements. Even her hands, gloved in supple leather, remained hidden.
The woman''s armour bizarrely bulged at the hip like there were some thickly coiled ropes stuffed underneath. At the waist, she wore a belt, and synched tight to it was a small black rectangular box. Like everything else she carried, this, too, was stolen. It had been some time since she first acquired it, long enough for the memory to blur, but she vaguely recalled its original owner had called it a briefcase.
The woman''s cloak hood was strapped tightly beneath her chin in a desperate attempt to keep the wind from wrenching it away. A brown porcelain mask shaped like a doe''s head was pressed firmly against her face as if by some unseen force. The blank, beady eyes of the doe left seemingly no room for the character underneath to peer through, yet still, she walked with firm conviction.
Beyond the doe mask veiling her features, two more porcelain headpieces adorned her shoulders like pauldrons¡ªone sculpted in the likeness of a mantis, the other a sloth. Each mask, just like the doe, held firmly to the woman''s body despite no visible mechanism existing to do so.
Just as the first threats of rain darkened the sky, the woman''s wobbly legs carried her to the edge of a village. The mucky dirt road leading in was flanked by crooked houses of damp, swollen wood, their questionable stability waning with the whining wind.
It was a small, forgotten hamlet¡ªshe doubted it had more than a dozen homes in total. It was an isolated place filled with isolated people. She was most likely the first visitor to pass through for a long time since, and would likely be the only visitor for a long time hence. That suited her just fine. Lost and alone was the ideal; it made her even harder to track.
Peering down the hamlet''s sole thoroughfare gave her a comprehensive view of all its offerings. There was little in the way of artistry in the village, but there had been something that caught her particular interest.
A little way down the street, there appeared to be a building set aflame. Sweltering tongues of fire lashed outward, devouring the fragile wooden structure in raging destruction. The weakened beams groaned and splintered, crumbling beneath the relentless assault of the caustic chemical curtain.
The inferno loomed over the town, casting an ominous orange glow that bled into the streets. The roaring bursts of hellfire shattered the village''s quiet with the torrential terror of environmental immolation. The blazing symphony was so deafening; its cacophony of crackling wood and booming eruptions nearly drowned out the tortured symphony of shrieks rising from within.
Despite how insignificant the town was, it surprisingly still sported two guards at its entrance, and they seemed entirely unbothered by the incredible firestorm playing out behind them. Instead, the two guards were off to the side sharing swigs of a foul-smelling canteen when they noticed the approaching stranger. The guards'' gazes immediately steeled, a growl building in one''s throat, and the doe got its hackles up.
Once the guard''s eyes noticed the stranger''s three blank porcelain masks, his aggression instantly drained. The two whispered something between each other, and one jogged off deeper into town. The other removed his tabard and moved forward to intercept her.
"Uuuh, good day¡ um, fellow traveller? What brings you to this¡ªour¡ªlittle home."
The stilted but otherwise lackadaisical greeting caught the woman somewhat off guard, and she quickly glanced at the concerning fire down the road.
When the guard noticed her wandering eyes, his hands subtly maneuvered to his weapon. Not subtly enough, the doe hurriedly broke her curious gaze and refocused back on the guard. "Just travelling through, sir. I was hoping to find a place to spend the night before continuing on." Her voice came out as a strained rasp that made each word sound as a loud whisper.
The guard laughed awkwardly. "Sorry, we''re all full. You won''t be able to find any rooms available here." The doe glanced back over to the burning building with worry, then to the crumpled tabard that the guard had removed. The green cloth was too bunched up to make out its crest.
The guard laughed again, a nervous tick. "There''s another town not too far down the road that you could try?"
The doe thought about it, but she was far too tired. The woman shook her head, "I won''t take much space. It would just be for one day and night."
The guard failed to suppress his scowl. He was clearly playing with another rejection in his head when the second guard returned and whispered something into his ear.
The first guard sighed and stepped aside. "Alright, you can try and see if anyone can spare you, but like I said, we''re full up. You''d be better-taken care of in another town."
The woman ignored him and entered the village.
As she approached, the woman could not overlook the incredible conflagration eating away at the one building. Through a smoke-clouded window, barely visible against the blaze, she noticed the helpless char of mangled flesh. Their staining silhouette was captured in a desperate clawing motion as the corpse reached out for the indifferent bystanders in an ignored freeze frame of their hopeless plea for salvation.
The clouds finally gave way, releasing a torrent of empathetic rain, but the downpour was a feeble rescuer. Raindrops sizzled uselessly against the inferno, evaporating before they could even hope to quell the flames.You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
The doe stirred¡ªan anxious urge to flee. The woman clenched her jaw, forcing herself to ignore the foreign fear that gnawed at her face. She scanned her surroundings instead. The few townspeople who were out and about appeared entirely apathetic to the plight of the melting family, far more wary of her than it. The only few who were actually engaging with the wild pyre were the few neighbours frantically trying to save their own homes from its spread.
She also idly noticed that there were a few other structures with marks of past fires, but they had all since been doused. Save for the one obvious exception.
For now, especially with the bothersome rain deciding to have joined, the woman simply wanted a place to rest with a roof over her head, and it was clear those in the fire would not be of assistance in that regard¡ªnor would playing hero endear her to the town. Without another glance at the burning house, she moved on.
The woman continued down the street and ignored the sting in her eyes from the caustic smoke while she searched for available lodging. The doe remained wary of the occasional glares cast by the locals, keenly aware of how oddly armed the local population appeared to be.
Thankfully, none of their ire lingered long enough to pose a real threat. Most shot a single directed scowl, then quickly corrected and returned to their strangely aimless routines¡ªmost, but not all.
A pair of children skulked through the nearby alleys, not-so-subtly spying on the unfamiliar traveller. Even the doe sensed little danger in their curiosity. The woman ignored them and set her sights on a building larger than the rest, its worn wooden sign swaying in the wind. It appeared to be the local tavern¡ªand, with any luck, it would be an inn as well.
She entered the tavern, finally escaping the growing storm and allowing her oversized cloak to fully rewrap around her, adding some much-needed bulk to her stature. She patted herself off from any collected soot and rain and inspected the new location.
The inside of the tavern was as one would expect from such a quaint town. Shoddy craftsmanship left wobbly chairs and lopsided tables strewn across warped floors, though it was perhaps a little more rundown than she would have imagined. There was the sporadic visual scarring of weapon wounds dug into the woodwork and, of course, the overambitious smog that crept in from outside: she ignored it.
The establishment was shockingly full, with nearly thirty patrons at her quick count, likely regulars who spent as much time at the bottom of a mug as they did with their families. She thought they might be the local militia as they ubiquitously wore armour with readied hands propped on their weapons.
Wary eyes snapped toward her as she properly stepped inside, their gazes heavy with suspicion. She was an intruder¡ªa foreign infection whose presence was the harbinger of change, an unpredictability that would jostle the pleasantly monotonous routine that was their lives.
She simply ignored the judging stares, long accustomed to the weight of silent disapproval. The oppressive atmosphere was nothing new.
Approaching the bar, she set her sights on the lone bartender, who stood idly polishing a tall glass with a red-stained cloth. The cloth was clearly far too filthy to serve its purpose, yet the bartender worked with undue concentration. He was short by most standards but still loomed nearly two heads taller than her.
The woman cleared her throat and spoke to the host. "Hello, I was wondering if you offered rooms to stay here?"
The bartender flinched, caught off guard by the unexpected voice behind the mask, but his demeaning scowl remained firmly in place. Despite the bartender''s apparent distaste for the stranger, he kept his tone civil. "We don''t offer any rooms here. If you want to find a place to rest, you''ll have to ask and see if any of the locals will be willing to take you in." That comment made one of the obviously eavesdropping audience members stifle a laugh.
The bartender shot them a silencing glare. The woman kept her face fixed on the bartender, her expression unreadable behind her doe mask, yet somehow, those dead porcelain eyes still exuded an imperceptible begging hope.
"Would you be willing to¡ª" Her words were cut off by the bite of thick smog burning at the back of her throat. The woman was thrown through a short coughing fit until she cleared her throat, struggling to expel the irritant. She tried again. "Would you be willing to lend me a room for just one night? I can pay."
The bartender hesitated, his gaze momentarily flickering with discomfort. "I''m sorry, but I''m working here all day. I mean no disrespect, but I''d rather not leave my home alone with a stranger."
The woman glanced out the tavern window, her gaze catching a fleeting glimpse of the eager day star peeking over the still-burning building. A faint rainbow formed through the rain. A few weary patrons took the moment to shuffle out and escape the awkward atmosphere before she started asking everyone for lodging.
She turned back to the bartender, his falsely warm smile now grating against her mood, and a wave of resigned irritation washed over her.
Disappointment sagged her shoulders, and she exhaled a weary sigh. "I understand."
Turning away, she allowed the lifeless doe mask to face the few remaining patrons who had been listening in on her conversation. "Well," she said, her voice flat, "is anyone else here willing to rent me a room for one day and one night? I just need lodging; no food nor latrine required; I''ll be gone by tomorrow morning."
In truth, she would have quite liked all of those comforts, but for now, a roof and cot were her top priority. If sacrificing those other amenities would increase her chances, she was more than willing to make the trade.
Despite her barest of requests, the tavern remained silent, the dead stares of the patrons made it clear that none were inclined to welcome her to their homes. Right when she was about to resign herself to knocking door to door, a voice finally broke the stillness. "I have a... barn, just outside of town." His irked voice was gruff and laced with a little uncertain anxiety.
It was clear that his offer didn''t come from any sort of generosity or even pity but rather a forfeit, his noble sacrifice for the town to eschew the woman from bothering any more of its peaceful residents with her presence.
The man''s eyes met the doe mask''s blank gaze, his hand tightening around the hilt of his weapon. "What? You got a problem with the barn?"
The man shot a nervous glance at the bartender. She couldn''t see how the bartender responded, nor did she particularly care.
The woman quickly swallowed down her annoyance. "No sir, a barn would be perfect. Thank you for helping me, sir."
Her new host then broke off from his silent conversation with the barkeep and met her mask''s blank gaze, scoffing at the hollow gratitude she''d offered.
"If you''re staying the night in my barn," he grunted, "you''d better wash yourself in the river first. I wouldn''t want my animals subjected to your... stench."
The woman couldn''t believe what she''d just heard. Beneath the doe mask, her face twisted into a scowl of fury, and though her hands were hidden by her cloak''s oversized sleeves, she clenched them into tight fists.
The room''s tension immediately ratcheted, the militia poised for action.
Before doing anything rash, she paused. She wanted to test something first. Slowly, the doe lifted one hand and sniffed the pit of her arm: oh. She supposed it had been a long time since she had bathed.
Perhaps the unfriendly glares were a little more understandable now.
She realized, with a mix of surprise and self-consciousness, that it had been a long time since she''d bathed.
Embarrassed, she cleared her throat and asked for directions to the river.
She quickly exited the tavern, relieved that the mask hid the flush creeping up her neck and cheeks. There really were benefits to keeping one''s face concealed.
She noticed the burning building had fully collapsed by this point. She ignored it and followed her directions to the river.
Chapter 56: Hate Thy Neighbour as Thyself pt. 2
It didn''t take long for her to reach the river, the soothing rush of water beckoning her forward like a promise of relief.
Over the weeks, she had grown accustomed to her own specialized musk of travelling grime that clung to her skin. But the reminder from the tavern patrons made her acutely aware of just how desperate her need for a proper wash had become.
The woman carefully set the briefcase down on a nearby stone. Before she went to wash herself in the river, there was something she needed to check.
She unclasped the latches of her briefcase with practiced hands, her heart quickening from a mixture of anticipation and hope. With a quick motion, she lifted the lid.
But as her eyes fell on the contents, her posture slumped in an immediate wave of disappointment. Her excitement drained away, and with a soft click, she relatched the briefcase, turning away from it.
With her daily obsessive compulsion fulfilled, she could finally focus on getting herself cleaned. She eagerly approached the river so that its rushing water was within a step of her reach. Though her body ached to dive in and allow the waters to carry her pains away, she hesitated at the bank, her gloved fingers nervously clutching her cloak.
She smelled so poorly precisely because she refused to remove her clothes for any reason other than the most dire necessity. The doe scanned her surroundings cautiously, eyes darting for any signs of unwanted observers. In the heavy rain, it was hard to listen out for anything, but visually, the only movement she noticed was the faint rustling of a bush too small to be hiding a predator.
She took another hesitant sniff of herself and immediately deemed the situation adequately dire. Still, the paranoid doe fought the instinct to move further upriver, and though a lingering fear of potential threats stirred inside her, practicality won out¡ªthe urgent need to rest outweighed any worry of daring animals lurking nearby.
The woman turned away from the bush and gazed out at the river once more. Taking a deep breath, she finally made the decision. Slowly, she lifted her hands to remove the doe mask.
It slipped off easily, revealing a smooth, hairless blue face beneath. Her small, almond-shaped eyes were unsettlingly tiny for a human, and her pupils¡ªthin vertical slits¡ªcut sharply across her brown irises.
With a careful, almost reverent motion, she placed the doe mask on the ground beside her, then repeated the process with the other two pauldron masks.
The woman started by removing her patchwork gambeson from under her cloak, unwilling to reveal herself even if it were only to the trees and birds. Despite being alone, she doffed it with a shy hesitance, embarrassed by what hid beneath.
The process was slow and cumbersome. Thick, multi-fastened pieces of armour, never meant to be worn together, had locked and knotted against each other in a tangled mess. Wrestling them off under her cloak only made the task more frustrating.
Eventually, she did manage to free herself from her equipment, and once she was fully stripped, it was finally time to remove her cloak.
Her hand hovered reluctantly over the brooch that held it in place¡ªa simple silver butterfly, colourless save for the few splotches of blackened tarnish. Stolen, of course, taken from some overspoilt child who had no more need for brooches.
The woman took a deep, rallying breath and released it, letting the cloak fall to the floor.
Her body was a stark shade of dark blue, marred by a web of red scars and jagged cuts, their fiery traces mingling with black splotches of old skin burned into tough, leathery patches. Along her spine, a faint, lighter blue line stretched from the nape of her neck, tracing all the way down to the tip of her tail.
Now free from the confines of her cloak, the woman unfurled her thick, prehensile tail, finally allowing herself to relax the strained muscles which had been coiled in tension for far too long. Along the lighter blue ridge of her tail, old, blunted spikes¡ªonce filed flat¡ªwere starting to regrow, small and delicate. They had just entered the itching phase, and she couldn''t help but halt her endeavour of undressing to give her tail spines a much-needed scratch.
Amidst her vigorous scritching of that long, bothersome itch, a sudden gasp cut through the air.
The woman froze. She whipped around, muscles coiling, eyes locked onto a rustling bush. Someone was there.
The frantic scurrying of feet reached her ears, and instinct took over. She bolted toward her masks, snatching up the mantis and pressing it to her face. The moment the mask locked into place¡ªwithout straps, without effort¡ªher tension vanished. A chilling, unnatural calm settled over her, an immediate overwhelming apathy.
Strength surged into her weary limbs, a faint green aura flickering around her legs as the mantis took control. She bent her knees, then leapt¡ªsoaring effortlessly into the woods. In a single fluid motion, she seized the two fleeing bodies, her grip like iron as she yanked them from their escape.
In each of the woman''s hands dangled a young boy¡ªone with blond hair, the other with black. Neither could have been older than thirteen.
"Please don''t eat us! We''re just weak little kids!" the blond one wailed, his face already streaked with tears.
The other boy, though managing to hold back his own sobs, was just as stricken with terror. His high and trembling voice cracked as he stammered, "Y-yeah! Children don''t even taste that good!"
The mantis held the two children aloft by their oversized flax cloaks, barely registering the iron emblem clasping them shut¡ªa flaming sword, its burning tongues forming the silhouette of a pine tree.
The woman resisted the urge to kill them on the spot.
Their frantic squirming tugged at their cloaks'' seams, and she knew if they struggled much more, the fabric would tear, giving them another chance to escape.
With measured effort, the woman attempted to soothe them¡ªor at least, as much as someone wearing the cold, expressionless face of a mantis could.
"Relax, twerps," she said, her voice flat yet firm. "I''m not going to eat you."
"You''re not?" the blubbering blond boy asked, his voice hitching as a sliver of hope crept in. He sniffled, hurriedly swallowing the tears threatening to spill again, then turned his head¡ªtentatively¡ªtoward his captor.
The moment his eyes landed on the woman, completely nude save for her terrifying animal mask, he recoiled. His head snapped away so fast it was a wonder he didn''t give himself whiplash. His face flushed crimson¡ªjust as red as the woman''s was blue.
The woman noticed but ignored the child''s discomfort, "Why would I even eat you?" She snapped, irritation turning her voice gravelly.
The other boy, emboldened now that it was confirmed his fate no longer involved a cooking pot, puffed out his chest in a flimsy show of defiance. "Because that''s what you evil mokoi do! You eat nice people."
He tried to hold her gaze, to meet her with stoic resolve¡ªbut his pubescent mind kept betraying him, flickering awkwardly between her exposed body and the looming mantis mask that hid her expression.
The woman growled, irritation boiling over into fury. "I am not a mokoi!"
The very accusation blinded her with rage. The mantis tried to bear her fangs to the children; even through the mask, the seething anger was felt.
The cowardly blond boy crumpled further into his sobs while the once-defiant black-haired boy clenched his eyes shut, bracing for the worst.
She froze.
She forced herself to bury the hostility before she did something rash to a pair of children.
Closing her eyes, she took a slow, deliberate breath. When she opened them again, the fire in her veins had dulled¡ªleaving that completely dead apathy.
She opened her eyes to find the black-haired boy hungrily ogling her body.
The apathy was already wavering, "Hey kid, you better keep your eyes up, or I really will eat you."
The boy released a panicked yelp and quickly shot his head away from her body. Instead, he forced his gaze to lock with the mantis mask''s unblinking stare. Something about the way she whiplashed from highly emotive wrath to eerily flat and utterly devoid of feeling¡ªmade him believe, with absolute certainty, that she wasn''t joking.
The blond boy still refused to look at her, keeping his head turned as far away as possible. His voice came out small, barely above a whisper. "You''re¡ not a mokoi?"
"No," the woman answered, her tone firm but even. "I''m not."
"Then what are you?" the black-haired boy spat, trying¡ªand failing¡ªto sound brave.
She exhaled slowly, forcing herself to stay calm. They were just children, repeating what they had been taught.
"I am human," she said, keeping her voice level. "You shouldn''t judge people just because they look different."Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.
Even as she spoke the words, she couldn''t stop the grimace that pulled at her lips. Their fear wasn''t their fault, but the trained bigotry behind it left a bitter taste in her mouth.
"I''ve never seen a blue human before." The blond boy finally braved facing the woman again but ensured to keep his eyes firmly above her neck.
"Or one that smelled so bad." The black-haired boy added unhelpfully.
The woman''s tail instinctively twitched in agitation. "Well, now you have. It''s called a mutant. And it doesn''t make me any less human."
The blond-haired boy furrowed his brow, unconvinced by what clearly looked to him like a mokoi. "I''ve never heard of a mutant before."
"They''re rare," she said flatly.
"Fake, you mean," the black-haired boy shot back. He turned to his friend, "She''s totally an evil Mokoi, Daft! Don''t let her trick you." He crossed his arms defiantly, "We''ve travelled all over the world. If there were more blue people, we would have seen them."
The woman was putting in a lot of work to stop the mantis from taking over and slaughtering these idiotic kids. "We''re not all blue. You''ve probably seen other mutants before and didn''t even know it."
Daft seemed to consider her words, his expression scrunched in thought. "It''s too confusing¡ªMokoi, monsters, and now mutants. Too many ''M'' things that all look the same."
The woman''s patience finally snapped, and she gnashed her teeth, shouting at the child, "I do not look like a mokoi!"
The black-haired boy huffed and muttered under his breath, "Well, you act like one."
The woman was completely flabbergasted by the boy''s apparent lackadaisical attitude towards his own plight. "What''s your problem, kid? Don''t you have any fear that I''m going to kill you?"
That comment made Daft stiffen, but his friend retained his defiant resistance. "If you were going to hurt us, you would have done it already."
The mantis''s shoulders regretfully sagged at the child''s na?ve confidence. "Well, sorry, kiddo, that''s where you''re wrong. Sadly, you met the wrong person at the wrong time, and I can''t have anyone mentioning that they''ve seen me. So, I will actually have to kill you two."
The two children blanched, any essence of their once lively blood sinking deeper into the ill-perceived safety of their bodies. The woman felt sympathetic to their situation but didn''t let it deter her conviction. "You guys really tied my hands here."
The mantis adjusted her grip, her delicate hands tightening around their necks as a faint green glow enveloped them. She began to squeeze.
The black-haired boy, who had now lost any semblance of fortitude, desperately pleaded through strained, gagging breaths, "Wait! Wait! We won''t tell anyone anything, we promise!"
Daft, in turn, choked out whatever assurance he could possibly muster to save his life. "Yeah. It''s not¡ like¡ the mercenaries ever listen¡ to us anyways." His legs kicked uselessly beneath him, his small hands grasping at the woman''s wrists in a desperate bid for relief.
Surprisingly, the woman loosened her hold on the boys, her grip slackening as she processed their choice words. "Mercenaries?"
Seizing the opportunity to potentially talk his way out of death, Daft scrambled to explain, his voice frantic. "Yeah, the Clotted Forest Mercenaries have totally claimed this place as theirs. We''re super famous, and if you kill us, then they''ll hunt you down across the whole world until they catch and kill you!" He coughed, his throat still sore and red, struggling for breath. He hurriedly added in with a panicked rush of attempted intimidation, "Probably do even worse stuff to you before that!"
The threat wholly unmoved the mantis, skepticism dripping from her voice. "Worse stuff? I don''t think someone your age should be saying things like that." She tilted her head, studying the boy with detached amusement. "Besides, I thought they didn''t care about you?"
Daft opened and closed his mouth, clearly stumped, his mind scrambling for an answer. His friend, though still dangling helplessly from the woman''s grip, straightened as much as he could and quickly jumped in to salvage the situation. "They''ll still come after you." he blurted, his voice high with desperation. "It''s about defending their reputation. It''s an insult to attack their own."
The mantis stared at them both for a long moment, then sighed. "Crap, you''re right." She adjusted her hold on them, lifting them slightly like weighing the scales of Justitia. "Even if they don''t take your murder that seriously, they''ll still know it was me and then my mask getup will get more notoriety."
Her voice turned quieter, more to herself than to them. "The Tabulate Syndicate shouldn''t know that I have the masks, but any unnecessary attention is just giving them more dots to connect."
The black-haired boy didn''t quite understand what she was on about, but he at least understood that killing him was a bad idea. "Exactly, if you kill us then it won''t just be two kids who knew you were here but an entire army! So, really, it''s in your best interest to let us live and trust that we won''t say anything."
The mantis, called out of her monologuing, faced back to the boy and responded with her bland, uncaring voice. "You really don''t know me, kid. I don''t trust people. That''s not my thing. But you definitely have a point."
The hopeful black-haired boy excitedly agreed with her line of thought, nodding his head. "Exactly!"
The mantis also nodded, her voice flat and unfeeling. "So, I guess I''ll have to kill them all too."
Daft immediately burst into tears, his sobs wracking his small body. The deflated black-haired boy''s eyes went wide with panic. "What!? No! That''s not what you should do at all!"
The mantis ignored the child''s plea while solemnly nodding her head. "Yeah, it''s my best bet for leaving as little trace of me as possible. There''ll be no witnesses to visually describe me, and the Tabulate Syndicate probably wouldn''t connect the destruction of a random town to me. They''d probably just blame it on Calamity Kid."
"There has to be another way! The Tabulate¡ªwhatever¡ªwon''t trace you here. Besides, how are you going to take on an entire village of mercenaries? Remember, it''s not just any mercenaries; the Clotted Forest Mercenaries! We''ve got an army of four thousand strong!"
The mantis remained unfazed, her voice cold. "There are four thousand soldiers in that village?"
"Well, not all of them are here, but still! There''s a band of fifty of the most famous mercenaries in the world. And if something happens to them, the rest will definitely know. And that can''t go ignored."
The mantis shrugged, uncaring. "Sorry, kid, but unless some miracle happens and I find another way to keep the Syndicate off my back, I''m left with no choi¡ª"
The woman was interrupted by the sudden chime of a bell. Instinct took over¡ªshe sprang back, flinging the two children aside as light-green energy surged through her arms. From the glow, two massive, ethereal, sickle-like claws burst into existence, gleaming with harsh, serrated teeth.
Right in front of her, in between the two fearful children there was what seemed to be a small pink rhombus that grew out of thin air, or it was a rhombus, but its body would reject any stable state. It would shift and transform, shrink and grow, continuously morphing into other forms. The pink shape finally locked into a form resembling that of a featureless human with only one limb. The arm was outstretched towards the woman holding onto a glowing parchment.
The woman lunged, claws raised to carve the intruder apart¡ªonly to freeze at the panicked cry of the black-haired boy. "What are you doing!? That''s the Chauffeur!"
She wasn''t entirely sure why she had stopped¡ªbut now that she had, and the creature hadn''t retaliated, she figured she might as well try to make sense of what was happening. "The what?" she muttered, her voice edged with suspicion.
The black-haired boy, still shaking, peeled himself out of the bush he''d tumbled into and took a cautious step forward. "Just accept the invitation while you have the chance!"
She hesitated, then, with wary fingers, plucked the glowing parchment from the creature''s grasp.
The moment she did, the strange, shifting figure reversed its transformations, folding in on itself like a collapsing star. It shrank back into a simple pink rhombus¡ªthen winked out of existence entirely, leaving behind nothing but silence.
The sudden movement startled the mantis, who crouched low into a readied stance. Her head snapped left and right, scanning for any sign of the pink entity''s return. "Where did it go!?" she demanded, her voice sharp with lingering tension.
But the black-haired boy was no longer afraid. Instead, he stared at the empty space with wide-eyed wonder, his fear entirely replaced by excitement. "You got invited to The Tournament by the Chauffeur!? That''s so cool!"
The mantis turned her steely gaze on him, and in an instant, he remembered exactly who he was dealing with. His awestruck expression faltered under the weight of her glare.
The mantis was still fully tensed, wound for violence, "What''s a Chauffeur?"
The question threw the boy for a loop. He blinked at the woman with newfound incredulousness, "You don''t know who the Chauffeur is? But that''s like¡ a classic story. Every kid knows the Chauffeur."
The mantis refused to lower her guard, her stance still taut with suspicion. "We don''t all get bedtime stories."
The black boy huffed back, annoyed, "I''m part of a mercenary company. You think I get bedtime stories? I''d be lucky if I got away without bedtime beatings." He kicked at the ground grumpily and looked around the clearing. With the woman''s menace finally directed elsewhere, he felt oddly relaxed. "It''s not going to come back, you know?"
The mantis remained poised for several moments, the tension between them stretching into an uneasy silence. Finally, she reached up, her fingers brushing against the mantis mask before peeling it from her face. She exhaled sharply as she lowered it, her small, slitted eyes narrowing at the boy in a scowl.
She had a question on the tip of her tongue when a sudden realization struck her.
Her expression darkened.
"Where''s your friend?"
The boy shrugged dismissively, "Friend is a strong word. Totally abandoned me to suffer your wrath on my own. Daft''s always been a total wuss." He barely spared a glance in the direction the blond boy had fled, already far more invested in the unfolding legend before him. His eyes gleamed with excitement. "If you''re powerful enough to get invited to The Tournament, why are you hiding from the Tabu-wabu whatever?"
A chill ran down the woman''s spine. Her fingers twitched as icy panic slithered through her veins. Without another word, she turned sharply and strode back to her discarded garb. Her mind raced through the implications¡ªthis had spiralled into a disaster.
The boy, oblivious to her turmoil, simply trailed after her, watching with unabashed curiosity. She didn''t bother acknowledging him as she began dressing, prioritizing speed over comfort.
The moment she lifted the first article of clothing, the boy''s mind requeued her state of dress. His face burned red, and he spun on his heel so fast he nearly tripped. Still, his curiosity refused to be silenced.
"What did the Chauffeur name you?" he asked over his shoulder, his voice brimming with excitement. "Is it something super cool? Something scary?" He nodded to himself, practically vibrating with enthusiasm. "I bet it''s scary. You''re definitely the scary type."
With a final clip, the boy recognized the familiar sound of a cloak fastening. He took that as his cue and turned back around. "If you win, what will you wis¡ª"
Before he could finish, the woman shoved her sloth mask onto his face. Instantly, his body sagged, and his mind clouded as if he had struck an invisible wall. His limbs turned sluggish, his thoughts thick like syrup. He wobbled, nearly collapsing, but the woman caught him with one steady hand, the other carrying her briefcase.
Her voice cut through the haze, cold and direct. "Does that Chauffeur or Tournament or whatever have any short-term consequences? Anything immediate? Within the next few hours?"
The words rattled through the boy''s fogged mind like an overstimulating rush of sound. He fought to process them, struggled to think¡ªuntil, finally, he slurred out an answer. "... No."
"Then I don''t care."
Without another word, the woman shoved him aside. His legs gave out, and he hit the ground in an ungraceful sprawl.
She didn''t look back. She was already gone.
Chapter 56: Hate Thy Neighbour as Thyself pt. 3
By the time the blue woman, re-hidden under layers of armour and a cloak, returned to town, the day star was high in the sky, a giant rainbow arcing to either horizon in a horrendously ill-fitting vista to her mood. The rain clouds did next to little in shading the town, and that was without considering the still-raging house fire adding its blazing light to functionally remove any shadows for her to hide within. The single main street of the hamlet was rife with activity, seemingly the whole band of mercenaries scuttling about, gearing up, packing bags, preparing to leave. She spotted the young blond boy animatedly speaking to one of the soldiers, though she couldn''t make out what through the rain.
She slapped on her doe mask and slowly inched her way around the forest boundary, trying to flank to the side of the hamlet. Her skulking was interrupted by the shrill blare of a horn. She froze, cursing at her inadequacies. She really needed a better mask.
Following the sound to its source, she found a scout¡ªhidden in the trees until now¡ªwho locked eyes with her, trembling in fear. She cursed again and whirled back to the town, her heart sinking. Every eye in the camp was now trained on her.
For a moment, they were locked in a tense stalemate. The doe stood still, her stance unwavering, unwilling to move until the enemy proved aggressive. Meanwhile, the mercenaries hesitated, watching her in turn, unsure of what action to take.
Finally, one man broke from the crowd and slowly advanced toward her. His hands were raised in a gesture of peace, and his movements were deliberate, showing he had no intention of provoking her, like he was dealing with a cornered animal.
As he neared, the doe recognized him as the bartender. Though she supposed, with what she knew now, he probably wasn''t a bartender.
"No need for anyone to do anything unnecessary, ma''am," he said with a nervously measured tone. "I think we may have gotten off on the wrong foot."
The doe''s gaze hardened. "I would have preferred if there had been no foot at all."
The not-bartender smile faltered, his posture stiffening. The words could have been a threat, and it seemed to unsettle him, though he tried to cover it with a nervous laugh. "Yes, well¡ I understand we aren''t necessarily supposed to be here. I do apologize for our coyness earlier today, but I''m sure you can understand why we didn''t want to announce ourselves right away."
He quickly corrected himself, "But rest assured, we''re only a small detachment. The majority of the garrison is already heading for Hullabaloo right this moment, as per the agreement."
The pieces were starting to click in place for the woman. There was a reason the mercenaries hadn''t attacked her as soon as she arrived at the hamlet and disguised themselves instead. They had mistaken her for someone else. They knew her by her masks, or at least by the fact she had masks.
They would remember the animals, and they would speak of her to their superiors. When they did, whoever was in charge of these masks would learn of the woman and know who had stolen their briefcase. And they would certainly want that back. One organization hunting her across the entire continent was enough.
The woman nodded to herself, the decision settling within her mind. The simple motion of her head relieved the non-bartender''s tension. With deliberate slowness, she reached up and removed the doe mask.
The mercenary gasped, first in shock at the unmasking, then at the blue creature beneath it. His eyes widened, taking in her discoloured form.
With a slow, fluid movement, she pulled off the mantis mask resting on her shoulder and slotted the doe mask into its place. As her fingers secured the mantis mask onto her face, the mercenary''s brow furrowed, beads of anxious sweat beginning to form. "We... we don''t have to tell the rest of the Masks about your invitation if that''s what you''re concerned about," he stammered, his voice trembling with uncertainty.
They even knew about the invitation. Whatever that was, it sounded far too well-known for her to be associated with.
The mantis remained silent. Her apathetic gaze was like an impenetrable wall. The mask drained the woman underneath of any emotive thought. Without a word, she raised her arm, conjuring an ethereal green sickle claw that shimmered with ghostly light.
The mercenary''s hand twitched toward his weapon, but the mantis was faster. In a swift, practiced motion, her sickle cleaved through the air, bisecting the man with horrifying precision. His body fell into two clean halves, collapsing with a wet thud, the blood pooling where he had stood just moments before.You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
The air exploded with chaos. The mercenary camp descended into a frenzy, some fleeing for their lives while others charged forward, determined to overwhelm the woman with sheer numbers.
The first to strike was a panicked crossbowman. He released his bolt with trembling hands, but the mantis reacted in a blur. She raised her briefcase, and the bolt clattered harmlessly off its hard leather surface.
Two enraged warriors closed in¡ªone with a sword, the other charging with a pike. The mantis moved with terrifying precision, pressing a button on the briefcase. It flipped open, revealing its empty velvet interior.
In a single, fluid motion, the mantis swiped her sickle claw through the sword-wielding warrior. His body split with sickening ease, and before the other could react, she shoved the open briefcase toward the pike wielder.
The pike jabbed forward with lethal intent, but instead of meeting resistance, it plunged into the briefcase, sinking impossibly deep into the open space. Without a sound, the pike wielder, too, was sucked into the case and vanished. With a swift snap of her wrist, the woman closed the briefcase with a metallic click, leaving no trace of the encounter behind.
For a moment, the camp fell silent. Stunned by what they had just witnessed, the mercenaries halted in their tracks. The sheer horror of what they had seen rooted them to the ground.
Then, as if on cue, the first of them turned and fled, followed by more, until the entire camp was in disarray.
The mantis synched her briefcase to her belt, formed a second sickle claw in the now free hand and then, with an even greater concentration of energy, four ethereal green wings grew out from her back. With an impossible leap, she flew across the town, catching a few hapless cowards with her sickles on her way through and landing on the opposite side. Her massive wings flared out, creating a wall that blocked any fleeing route.
One of the burly men, broken and terrified, fell to his knees. Tears streaked down his face as he pleaded, his voice cracking with desperation, "Please... We haven''t done anything..."
The acrid smell of fire still burned in her nostrils. The mantis felt nothing.
She hurtled back into the crowd, her vorpal sickles cutting through weapons, shields, and armour like they were mere paper. Each strike was precise and merciless, severing limbs, eviscerating bones, snuffing lives. The mercenaries who had thought to run were cut down in their tracks.
Even those that escaped the death trap street, scattering into the dark woods, didn''t hold to hope for long. She did not let them flee, hunting each and every one down, her wings giving her the speed to pursue them no matter what direction they fled.
It had been a long and exhausting ordeal, but the last few mercenaries had proven surprisingly adept at hiding. It took her a few hours to finish up, but she did. The day star was settling, and she smelled even worse than when the day started. On the bright side, she had a room to sleep in.
But as much as she longed to bathe and collapse into bed, there was something else she needed to collect first.
She made her way back to the river, where she found the black-haired boy barely managing to prop himself up against a nearby tree. The sloth mask still pressed against his face as he fought against sleep. She tore the animal mask off and slotted it onto her shoulder.
The instant the mask left his face, the boy''s eyes snapped open wide with shock. He let out a high-pitched squeal. "Why are you covered in so much blood?!"
The mantis stood motionless, her cold, unreadable expression fixed. She felt nothing. "I said I would kill them."
His mind struggled to process the words, taking in her grotesquely visceral form and struggling to form any coherent thought. Eventually, he managed to concernedly ask, "Are you going to kill me?"
"No."
He swallowed hard, relief washing over his face, but confusion still clouded his features. "Okay... okay. That''s good... yeah, good. But why?"
The mantis fixed her gaze on him, her voice as detached as ever. "Do you read?"
The boy, still shaken, seized the opportunity, eager to prove himself useful. "Yes! Absolutely! Super great reader. The best reader that''s ever read while I''m still alive."
She pulled out a rumpled parchment from her cloak, still faintly glowing with an unnatural light. Without a word, she pushed it into his arms and he instinctively took it. "What does this say?"
The boy hesitated, glancing nervously from the unfeeling porcelain face of the mantis to the blood-soaked parchment. "If I read this to you, will you kill me afterward?"
"No," she replied flatly. "Then you tell me what this Tournament is. Now, read."
The boy gulped and, with a shaky breath, began to read aloud:
"It reads:
You have been invited to
The Tournament
You are the Anlace."
Chapter 57: Irresponsible Responsibilities pt. 1
Essence was pulled out from the air, collapsing inward and reforming at a collective point in the center of the golden room. A shimmering sphere of essence pulsed in time with the steady rhythm of the heart it encased, swelling and shrinking with each measured beat.
At its densest core, the essence thickened, coalescing into arcana that dripped down like liquid light, seeping into the placid heart below. With every pump of the heart, the arcana was carried through the body''s bloodstream, woven seamlessly into the natural transmission of nutrients filtering the magical sustenance into every muscle and organ.
The mastery required to shape such a flawless convergence of energizing arcana was nothing short of breathtaking. A sight of pure artistry, visible only to those gifted¡ªor fortunate¡ªenough to have the proper ocular insights to perceive those elusive dancing wisps of magical kinetics.
At the center of it all, the man sat motionless, his body enshrouded in the omnipresent caress of essential force. The sphere of essence cradling his heart held both power and peril¡ªone flaw in its formation, one single misstep, and it could collapse, crushing the life within him in an instant. Yet, such dangers did not trouble him. He was far too experienced for doubt, too precise for failure.
To minimize the amount of interference from contaminants in the fragile, untamed essence, the man practiced his craft in complete isolation¡ªutterly naked, free from even the faintest obstruction. His golden chamber was devoid of furniture, its walls pristine and unblemished, ensuring absolute control over the delicate process.
With practiced precision, he intensified the concentration of essence around his heart, compressing it until its density grew so great that even the untrained eye could discern a faint, golden glow suffusing out of his chest.
But the true spectacle lay deeper. As pure arcana coursed through his veins, it illuminated the intricate pathways of his cardiovascular system, a radiant map of power visible to all, regardless of magical perception.
To the average layman¡ªand even to most seasoned wizards¡ªthe man''s magical control was a mesmerizing exhibition of tranquil artistry. A perfect harmony of essence and will. But to those whose consciousness had sunk deeper into the Soul Sea than most, they were unfortunately very aware that the room''s atmosphere was anything but tranquil.
"Oh, you must be sooooo hungry right now, aren''t you? Aren''t you? No need to answer¡ªI know you''re just dying of hunger! A little teensy snack of magic to tide you over until eternity? Pft, please. Don''t make me sick.
Don''t even pretend that you couldn''t go for a nice steak right now! A juicy, succulent steak, Mmm yeah. Imagine it with me, will you? Just a little red in the middle¡ but not too red.The fat sizzling, sending up those steamy, tantalizing wisps into the air. That unforgettable aroma curling into your nostrils, latching on¡ªrefusing to let go."
The man''s stomach grumbled.
"YES!! YES!! Despair, puny human, at what you have lost! The weight of your greed is too great, the sacrifices too heavy for your shallow mind to bear. You have nary the choice but to humbly take your own life in repentance!"
Unmoved, the man remained as stoic as ever. Eyes closed, mind steady, he continued the delicate art of magically feeding himself. Without so much as a flicker of emotion, he responded, "That was just my stomach reacting to an excess of arcana I accidentally let slip. Nothing more."
To those with a more adept soul sight, the truth of the chamber revealed itself¡ªthere were, in fact, two individuals present. At the center of the golden room, the naked man lay perfectly still, his chiselled form resting against the smooth gold floor in a state of absolute meditative calm. But above him, a second figure flitted furiously about¡ªan amorphous lump of gold, darting wildly through the air, spewing frustrated grunts and curses as it seethed in impotent rage.
"Wretched, wretched human! Your dark, twisted corruptions of nature will be your downfall!" The lump of gold screeched to its indifferent listener, its fury vibrating through the chamber. It had no mouth to speak with, yet its entire form resonated like a furious tuning fork, sending its voice booming in every direction, saturating the room with its wrath.
Of course, only those with the proper soul sight could perceive its words.
Unfortunately for the man lying at the center of the chamber, he did possess such sight¡ªmeaning he had no choice but to endure the endless tirades of his indignant companion.
The man knew that if he remained silent, the lump of gold would simply get louder. At least by responding, he could keep their exchange at a relatively tolerable volume. Besides, he had started to grow accustomed to the companion''s constant presence and perhaps even enjoyed its company¡. perhaps. "Isn''t magic nature?"
"ISn''T mAGic nAtuRe?" the gold mimicked with a mocking, exaggerated whine, twisting the human''s words to sound as childishly ignorant as possible. "This is why the spirits curse you fauna! You never see a plant trying to redefine the universe¡ªnooo¡ well¡" The lump suddenly halted midair, its agitated pacing cut short. It shuddered. "there was that one time."
A cold ripple passed through its rugged form, the memory momentarily pulling it from its righteous fury.If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.
The man sighed. His golden companion had a habit of slipping into bizarre, nonsensical tangents he could never hope to follow. He cracked an eye open.
"What are you talking about?"
"Just cosmic cataclysm stuff, you wouldn''t understand¡" the golden lump said, its voice dripping with smug superiority.
Then, an idea came to mind. "wouldn''t understand so much it torments you! Like a Curse! Yes, you must be drowning in your own empty mind. Do you hate how little you know? How little you will ever know with your pathetic human lifespan?"
It burst into a fit of maniacal cackling, the sound reverberating through the chamber like a chorus of mocking bells.
The man, as calm as ever, simply replied, "Nope, I have subordinates to do all that research stuff for me. I just need to know what''s required in the now to best govern my people."
The golden lump froze. Then, like a balloon pricked by a needle, it deflated¡ªanother attempted torment effortlessly circumvented.
But then, the gold had another idea. A wicked idea.
"Well¡" it drawled, rubbing its metaphorical hands together with villainous glee. "I know something that magic can''t fix about your curse. Sure, you can feed yourself with magic. But without the ability to touch another¡ªoh, how alone you must be! How tired, how desolate! Yes! The great and mighty ruler forever denied the warmth of another! Oh, the woes of a lively, powerful man who can never again feel the touch of a woman! HAHAHAHA!"
The man simply shrugged. "I guess."
The gold''s laughter came to an abrupt halt. It cocked its proverbial eyebrow.
"Oh, the woes of a man who can never again feel the touch of¡ another man?"
The man chuckled. "I don''t swing that way."
The gold wiggled thoughtfully. "Well, you must love something! If there is one undeniable truth about you humans, it''s that you lust! Lust, lust, lust, lust, lust. It''s practically your species'' motto! Unless¡no. It couldn''t be."
The gold suddenly froze, then, in a dramatic shift, wiggled bashfully in place. "Could it be that you have fallen for my supernatural beauty?" it mused, its voice taking on an uncharacteristic shyness. "You are a king; they do have a history of coveting power and wealth greater than their own."
The man smirked, amused by the absurd dissonance between his companion''s words and behaviour. "Not a chance, Goldy."
Goldy sagged visibly, even drifting lower toward the floor in mild disappointment. "Well, it''s your loss. You wouldn''t recognize an elegant, handsome spirit even if it cursed you to timeless torment¡ which incidentally, it did."
The man rolled his eyes, all the while making sure to keep his magical flow steady. "Well, I can at least agree that it is torment." He deadpanned.
A thought struck him. He glanced at the floating lump of gold, curiosity piqued. "Were you hoping that I had fallen for you?"
Goldy immediately straightened¡ªwell, as much as a rigid lump of metal could straighten. It hovered stiffly, utterly motionless. "N-n-no. Pft, what? How silly! Why would I care about the affections of a dirty little human? Do you care for the thoughts and feelings of the bacteria you step on?"
There it was again¡ªGoldy babbling about nonsensical things. "Bacteria?"
"Oh, right. I keep forgetting. How could I rephrase this in a way your infantile brain can understand? Do you care for the thoughts and feelings of the ants you step on? You at least know what ants are, right?"
The man was mildly irked by the condescending question. "Of course, I know what an ant is."
Completely disregarding the man''s response, Goldy perked up, its attention suddenly diverted by something else, an excited buzz of awareness thrumming at the edge of its consciousness. "Do you feel that? Oh, wait¡ªhow rude of me. Of course, you don''t. Lousy human souls¡ I keep forgetting."
The man groaned. "Just skip the insults and jump to the point."
Goldy harrumphed with indignation at the man''s curtness. "Your lard-laden lackey is on his way over. Looks like mealtime is over for you now."
A mischievous grin rose from Goldy''s non-existent face. "Have you had your fill yet?"
Before the king could respond, his stomach beat him to it with an embarrassing, rumbling protest.
The stomach''s wails were music to Goldy''s non-existent ears. "Let me guess¡ more arcana slipped into your stomach?"
The man cleared his throat; now it was his turn to be embarrassed. "¡yes." He hated to give the pestering yellow spirit even the most minute modicum of satisfaction, but the hunger did, in fact, get to him at times. After all, it had been twenty years since he had last eaten something real.
From the other side of a pair of thick golden doors, a muffled thumping echoed. The deep voice of his servant became garbled through the rich metal. ¡°Mffhm ffmmfh mhmhhmm mhfmfm.¡±
The man in the center of the room carefully released his hold on the essence around him, cautiously guiding it away from his body so that he could safely allow it to dissipate back into the air.
Standing up, he reached his arms toward the sky, releasing a long, satisfied sigh as his stiff muscles finally moved again, stretching out their hours of immobile fatigue.
"Could you let Lade in, please?"
Goldy gasped in mock horror, its voice dripping with incredulity at the man''s audacity. "Who are you, you lowest lowly low lowlife, to tell the great me what to do?"
The man regarded Goldy with a flat expression. "The lowest lowly low lowlife?"
Goldy began to vibrate as though preparing to unleash its resonating voice¡ªbut it stopped itself before it could reply.
Goldy had a conundrum before it. On the one hand, It could force the doors closed, as those doors remained under its own golden dominion, trapping the king and causing both him and Lade oodles of irritation at the cost of implicitly saying that the king was not, in fact, the lowest lowly low lowlife.
On the other hand, Goldy could open the doors, allowing the pesky humans to go about their day, but this would mean Goldy would get the personal victory of having the king, in a sense, admit he was the lowest lowly low lowlife.
Goldy felt a slight nagging sensation that this might be one of those conniving human mind games where the man was trying to trick Goldy into doing exactly what he wanted. But Goldy, being the clever spirit it was, saw right through this. Since the man was trying to manipulate Goldy, Goldy could use this meta-double analysis to deduce the exact opposite of what the man wanted and do that instead.
It was clear to Goldy now: The king was accepting the title of "lowest lowly low lowlife" to goad Goldy into a sense of security¡ªthen, when Goldy refused to open the door, the man would laugh, having tricked Goldy into admitting that he was not the lowest lowly low lowlife.
So Goldy would do the exact opposite.
The two large golden doors creaked open, "Thanks, Goldy."
"Noooooo¡ foiled again!" Goldy''s entire form deflated as it plummeted to the floor, abandoning any pretense of levitation. It fell into a pit of despair. Another torture circumvented.
Chapter 57: Irresponsible Responsibilities pt. 2
Behind the massive golden doors was a short, tubby man dressed in vibrant, multicolored silks. Over those silks, he wore a thin protective garment intricately woven with gold threads. The man carried with him a delicate white robe that was so sheer it bordered on complete transparency.
Completely unaffected by the spirit''s dejection, the naked king approached his servant with a casual smile.
Lade, now no longer obstructed by the doors, could finally speak clearly. "Your Highness, we are going to be late for your hearings if we don''t depart soon."
The two stopped a fair distance from each other. Lade extended his hand, holding the delicate white robe as far from himself as possible. The naked king took the robe, and the moment his soft fingers brushed the fabric, its colours began to shift. A fine, pristine gold washed over the cloth, spreading outward from the king''s touch until the entire garment transformed into a shimmering yellow metal.
The once plain white robe, as light as the wind, was now a beautiful, if not heavy, garment fabricated from solid gold.
The king donned the golden robe, its metallic form rendering it completely opaque and shielding his nakedness from view. Though gorgeous, the new material came with its own drawbacks¡ªnamely, the cold bite of the metal against his bare skin and the notable increase in the robe''s weight.
Goldy noticed the king''s frown as the heavy metal robe chafed against his skin, and it revelled in his discomfort. "Irritating, isn''t it? I bet you wish you could wear normal clothes again¡ªjust a simple pair of socks or a coat. How torturous it must be for your squishy flesh to bear the toll of a go¡ª"
The king casually interrupted Goldy as if he weren''t even there and responded to Lade, "How many more of these do I have to do before I can start doing actual work again?"
Goldy felt like it was slapped in the face it didn''t even have, flabbergasted by the king''s blasphemy in ignoring a prodigious being such as itself.
The king, now grinning with a victorious glint in his eye, let Goldy know that the interruption had been entirely intentional.
The king''s smirk was a second slap to Goldy''s pride, and the second slap always stung more. In a fit of spontaneous vengeance, the temperature of the robe''s gold around the king''s nipples dropped to a freezing so absolute it was downright painful.
The king''s smirk immediately vanished, replaced by an inapt grimace as he desperately tried¡ªand failed¡ªto maintain his usual stoic composure.
To a layman such as Lade, who had no means of perceiving the gold spirit''s meddling, the scene appeared rather perplexing and slightly alarming. "Is everything alright, Your Majesty!?"
The king cleared his throat, composed himself, and regained his usual imperious demeanour. Even so, his voice came out an octave higher, a faint tremor betraying the persistent cold.
"It is nothing, Lade; now, can you please tell me how much longer it is until I can get back to my real duties."
Without waiting for a response, the king strode out of the room, his every step a silent testament to his desire to escape the chill that refused to relent.
Lade hurried to keep pace with the king, his short, stumpy legs forcing him into a tiring jog to match the taller king''s leisurely stride.
"Still a while longer, Your Highness," Lade panted. "You can''t take any major action until, at the very least, Bemean recovers a bit more from the war. With our¡ um, drastic impact on the world economic stage, the rest of Trammel is already looking at us as a potential disruptor. If we appear too ambitious or eager to take advantage of others'' weaknesses, they will step in to intervene."
Lade''s voice softened as he continued, his tone a touch more reassuring. "Besides, the people love the hearings. It''s not like anything truly pressing needs to be attended to anyway. Unlike the rest of Trammel, we have never been better off."
The king sighed heavily, half in annoyance at his political handcuffs, half in relief that Goldy had finally released his freezing grip on the robe''s gold. The spirit had failed to extract the satisfying reaction it so fervently sought.
Goldy could never pull off being a proper torturer. The spirit simply did not have enough patience and would always break before the king''s will did.
It was strange how low Goldy''s attention span was, considering it was supposed to be a primordial entity nearly as old as time itself. At least, that was Goldy''s claimed to be. But given what the king knew of the spirit, he had his doubts about those grandiose assertions.
The three made their way through the labyrinthine halls of the castle, their footsteps echoing against the golden floors. The walls were adorned with potted plants and ornamental armours, all statues gleaming with the same metallic sheen as the once-affluent material. Golden Handprints and peculiar gold streaks were visibly blended into the stonework of the hallways. To the shock of many royal servants, a series of golden imprints could even be seen on the ceiling.This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it
Goldy grew bored of listening to the king and the loathsome Lade drone on about politics. But then, as they turned a corner, something caught Goldy''s attention¡ªa maid dusting a series of hung paintings. A mischievous idea began to form in Goldy''s mind, one that promised to liven up the dull procession.
The maid paused when she saw the king approaching, quickly straightening her posture and giving him a perfect ninety-degree bow. Her gaze remained fixed on her feet as the two nobles passed by, too absorbed in their conversation to pay her any mind.
The maid wasn''t much for the gossip of noble happenings; she paid attention to their conversation enough to ensure they were not addressing her, but other than that, it was all in one ear out the other.
The maid saw two sets of feet graze by her vision when she suddenly felt a hard smack on her behind. The unexpected slap caused her to squeak out in startled surprise.
The two nobles halted briefly, and she froze, maintaining her bow and praying that they would ignore her, assuming they misheard something. Thankfully, they resumed strolling past, continuing on with their conversation.
Once the nobles were out of earshot, the maid straightened up, still trembling from the shock. She craned her neck around to look at her skirt at the spot where she felt that surprising strike.
On the back of her dress, hugging her rump where she felt the slap, was the clear imprint of a golden handprint. Her cheeks flushed a deep crimson, and she whipped her head left and right to confirm no one had seen.
Hahaha yes! Lament fragile peon lament! Goldy could see it on the king''s face; he knew exactly what had just happened.
Goldy reveled in the king''s discomfort, the quiet, calculating rage bubbling just beneath his stoic exterior. "You can ignore me all you want, ''King Rex,'' but that won''t stop me. How does it feel to have your reputation crumble to dust? What will the other nobles think when they see that you have marked the women of this vapid building?" Goldy basked in its malicious triumph.
The king''s face remained impassive, a mask of calm to anyone who wasn''t accustomed to his behaviour. But Goldy had spent enough time with him to know that beneath that composure, the storm raged.
Goldy knew this torment was a bit off-script¡ªsort of betrayed the whole karmic monkey''s paw theme which it had originally intended¡ªbut torment was torment, and at this point, that was good enough for Goldy.
They soon arrived at the throne room, entering through a small door at the back. It was a vast room¡ªincredibly long and equally wide. Every inch, every object, every aspect of the room was bathed in that familiar cold yellow. The gold was so absolute that the seams between floor and wall, wall and ceiling, were impossible to distinguish. It was as though the entire room were one seamless, shimmering plane¡ªsave for the throne, the lone object that dared to break the monotony of the space, and even it was bathed in that same flawless, golden vibrance.
Rex walked to the throne and sat, the weight of the room pressing in on him. He stared blankly ahead, his gaze fixed on the golden doors at the far end. "Alright, I''m ready for the first hearing. Let them in." The words escaped him with a hollow sigh, his expression far removed from the dignity the room demanded.
In compliance with Rex''s orders, the heavy doors swung open, pushed by two guards on the other side. A tall, gangly woman entered the chamber, pushing an odd wooden contraption before her.
It was a large, flat board resting near the ground, supported by four wheels at its corners. Upon this platform rested a half-constructed device, its purpose entirely unclear, an enigma wrapped in a tangle of strings, gears, and pieces that made no immediate sense to anyone watching.
Rex raised a brow at the contraption. He gave it a few moments of thought, idly trying to see if he could predict its purpose. Before his mind could settle on any predictions, a shrill, high-pitched noise cut through the air.
¡°LALALALALALALALALALA! Hey Rex. LALALALALALALALALA! Is this annoying? Am I annoying you? LALALALALA! Tormenting, isn''t it? LALALALALA!" Goldy floated right next to the regal monarch as it erupted into an earsplitting barrage of noise. Its voice, devoid of vocal cords, shifted effortlessly into the most maddening, piercing pitch, each sound wave tailored to be as unbearable as possible. Every few moments, Goldy''s shrieks would crack into an inhuman frequency, skimming the edges of Rex''s hearing range.
The woman''s lips moved rapidly, explaining the miraculous purpose of the contraption she had brought. Rex couldn''t hear a word, drowned out by the relentless noise in his ear, but Lade''s slack-jawed expression spoke volumes¡ªeither it was a marvelous innovation or a disaster waiting to happen.
After a moment, the woman retrieved several wooden segments, a few beams, cogs, and even a large ball of yarn from her contraption. She laid the pieces out before her with a spark of excitement, presenting them eagerly to Rex. Then, almost as if anticipating his reaction, she took a cautious step back, retreating behind the contraption with a nervous glance.
King Rex rose from his chair and strode toward the objects presented to him.
¡°AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! Ooh, wait¡ªwhat''s that?" Rex ignored the bothersome gold spirit, focusing instead on the contraption. He crouched down, his fingers brushing lightly over each item, his faintest touch turning each piece, one by one, to pure gold.
"Hey Rex, there''s a thing doing a thing."
Rex closed his eyes, blocking out the irritant spirit from his consciousness, and kept moving down the line of wooden items until they were all turned to gold.
"No, seriously, Rex, this isn''t me playing a game anymore. You got company."
Rex maintained his composure, pretending to be just another ordinary human, oblivious to the pestering spirit that buzzed around him. Just an ordinary human whose most annoying pest they had to deal with was a mosquito.
He stood back up, glancing at the woman. To his surprise, she wasn''t even paying attention to him or her newly transmuted components. Her gaze shot straight over his shoulder to some apparently astounding thing behind him.
Turning around, Rex''s eyes landed on a strange sight¡ªa pink, featureless figure, its body lacking any distinguishing traits except for a single outstretched limb. In its hand, it held a glowing parchment: it read.
| You have been invited to |
| The Tournament |
| You are The Lead |
Chapter 58: Immigrant
Breaching from the horizon¡¯s fringe, a towering ball of yellow rose. The grand aureole radiated a waking light whose blessed rays fell atop woodlands and mountain peaks alike, calling for the stirring life of morning¡¯s brace.
The cosmic presence basked the lethargic planet in a tidal warmth, and the sweeping dawn comfort stretched ever outward as the stellar onlooker rose higher into the sky. The blanket of light refracted along the unassuming atmosphere, breaking into a breathtaking display of crimson and violet, painting the heavens with the artistry of morning¡¯s first touch.
Through a dusty pane of hollow glass, the celestial ball licked in and brushed against the soft cheeks of a sleeping beauty. Her comely brown eyes fluttered open, strands of flaxen hair falling over her face as she turned to the man beside her, still lost in slumber.
An ineffable warmth pooled into her heart as she once again, for another morning, took in his small nose that tilted ever so slightly to the upper left, his chiselled chin whose burgeoning beard prickled taut against the soft pillow they shared. His brows scrunched near in deep heed of a dreaming felicity.
She felt the soft rhythm of his breath, each shallow exhale whispering against her lips, so dearly close to her partner she was. Their breath mingled together in that unforgivable sliver of space between them¡ªso small, yet so unacceptable to her besotted soul.
Under the quilts burying them, they shared form¡ªlimbs entwined, hair interwoven, his thick arm resting with familiar weight upon her stomach.
The quiet spell of his sleeping glamour was intoxicating cajolery for rest. But the call of daylight could not be ignored. With a downcast hesitance, she disentangled herself from his warm embrace, slipping free of their shared warmth. Rising to her feet, she found herself enveloped by the dim hush of the bedroom, where heavy auburn drapes cascaded around her, their folds so dense they nearly swallowed her whole in a cocoon of feathery comfort.
The lady trudged groggily to the door, stepping outside the cottage where, at last, she had the space to stretch her still-sluggish limbs.
As she did, the thick, enshrouding folds around her began to unfurl. Wings¡ªeleven pairs in total¡ªspread wide, each adorned with thick, spotted feathers. Her vast wingspan stretched nearly the length of the one-story house she stood affront, catching the morn¡¯s light like a breathtaking corona for the divine.
Freed from the concealment of her plumage, she stood unveiled to the waking world. She was tall and striking, her frame impossibly delicate yet surreal in its perfection. Her nude form showcased her impossibly clean skin, unblemished and pristine. Her figure¡ªthin waist and generous curves¡ªresembled more an artist¡¯s hyperbolic caricature of feminine beauty than a real woman, making her appear more like a facsimile of humanity than a possible being.
From behind her ears, protruding out from her curtain of shoulder-length hair, a pair of small wings peeked out, just large enough to fold over her head. Another set, thin and elegant, jutted from her shoulder blades, reaching half her height before widening into thick, muscular sheets of bronze feathers. Further down, five pairs of gargantuan wings unfurled from her bare spine, flaring out like a burnt corona. From base to tip, each wing was as long as one and a half times her arm length, their combined spread creating a hulking silhouette.
Just below her hands, a thick bone protruded from each forearm, anchoring a pair of long, slender wings. Near her curving hips, another set¡ªsmaller but still substantial¡ªpointed downward, their length no greater than a single forearm. And finally, at her ankles, two tiny pairs fluttered delicately, each just slightly larger than her own dainty feet.
Along with her wings, the woman stretched her arms and legs as far as they would go, savouring the freedom of open space. She wouldn¡¯t shed a bed with him for anything, but it did come with the caveat of dealing with human construction, which always felt so confining.
Finding herself more awake in the basking glory of the day star, she felt energy surge through her. She cast her gaze across the landscape, drinking in the beauty before her¡ªnot the roaming clouds and sinking mountains of the Divine Realm, but instead, she gazed at the boundless plains of the Sodality of Rain, dotted with their innumerable alluvial rivers. The plains seemed to expand outwards endlessly, only breaking form for the channels and pools of the dynamically morphing water flows.
A euphoric smile graced her lips, and she released a blissful sigh. This tranquil land, this life beside the man she loved¡ªit was a blessing beyond measure.
Calloused hands slipped around her waist from behind, their familiar roughness sending a shiver up her spine. She gasped¡ªa soft, startled hiccup¡ªbut just as quickly melted into the embrace.
¡°Up already?¡± The deep timbre of the man¡¯s voice danced softly next to her ears, warm and drowsy. He held her close, resting his chin on her shoulder, the bristle of his beard tickling her skin.
¡°I wanted to see the rising dawn. It¡¯s always so beautiful here in the Sodality.¡± She murmured. Her voice was soft and wispy, almost unpracticed as if it weren¡¯t used to being put to use. Her voice came out as less than a whisper, and if he hadn¡¯t long become habituated to her quiet dialect, then even in his embrace he wouldn¡¯t have been able to hear her.
¡°It is a beautiful sight.¡± She turned to face the man, seeing that his piercing brown eyes stared not at the wondrous horizon but right at her. A warm flush rose to her cheeks, and soon, she lost herself in his gaze.
Tilting her head back, she lifted the small wings behind her ears, clearing the way so that she could press her lips against his. They held themselves together as such, knitted in fervent passion.
Then, gently, he pulled away, releasing his hold on her. ¡°How did you sleep, Tartuffe? Have you gotten any more used to the bed?¡±
His words were a stark reminder of the trials she endured each night. With a sigh, she rubbed her neck, craning it in a futile attempt to soothe the stubborn kinks. ¡°As I keep saying, your human beds are comfortable, but my wings are always sore by morning. They¡¯re not meant to be slept on like that for so long.¡±
With one final stretch, Tartuffe pushed all of her wings as far from her body as possible, each trembling from the exertion before settling once more on her sides.
The man took a few steps away from her to allow her heavy limbs the room to do as needed while he replied to her, surprise coating his voice. ¡°Really? Even with the bigger bed and higher roof? You know you can flap your wings a little¡ªI¡¯m a heavy sleeper.¡±
His consideration put a smile on her face even if it had no value within itself. ¡°There¡¯s no room for me to flap my wings in there,¡± she said with amusement. ¡°And even if there was, I think you severely underestimate how loud my wings can be. Besides, I wouldn¡¯t want to accidentally strike you with them in my sleep.¡±
She chuckled as she imagined the scenario¡ªher man jolting awake to the deafening thunder of her beating wings, only to be swiftly returned back to slumber by a rogue wing clubbing him across the head. It was a comedic thing to imagine in one¡¯s head but a terrifying possibility she would thoroughly like to avoid.
The man, too, chuckled, shaking his head at the thought of an unbecoming death by a lover¡¯s dozing thrashings. ¡°I guess that probably wouldn¡¯t be great, would it?¡±
¡°It would not.¡±
Tartuffe turned her back to the horizon so she could face the well-built man. A lazily dressed pair of pants sagged at his hips, and his chest was left bare, showcasing his firm muscles that bulged against his tanned skin. His wide shoulders and powerful muscles made him quite the large human, a powerful presence for anyone, though, with the added size of her wings, he still felt like a delicate vase to her.
The man stifled a languid yawn as he spoke. ¡°Well, since I¡¯m up I was going to make us some breakfast. I was thinking omelets¡ªdo you want one of mine or one of yours?¡±
Tartuffe raised a brow in mild surprise. He had never been much of a morning person; usually, she had breakfast prepared long before he even stirred. But if he was offering to cook, she certainly wouldn¡¯t refuse.This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
¡°One of mine, of course. No matter how hard you try, my dear Swain, I will never understand your odd human taste.¡± She stuck out her tongue, exaggerating a grimace, though her bright disposition made it impossible to take seriously.
Swain shot her back with his own faux offence. ¡°My tastebuds are strange!? You¡¯re the one that is going to be eating mother atop of daughter!¡±
¡°I don¡¯t see the problem,¡± she countered with a smirk. ¡°Chicken on egg is one of the finest delicacies a woman could ask for.¡±
Swain jokingly shook his head in mock disapproval. ¡°A delicacy, she says. You¡¯re making my chef¡¯s heartache. Why don¡¯t you try some onion and cheese on your omelet? Ooh, maybe some roasted asparagus on there as well¡ªyeah, that sounds nice.¡± Swain licked his lips at the thought of the delicious breakfast he was planning for himself.
Tartuffe didn¡¯t even have to fake the grimace this time. Her face twisted in genuine revulsion at the mere thought of anything remotely green tainting her beautiful breakfast meal. ¡°Eww, gross. Not a chance. For my toppings, I just need some chicken, sausage¡ Do we have any bacon left?¡±
Swain sighed his inner gourmet recoiling at her incredibly unbalanced request. ¡°We do,¡± he admitted begrudgingly.
Undeterred by her lover¡¯s disgust, Tartuffe continued with her order undaunted. ¡°Some bacon, then. Oh! Pork chops and a little dried cured ham to top it all off. Mmm, now that is a real omelet.¡±
He hadn¡¯t even started cooking the meal yet, and his stomach was turning at the supposed meal to be. ¡°How I fell in love with someone who has such barbaric tastes, I will never know. But suit yourself.¡±
Swain¡¯s hyperbolized disturbance of her eating habits only acted as encouraging entertainment to her teasing. ¡°If you think that omelet is bad, you would hate what we ate in the Divine Realm.¡±
Swain paled at the mere thought of what an entire society of these meat-obsessed carnivores would eat. ¡°Oh no¡ What was it? What did you eat?¡±
Tartuffe¡¯s playful smile faltered. She hadn¡¯t actually expected him to be curious enough to ask.
She mumbled something, but this time, her voice was too faint for even Swain¡¯s attuned ears to catch.
¡°Sorry, didn¡¯t quite get that.¡± He stepped closer, tilting his head so that his ear hovered just beside her mouth.
She leaned forward so close that her lips physically brushed against his ears. ¡°¡I love you.¡±
Before he could react, she bit down and nibbled at the loose cartilage, tugging gently. Swain let out a startled grunt at the sudden bite, his body tensing in surprise. Swain¡¯s cute cry of displeasure put a grin on Tartuffe¡¯s face. Amused, she placed an apologetic kiss on the reddened spot, where faint impressions of her teeth remained.
¡°Now, why don¡¯t we go make those omelets together?¡±
Without waiting for a response, Tartuffe took the lead, skipping over towards the kitchen. Each bound of her skip was accented by the delicate sway of her wings, granting her much more air than her leg strength would suggest and creating a floaty, ephemeral quality to her movements.
Their kitchen was outdoors, sprawled across an open space where every tool and counter seemed, to a human, absurdly far apart. But the wide arrangement was necessary, allowing Tartuffe to cook without worrying about damaging her wings¡ªor knocking anything over.
Not that her wings didn¡¯t leave their mark regardless.
The remnants of her last cooking escapade still littered the grass, massive stray feathers scattered throughout the kitchen. She had been too tired to clean up before, and now she would have to pay for her own negligence.
Tartuffe was much faster than her partner, and by the time Swain finally arrived¡ªnearly out of breath¡ªshe had already finished tidying up. She tossed the gathered feathers onto one of many piles set aside for future crafting, then turned to find Swain hunched over, hands on his knees, gulping in deep breaths of air.
The two of them had been working tirelessly towards constructing a home that could accommodate both of their requirements, but so far, their current efforts seemed to have comically led to a worst-of-both-worlds scenario where the weakest aspects of either¡¯s cultures and design surfaced far more than the benefits.
It was a flaw for sure, and they still had a lot to work out before either could satisfactorily claim this place to be their true home; regardless, seeing Swain struggle for breath so much, Tartuffe couldn¡¯t help but tease. ¡°You seem out of breath.¡±
Swain held up a single finger, silently pleading for a moment longer as he wheezed through a few more laboured breaths. ¡°Human¡ lungs¡ suck.¡±
Tartuffe burst into laughter. ¡°I¡¯d say. Why don¡¯t you just sit and rest? I can make us some omelets.¡±
Swain waved his arms in rejection. ¡°No, no I¡¯ll be over to help in a second, I just need to catch my breath first.¡±
His eagerness to cook alongside her brought a quiet comfort, but the pained expression on his face made her wince. ¡°Note to self,¡± she murmured, watching him struggle. ¡°Remodeling the kitchen takes priority.¡±
Before starting, Tartuffe reached for the apron Swain had made for her¡ªa simple brown quilt with a large pink heart sewn onto the center. It wasn¡¯t extravagant, nor particularly well-made, but it was still one of her most treasured gifts.
Clothing had always been a luxury she rarely indulged in. She was never much one for wearing clothes since with so many wings, even the simplest outfit became a complicated ordeal. But the apron was easy¡ªjust a single knot around her neck and another thread between her wings, tying at her back. The latter was tricky, but she¡¯d devised a system to manage it.
Once it was secure, she couldn¡¯t resist spinning in place, letting the fabric flare around her.
Swain gave an appreciative whistle.
Tartuffe¡¯s cheeks burned. She knew, objectively, that the apron was anything but beautiful¡ªanyone would say so. But Swain had been the first person to ever try to dress her. Or¡ at least, the first since her wings had gotten out of hand.
Once Swain had recollected himself, they began constructing their omelets together. Well, ¡®constructing¡¯ was a generous term¡ªit was less of a cooperative venture in making breakfast and more of a combative competition of who could make the better omelets, where the winner was less the better cook, but rather the superior saboteur.
It had started as a peaceful enough day, but as soon as Swain made fun of Tartuffe for accidentally dropping some shell into the pan when cracking an egg, it was an all-out war. Tartuffe retaliated by ¡®accidentally¡¯ flapping her wings and dousing his fire with a well-timed gust of air.
Swain, never to be outdone and ever the schemer, began sneaking vegetables into her omelet¡ªthe ultimate offence.
Tartuffe¡¯s eyes narrowed. There was no choice now but to make her displeasure known. With one swift motion, she cracked a fresh egg directly onto his head.
Any idea of making omelets had been far forgotten in the midst of the ensuing brutal food fight where no pantry was safe.
Egg, grapes, flour, tomatoes, the kitchen had been butchered. The couple collapsed onto the soaked grass, both slathered in every manner of juices and substances. By now, they were less omelet-makers and more omelet victims, their bodies more seasoned than the pans left abandoned over the fires.
For a long moment, silence reigned. The fires were snuffed out, the tired couple no longer shouting, food no longer squashing, wind no longer howling. The two lay down in complete silence until, finally, it was broken by Swain¡¯s questioning voice. ¡°So¡ whose omelet was better?¡±
The question hung in the air for only a second before the two burst into raucous laughter, the sound echoing over the chaos they had created. Their terrible makeshift kitchen was destroyed, thankfully beyond repair, and they had run through all of their food supplies. It was a calamitous disaster, and they couldn¡¯t be happier. It was such a perfect day, and not even the gathering rain clouds could say otherwise.
A spontaneous downpour bombarded down, wiping any hint of their playful war. The rains of the Sodality of Rain were, as expected, always incredibly dense. The water came in sheets so thick that the ground was quickly submerged beneath a shallow layer, and the couple could barely see each other just a few paces away.
Tartuffe arched her wings overhead, creating a feathery canopy to shield Swain from the relentless rain. She moved closer, guiding him beneath her protective embrace.
They both sat in each other¡¯s embrace, watching the flash flood run its course. They didn¡¯t speak throughout the whole storm, merely bathing in each other¡¯s company; they wouldn¡¯t have been able to hear each other over the thunderous rain anyhow.
Together, they sat, bathing in each other¡¯s company while they watched the flash flood run its course. The storm roared around them, but they didn¡¯t speak. Words would have been swallowed by the thunderous downpour, and in the quiet comfort of each other¡¯s presence, there was no need for them.
Finally, the flash flood ended, and the clouds parted along with the chime of a bell. Tartuffe parted her wings, allowing the day star to warm their chilled bodies as they looked on to the space in front of them.
A small pink rhombus grew out of thin air, or it was a rhombus, but its body would reject any stable state. It would shift and transform, shrink and grow, continuously morphing into other shapes. The pink shape finally locked into a form resembling that of a featureless human with only one limb. The arm was outstretched towards the couple, holding a glowing parchment: It read.
| You have been invited to |
| The Tournament |
| You are The Angel |
Chapter 59: Rebirth pt. 1
With a sharp crash, the vase shattered through the stained-glass window, clearing a path. The girl leaped after it, twisting in the air before landing hard on a nearby rooftop. She staggered, arms outstretched, teetering dangerously over the drop to the streets below. After a breathless moment, she steadied herself and adjusted her bow and quiver, shifting them into a more comfortable position.
A sharp whistle cut through the air. A bolt streaked past, close enough that she felt it graze her sleeve. Her rucksack jerked as the projectile sliced through the fabric, sending a cascade of small, glowing gems spilling onto the rooftop.
"No!" She slapped a hand over the tear, her glare snapping toward the guards still inside the building¡ªalready reloading for another shot.
The guards hesitated, their heavy armour making a rooftop pursuit impossible. She saw her chance¡ªand took it.
Sprinting across the rooftop, she leaped from one building to the next. It wasn''t long before a growing assault of soldiers trailed along her through the streets below. Her dead sprint turned to a winding snake as she dodged about chimneys and aside skylights, trying to break their line of sight.
Her battalion of pursuers went from a hectic stampede to a coordinated offensive, their shouts ringing out all over the city. Horns blared out, alerting guards ahead of her. Coloured flags were waved in some kind of military communication she couldn''t understand. As her pursuers grew more organized, her escape became more challenging. Teams broke off into many flanking squadrons, filling out any possible escape routes. She wanted to get down to ground level and disappear into the city crowds, but every alleyway she considered was cut off before she could descend. At least one pair of eyes was always tracking her moves at any moment.
A volley of arrows whistled through the air. She swerved, shifting course to avoid getting pinned down. Her initial humour at the easily avoided attack was swiftly wiped away when a second failed volley made it clear they weren''t trying to hit her but herd her. She had to think fast; she couldn''t let herself get captured, she couldn''t have her identity revealed, or her dad would kill her!
Eventually, they forced her to the edge of town, her feet skidding to a halt as the rooftop she ran about pressed against the towering city walls. The guards moved with practiced precision below on either side of her, flooding in from both streets, sealing off every escape. She was trapped.
A dead end. No way out.
She swore she''d never do this again. Last time, it nearly killed her¡ªbut a chance of death was far better odds than guaranteed death.
A shudder rippled through her body. Her baggy clothes stretched as muscle and fur surged beneath them. Bones realigned, limbs coiled with new power¡ªthen she sprang.
The leap sent her soaring high above the wall, the wind whipping past her face. Below, dozens of upturned helmets stared in disbelief. A wild howl tore from her throat, half triumph, half exhilaration.
The city fell away behind her as she crested past the wall. Now, all she had to do was land.
Her triumphant howl was cut short, turning into a strangled gasp as the other side of the city wall revealed an enormous cliff face plunging into a dark forest impossibly deep down. The ground wasn''t even visible she was so high up. Only open air beneath her.
Panic surged through her chest as she flailed, gravity yanking her down at terrifying speed. The wind roared in her ears, her heart hammering against her ribs. The abyssal forest canopy below rushed toward her¡ª
Then, impact. A blinding burst of pain. And then¡ªnothing.
Her consciousness snapped back into place, only to be immediately struck by pain¡ªabsolute, all-consuming. For a moment, she was sure she had died. When she realized she hadn''t, she only wished she had.
Her eyes were open, yet they refused to register any information sent to them. Her mind was trapped by the flatness she felt throughout her body.
That was the only way she could describe it: as a flatness, as a sense that her body wasn''t as filled as it should be. She felt like she had been stretched and compressed, emptied of substance; her weight and solidity turned abstract. She tried to push her body up, but no limbs moved to her command, and instead, she immediately lost consciousness.
For a few hours, perhaps even a day or two, she did nothing but lay in the shattered crater of her own making, dressed in her own blood while slipping in and out of awareness. She had to fight bitterly to regain every one of her senses.
First was her mind: a throbbing, gnawing ache burrowed into her skull, pulsing with every weak beat of her heart. It was as though her brain had swollen, pressing against the inside of her head, drowning in a tide of its own cerebral fluids. Thought itself was a struggle¡ªa tangle of searing knots locked deep within her mind that she had to somehow unravel.The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.
There was something malignant festering inside her, a smothering fog that coiled around her very sense of being. Words and ideas and actions and identity all blurred in a formless distortion. But even without self-knowledge she fought, she fought against the aching, she thought against the death.
Next was the sounds: the world itself had fled; it ran away from her, leaving only a constant high-pitched ringing that split through her skull. It bored into her, drilling into her newly reformed mind, threatening to shatter it all over again.
Her ears broiled in a cool agony, an incomprehensible sensation both sharp and numbing. With her slow, stuttering capacity for thought, it eventually dawned that she was still falling! She was tumbling upside down, flying into the air, an emptiness against a weak wall; the soft floor below her was spinning into the sky: NO¡ªno, that wasn''t right. Her head was still broken.
A slick, cold trickle of liquid ran from her ear. She wasn''t too familiar with anatomy, but she knew that something important was leaving her, slipping away against her will. That fluid¡ªshe needed it. It was supposed to stay inside, supposed to belong to her. Why was it abandoning her? Without it, she couldn''t tell up from down, self from void. She was floating in nothingness.
Her mind swam in search of a solution. Her head still hurt so much. She was tormented by this dichotomy of infantile awareness. She knew that her mind wasn''t thinking the way it was supposed to, but simultaneously, the thoughts felt so present.
She wanted her mommy, no, it was a mother. Yes, she wanted her mother but¡ but that could not happen; why couldn''t that happen? Her mother had left, had gone somewhere. The girl was going there now, going to death. It was waiting. Reaching. Its cold hands curled around her fraying awareness. Death was a scary place; she didn''t want to go there; she needed to fight her mind, she needed to fight for consciousness, and she knew this was her last chance.
Her ears were beyond saving for now. She knew that much. The next sense she considered was touch¡ªbut she dared not reach for it.
If she reclaimed that sensation, the agony would consume her. She knew that once the sensation of touch returned, the hurt would be too much. She wouldn''t survive the torture and if she did, her mind wouldn''t come out unscathed.
The other sense was sight. That one was possible. Her eyes were already open, yet the world remained empty¡ªa void without form, without color. She strained, willing vision back into them, demanding her nerves to work, to obey. But nothing happened.
Time lost meaning as she lay there, locked in this stalemate. Hours bled away, her will hammering against an unyielding darkness¡ªuntil finally, a glimpse. A single, fragile thread of light, brown, crumbling, and dusty: dirt.
Then more. The blurred smear of soil, streaked with red. Rainwater cutting tiny rivulets through the grime. It slid over her face, washing away the blood that had sealed her lashes shut. The world returned in pieces, hazy and indistinct but real, present.
And then she saw her arm.
The limb before her barely deserved the name. Flesh mulched, bone splintered, her hand a ruin of mangled meat. It was no longer a part of her¡ªjust a thing that shouldn''t be. A grotesque mockery of what had once been her, but now other.
There was something else that caught her eye. Just beyond the horror of her own body, a torn rucksack lay sprawled in the dirt. Its contents spilled freely, scattered like fallen stars. Glowing gems pulsing softly against the mud.
One gem lay just in front of her, so close she could almost taste it.
She couldn''t move¡ªnothing below her neck obeyed her will. But her tongue¡ maybe.
Her mouth already hung open, her lower jaw slack, dislocated from the impact. Pain pulsed somewhere in the background, but it was distant, dulled by exhaustion. She had no strength to spare for suffering. Only for survival.
Summoning every last thread of control, she willed her tongue forward. It trembled, weak, barely more than a twitch¡ªbut it was enough. The tip of her tongue brushed against the gem''s smooth surface.
A spark. A rush of warmth. It spilled into her like liquid daylight, a golden hum that seeped into her bones. The gem shrank beneath her touch, its glow fading as the warmth grew, wrapping around her battered form like a whisper of safety.
Relief. Life. Hope.
She internally thanked her mother for the boon; Sapphic had always said that light reached even the darkest crevices. And now, in the deepest abyss of her body''s ruin, that light was finding her.
With the strength granted to her by the gem''s energy, she could begin to wiggle her fingers, but her toes remained unresponsive. It would seem that her spine was broken. But she wasted no energy mourning what she could not resolve. There was no time for that.
She took her time to master her one functional arm. Her mind''s concept of stable orientation was still shot and so moving the limb was more an act of randomized discovery than intentful action. Still she tried, slowly, painstakingly.
She tried to grab the nearest gem, but her hand-eye coordination had become non-existent. Her hand hovered so near the gem, but it took so long to actually take hold. Fingers grasping at empty dirt, unable to find purchase. Minutes passed in agonizing, trembling stillness before her fingers finally brushed against the smooth surface. The connection sparked again, a warm pulse surging through her as she absorbed the gem''s power.
The energy flowed into her, a steady rush that unfurled through her arteries and veins, dislodging stagnant clots and healing collapsed pathways. It was slow, agonizing work, but with each wave of warmth, her body began to reknit.
She could feel herself growing stronger.
And so, her fingers moved¡ªone gem at a time, until her arm could move, and she reached further to the next gem. And the next. The one after that. Each one an anchor, each one a small victory against the chaos that had left her destroyed.
A few gems into her healing and the delicate threads of her nerves had rebound enough for her body''s sensations to send their screeching protest to her mind. The pain was omnipresent, a grounded reality, a new law of existence.
She felt as if this physical turmoil was her new form manifest. She battled against the urge to let it take her, to give up and succumb to a death less arduous than life.
But she fought on.
Chapter 59: Rebirth pt. 2
With every breath, with every strained movement, the girl refused to yield. The regeneration was no less brutal than the damage itself. Worse, perhaps. It wasn''t just the physical pain¡ªthere was also the show; her terrified gaze, too weak to look away, watched the entire process of her flattened arm slowly inflate back to its original state; the rolling reconstitution of marrow and sinew churned her very soul.
Some vomit somehow managed to traverse along her battered digestive system and drizzle out from her newly reformed mouth, mingling with the dirt beneath her.
But at last, after what felt like an eternity, the worst of it passed. She had regained enough strength to brave the daunting task of the next battle. She craned her neck to look at the source of her immobility.
Her spine. It refused to heal.
Her bow was now a broken fragment, snapped in two. Once slung across her back, it now jutted grotesquely through her back and out from her malleable abdomen, like the rising horns of a demon birthed from within her.
The tool had always been an extension of herself, but now that concept took an uncomfortable specificity.
Her bow, her mother''s bow, was shattered. Destroyed beyond reconstruction. The many carvings and speckling of historied character were littered as bristled shrapnel throughout her body, bathing upon her organic spew.
For the first time, not on the fall, not on her wakings, not when her mind was shattered, not when she regained sensation; for the first time in this whole event: she cried.
She cried for her mother''s bow. Defeat washed over her, burying her in its weight. Her tears defiled her dirty visage, all while she wailed to the careless skies. Her mother was killed in her uterus.
And as her writhing sorrow twisted deeper, the bloody bow, too, twisted further inside her, whirling as a perverted ladle to a biotic medley.
Her breath slowed, each laboured inhale and exhale harder than the last. Ironically, her wracking sorrow had enticed enough blood loss to dull her mind and actually restrain her mourning enough to let a sort of calmness return.
A cold callousness settled over her¡ªa protective shell entombed her emotions while her survival instincts commandeered the reins of consciousness.
She took two nearby gems and put them in her mouth without consuming them. She held them there, the smooth surfaces pressing against her tongue, the slightest tickle of warm energy calling her to absorb them for relief, but she did not consume them. She held firm.
Then, with a single, desperate surge of strength, she seized both broken limbs of her bow¡ªone in each hand¡ªand wrenched them from her body. The sickening moan of flesh releasing wood was drowned out by the snapping crack of the gems crunching between her teeth.
The battling slurry of death and life tugged wildly at her being. She was certain that she must have died and resurrected multiple times in between the span of each heartbeat.
Her consciousness was rolling in and out of reality, but she refused to avert her eyes from the deed either. She forced herself to watch the wooden stakes birth from out of her. She watched as ribbons of despoiled muliebrous organs clung to the deathly sapling, refusing to release the relative.
But the power from the chewed gems coursed through her, washing down her abdomen, down into her nethers, as her body frantically reassembled the woman once been.
She cradled the broken vestiges of her mother in her arms. For the first time since Sapphic''s departure, the full weight of loss began to flood her again, this time uncontrollably. A river of grief surged through her, raw and unfiltered.
The bow, now damp and slick and coated in her own amniotic viscosity. The sticky substance clung to her hands as if gluing her to the remnant weapon. It felt almost alive to the touch.
Her eyes, blurry with tears, caught the faint glow of the gem''s energy still lingering in that fluid. It should have dissipated, should have vanished to nothingness without a source of essence to nourish it¡ªbut instead, it remained, soft and pulsing, like an ember refusing to die.Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.
As she watched, her amniotic fluid seemed to melt into the bow. The wood absorbed it, and in a sudden burst of strange, otherworldly power, grey fur grew from the bow''s surface. The fur spread across the broken limbs, mending them back together until, impossibly, the bow was whole again.
She lay aghast as she witnessed her mother''s bow, now clothed in long, soft, silvery-grey fur, reconstitute itself. Her fingers ran gently over the new coat, and she could still feel the familiar hardness of the wood underneath¡ªyet it was different now, harder than before, like bone.
The bow breathed, an almost imperceptible rise and fall beneath her touch as if it had awakened to something new¡ªsomething powerful. The remnants of the gem''s energy continued to shimmer faintly within it, swirling in quiet pulses of light. The energy refused to disappear, even slowly rebuilding itself as if it had its own source of essence.
The bow was dressed in magic!
The realization caused her to let out an amazed gasp. The movement from her soft sound, however slight, was enough to send a sharp reminder of her fragile condition through her body. She recoiled instinctively, her eyes darting downward.
The sight of her mangled form was enough to drag her under again, and in an instant, her consciousness slipped away.
Time passed slowly, each moment blending with the next, but eventually, her body stitched itself together. Not quickly, but steadily. She could feel the energy returning to her limbs, just enough to move¡ªif only a crawl.
The last remaining gems were just out of reach, teasing her with their proximity, but with her balance shot so badly, the distance between her and her salvation felt insurmountable.
Yet, a stubborn refusal to accept defeat stirred in the space where doubt should have settled. Near insurmountable was not insurmountable. So she began to crawl, one weary arm in front of the other, each motion slow and deliberate, pulling her body inch by inch across the dirt. The effort was excruciating, but she kept moving. The world blurred; the only thing left in focus was the next precious gem in sight.
She circled her crash site, slowly increasing the radius of her search as she hunted down the scattered gems, each one a spark of life she couldn''t afford to leave behind. She could barely feel the ground beneath her, her sense of touch numbed by the exhaustion and pain. But her will¡ªher relentless will¡ªkept her moving, and with each gem acquired, the world became more tangible. Each gem she gathered felt like a victory, like the promise of a future reclaimed.
Nearly a month had passed since her fall. She had no way of knowing for sure, but the slow crawl of time had become tangible through the subtle changes in her body and the landscape around her. Only now, after an excruciating journey of recovery, could she finally manage to stand.
Her body was still far from whole. One leg was still broken and fired wrathful stings of pain with every jostle. Generally, all of her limbs were far from the smoothly dexterous things they once were. Her movements were still stilted, hesitant¡ªbut far more controlled than they had been when she had first awoken.
She limped painfully out of the crater, simply eager to get away from the nightmare of her past couple of weeks. The gems¡ªher saviours¡ªhad long since been depleted. They had mended her, given her the strength to survive when it seemed impossible. But now, with nothing left to fuel her healing, she was left with only herself and no longer a reason to stay in that place.
What she had gone through shouldn''t have been possible. The only reason the gems could do anything at all for her was due to the unique condition she inherited from her mother. Even then, from what little she knew, it wasn''t a condition necessarily known for its restorative capabilities.
Her leg bellowed in distraught protest with her every step. Her first priority was to address her broken leg. She searched the surrounding area, eyes scanning for anything that might serve her needs. A thick branch caught her attention, just sturdy enough to help, and with an almost mechanical focus, she began the painful task of constructing a makeshift splint.
The resin-coated leaves she used were sticky and unwieldy, and the plant fibres, though strong, were difficult to weave with her trembling hands. She cursed under her breath, frustrated at her lack of precision. It wasn''t a clean solution, and she knew it¡ªthis splint would never hold for long, but it would have to do for now.
She couldn''t be completely to blame for the shoddy workmanship; she was really working with the worst possible materials in the worst possible conditions.
When it was in place, she tested her weight on the makeshift support. A wave of sharp pain shot through her, but it was bearable¡ªonly a mild stab of agony, not the unbearable torment she had endured before. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, there was a semblance of relief.
With the immediate concern of her leg sorted, her mind shifted to the next pressing matter. As if granted permission to escape from her subconscious, the girl''s stomach rumbled with an urgency that startled her, its desperate growl louder than any physical pain she had endured. Her throat, dry and raw, only amplified the gnawing need, and she became acutely aware of how parched she was, the emptiness inside her nearly as agonizing as the broken limb.
Her body was suddenly much heavier than she remembered it to be. Without the constant rush of adrenaline and the numbing haze of pain coursing through her, she was left with a deathly weakness. She felt so frail that she feared that the smallest breeze could take her away without the protection of the trees, leaving her scattered, lost in the wilderness, never to be found again.
How she managed to even block this horrible deprivation from her mind, she had no idea, but now it was impossible to ignore. Suddenly, the idea of travelling back to society felt terribly far-fetched.
Chapter 59: Rebirth pt. 3
Her stomach, a hollow, gnawing pit, churned in misery, and she knew she could not continue without nourishment. She needed food, and she needed it now. But first, she needed to find something to hunt with.
She gave one last glance around the crater that had been her residence for the past month only to confirm again what she dreaded. Her quiver was nowhere to be seen. She had somehow miraculously managed to get her bow functioning again but didn''t have any ammunition to use it.
To her stomach''s great despondency, she would have to hold off the hunt to find some ammo. She gripped her newly reconstituted bow tightly, the soft grey fur brushing against her fingers, a faint, pulsing warmth emanating from its magical energy, and hobbled further into the dense forest.
Of the many lessons left behind by her mother, a congruence with nature was amongst one of the most focused. She had been taught that nature was not just a resource¡ªit was a language, and one she could speak fluently, even in her weakened state. As she walked through the woods, she began to collect materials.
Her first stop was by a small collection of rocks near the base of that dastardly cliff. She wasn''t too fond of the cliff anymore, but the rocks would be useful.
Weary and unsteady, the girl lowered herself slowly toward the ground, but her body betrayed her, and instead of sitting, she collapsed painfully onto the cold, damp mud.
With a grimace, she reached out and grasped a small, fist-sized rock, her fingers trembling as she held it. She struck it weakly against another stone nearby, the motion lacking any sort of energy or precision. She swung again sluggishly, failing to rile up any amount of intentful action. She tried again and again, each strike weaker than the last.
But then, with a flicker of focus, she gritted her teeth, drawing whatever energy she could muster, and with an exhale of frustration, slammed the two stones together.
The rock in her hand shattered, and the sudden shear tore a large gash across her palm. Pain flashed through her, but it was only a distant murmur compared to the gnawing hunger that had taken over.
Blood dripped from her wound, mixing with the dampness of the ground below, but her focus never wavered. Her stone victim had exploded into fragments¡ªsharp, jagged flints. Despite the tremor in her hands, she carefully scooped up the largest and most useful pieces, fingers brushing the sharp edges with practiced care.
With a wince and a strained grunt, she awkwardly rose back to her feet, legs still weak beneath her. Her body ached with every movement, but there was no time for rest. She trudged over to a nearby tree, and after a moment''s hesitation, she began collecting branches¡ªgathering whatever she could manage with quavering hands before she collapsed back down in exhaustion, taking shallow breaths as her vision swam.
Her chest tightened with each breath, the hunger looming over her entire body; without her sustaining gems anymore, she was really flagging under the strain. But she couldn''t stop now. Her hands shook as she took the sharp flints and shaved the branches.
The process was slow and agonizing. The flint shards were poor substitutes for tools, refusing to slice cleanly, each attempt gnawing into her skin. The coarse, jagged edges of the flint often tore through her fingers, leaving bloodstains on the wood, but she barely noticed at this point.
Every time a flint broke or a branch snapped, she could feel a surge of frustration rise in her chest, but she shoved it back, focusing on the task at hand. Her efforts weren''t flawless¡ªfar from it¡ªbut through sheer stubbornness, she managed to carve a decent set of shafts. They were rough and uneven, but they were something.
The final piece she needed to craft her arrow was the feather¡ªsomething she simply didn''t have the time or energy to procure. But she needed something to complete the arrows, something to act as fletching.
Looking around, she spotted the thin bark of the surrounding trees. With a grunt, she tore off a strip, flipped it over to get at the soft inner bark and meticulously peeled it into its individual sheets.
The wet bark was in desperate need of drying. She initially tried digging a small ditch but soon gave up on that safety net and just piled some leaves and the failed remnants of her branch carvings into a small mound atop it to form a campfire.
The flints clattered in her still shaking hands as she struck them together, sparking tiny embers. She belatedly noticed how her shaking hands were getting progressively worse with time, but the flint still sparked, and the firelight still flickered, and that''s all that mattered. The small soft light cast a pale glow on her bloodied fingers.
While the bark dried near the crackling fire, she carved small wedges into the wood shafts¡ªimperfect but usable. They wouldn''t be pretty, but they would work. She had no choice but to make them work. Then, taking the dried bark, she carefully cut them into long, thin triangles.
She needed to somehow groove two of these wooden triangles into the end of the wooden shafts she had made. Hours passed in futile attempts. Her tired, food-deprived, and nerve-damaged hands obeyed her desires less and less as the day continued. She pushed on heedlessly, forcing the pieces together in various configurations, each one worse than the last.
The flint arrowheads, sharp and uncooperative, refused to balance stably upon the shaft tips, and the bark was too brittle to bend properly. Her fingers were raw, her patience thinning, but she refused to stop.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity of failed attempts, she managed to complete her work. Out of all her many flints, branches, and bark, she managed to build one arrow. The arrow was a grotesque thing. The jagged head was uneven and asymmetrical, the barky fletching rough and unpolished, all crudely stitched together with notches packed tight with sticky tree resin. It was ugly, heavy, a disgrace to any true archer, but it was hers.
She didn''t have the luxury of perfection. She had one arrow, and that arrow was all she had. There was no time for regret, no time to mourn her lack of proper equipment. She could only hope that the single, monstrous creation would do its job when the time came.Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.
At this point, exhaustion was a ubiquitous pressure; she could feel it in her bones, gnawing at her thoughts, draining her will to keep going. Her perseverance could only push her so far, and though she had the equipment to hunt, she didn''t have the capacity to go out and do it.
Her legs were leaden, her breath shallow, her mind sluggish. With a final effort, she found what she hoped was an animal''s burrow, a small dip in the ground near a cluster of trees. She sank down against the nearest trunk, her back against the rough bark, and closed her eyes. The world felt distant, as though she were floating on the edges of consciousness.
She couldn''t move anymore. Her body wouldn''t allow it. So she sat, the makeshift arrow nocked in her monstrous furry bow and waited. She had come to the end of her strength, and all she could do now was wait, wait until either she died or an animal emerged.
Soft fur compressed under the intense pressure, its own skin pressing inwards, plunging into the soft organs beneath. The stone razor of the arrowhead pushed deeper, piercing the flesh and lodging firmly into the small creature''s heart.
The small, erratic beats of the heart grew weaker, struggling to push blood around the intrusive foreign object. Every pump only quickened the death, pouring more fresh blood out of the new wound. Soon, the thudding ceased completely.
The girl''s mind went blank as her craven instincts surged forth in a carnal flood. She scrambled toward her prey, casting her monstrous bow aside with a frantic motion. The agonized grumble of her stomach demanded immediate action.
For a brief second, the civilized woman within wanted to prepare a fire and cook the rabbit. That thought vanished in an instant, overtaken by the raw primal hunger clawing at her. Her hunger had been pushed to its utmost limit already, and she refused to wait a moment longer.
Without hesitation, she sank her teeth into the tough flesh, tearing and pulling it apart in wild, desperate bites. The meat was rough and difficult to chew, but she didn''t care. The gnawing hunger had swallowed her whole, reducing her to an animalistic frenzy.
Blood stained her face and hands as she devoured her prey with ferocity, sitting over it like a beast. She ravenously scarfed down every thread of fibre she could rend from her prey.
Hunger truly was the best spice, for this meal was the greatest she had ever known. She tilted the captured beast up over her head as she ate, trying to prevent as much blood as possible from spilling. It was her best source of drinking water so far.
Temporarily, she lost her humanity, lost in the euphoric gore, savouring each dribbling giblet that rolled down her throat. She hadn''t even bothered to remove the creature''s fur; her mouth was now coated in the patchy coat, sticking to her elated tongue.
The last morsel of edible flesh slipped down her throat, yet the hunger remained. It gnawed at her, insistent, raw. But now, with renewed strength, she had the energy to feed it.
Almost as if waking from a nightmarish slumber, she was human again. The weight of the transition hit her all at once: her mind clearer, her senses reawakened. But everything was wrong. She immediately noticed it was a completely different time of day, and as her gaze swept around, she realized she didn''t recognize her surroundings at all.
Her belly was full, her muscles vitalized. She had an entirely new set of arrows, cleaner with feathered fletching and sharp heads. Her splint was also gone, the only markings left of her fall being calloused stains of scars from a seeming bygone time.
Her new disposition was not entirely positive; however, she had lost any remnant of her clothes and instead was dressed in a horrifying canvas of dried blood caked onto her body. She wasn''t even sure anymore whether it was hers or not.
Her confusion was abruptly interrupted as nausea churned in her stomach. Without warning, she emptied her stomach, a putrid, red mess pouring from her mouth: crushed bones, feathers, and congealed clumps of fur.
The gems had saved her life, but with the magical excess, her condition had spiralled into this chaotic state. Oddly enough, her bow remained with her¡ªusually, when she lost herself, tools like this would be discarded, forgotten. But not this time. She hugged the furry bow tight to her chest and counted the blessing.
With hunger and thirst sated and her body healed, she realized that she could finally begin the long journey back home.
It was a long trek, but she used the day star as her compass, guiding her steps back toward familiar ground. Days turned to weeks as she camped and hunted, each night spent beneath the open sky. But now, no longer teetering on the brink of survival, she could keep her humanity in check. She wasn''t sure she would survive losing it again.
It took her a few weeks more, but she made it back to civilization. Before approaching the town, she did her best to cleanse herself in the river, scrubbing her skin raw with pebbled mud. Still, no amount of washing could fully erase the stains of her ordeal.
When she stepped from the forest¡ªnaked, gaunt, and streaked with remnants of vital ichor¡ªthe townspeople recoiled. Their wariness was understandable.
It took some cajoling and a tense exchange with the local militia, but eventually, she was allowed through the gates. With a few pelts and fresh meat to barter, she secured clothes and, more importantly, passage home.
Her father sat slumped on the front porch of their farm, a half-empty bottle of ale dangling from his fingers. His eyes were dead, visage imprisoned in a dour melancholy.
The second she spotted him, she broke into a sprint. "Papa! Papa!"
His ears twitched at the sound¡ªwords he thought he''d never hear again. He lifted his head, and the bottle slipped from his grasp, shattering at his feet.
For a brief second, he just stared as if disbelieving the ghost before him. Then, with a choked gasp, he lurched upright so fast he nearly stumbled. But the mess, the drink, none of it mattered. He ran to her. "Biddy¡ªyou''re alive!"
But just as their arms reached for each other, a sharp chime of a bell cut through the air.
In between the reuniting family, a small pink rhombus grew out of thin air, or it was a rhombus, but its body would reject any stable state. It would shift and transform, shrink and grow, continuously morphing into other shapes. The pink shape finally locked into a form resembling that of a featureless human with only one limb. The arm was outstretched towards Biddy holding a glowing parchment: It read.
| You have been invited to |
| The Tournament |
| You are The Toxophilite
|
Chapter 60: An Acquaintances Dream pt. 1
Hate was a seed, a seed that, once given fertile soil, would gingerly tend to itself with the nurturing flows of water and intentful trimming of petioles. It was a seed planted in the heart; a seed whose insatiable hunger filtered out any love and mirth for its own greedy roots, fattening itself with decay. A selfish seed, not a plant, but a fungus. A heavy fungus that grew larger and thicker, kept plump with manure and filth. With each pulse of anger, it thickened, a heavy thing clotted in veins and arteries, its tendrils coiling tight until no warmth could pass without its bitter permission.
A fed fungus knows no bounds¡ªit grows, it consumes, until it is no longer just within the man but is the man, and then it swells into something fouler still. But a fungus need not be fed. Even one once long nurtured could be abandoned, left to wither. Bloated with history, it would take long to wither true, but time is a curative paired by no other. The fungus would shrink. Its roots would loosen their grip, and the blood, unshackled at last, would flow once more¡ªthe way it must for a man to live.
The man opened his eyes, squinting as the unimpeded day star shone down upon him. The sky stretched clear and endless, not a single cloud to soften the celestial dance of winged deities above. All around, Tarragon monks bustled, their scrolls and ink brushes documenting the aberrant density of action in the skies.
Dragons were creatures of stillness, their movements sparse¡ªso much so that a single flight in a month was cause for celebration. Yet today, they had already witnessed three, and the air thrummed with anticipation for the expected fourth.
The man himself did not follow in his colleagues'' charged spirits as his impetus did not rouse on extrospection. Unlike most of his communal brethren, he had not joined the Tarragon''s convent because of a shared curiosity about the dragons; rather, he had been on a much more personal pilgrimage.
He was not entirely disinterested in the draconic happenings. He kept a passing attentiveness on the subject through the societal osmosis of the convent. In fairness, the dragons'' activity did deserve attention as such bustling movements heavily implied action, which, when dragons were concerned, rarely lacked scale.
The busy observatory no longer felt like a solitary room of meditation. The Tarragon monastery was fabricated from a colossal plant, its vast body blooming from the blood-red swamps below, winding up the base of the serpentine mountains. It stretched far beyond the tallest trees, a living sanctuary that sustained the monks in every way. Its hollow stems formed their dwellings, its nutrient-rich flowers provided nourishment, and its immense leaves became platforms for study and worship alike.
The observatory rested upon one such leaf¡ªan enormous lateral expanse now bending slightly under the weight of dozens of monks. They filed in with their telescopes and fibrous instruments, eager to document the sky''s rare commotion. No one wanted to move to a lower platform; this was the highest, offering an unbroken view of the heavens.
The man, however, had no stake in the dragons'' spectacle. Sensing the strain on the leaf, he took his leave, slipping away so that the others might remain undisturbed in their wonder.
The man stepped into the vast spiralling stairwell, its winding path carved into the hollow core of the great plant. The air grew cooler as he descended, the day''s blistering heat giving way to a refreshing dampness carrying a faint herbal scent within the confines of the monastery''s living walls.
He placed a hand against the smooth inner fibres; thick, translucent veins ran along the stairwell''s curvature, carrying luminous rivulets of water. The monastery drank deep from the swamp below, drawing sustenance through unseen roots, and the pressure of its circulation thrummed in the walls reverberating down his fingertips and filling him with a rhythmic, ceaseless heartbeat.
It was a humbling thing to dwell within a body so vast, like all things from the swamp; it was neither wholly plant nor wholly beast, yet still, one that had cradled generations of monks within its hollow embrace.
His room lay near the top of the monastery''s residential tier, a modest leaf platform tethered to the central stalk. The residential leaves were light and flexible, their stems sturdy enough to support only a few occupants at a time.
He was granted one of the higher positioned leaves due to his position of minor prestige as both a longstanding member of the monastery as well as a follower of one of the four principal dragons.
His homely leaf was simple, as all the residential leaves were, for simplicity was a tenet of the Tarragon lifestyle. A monk must remain unburdened¡ªlest the weight of their worldly possessions breaks the leaf beneath them, sending them plummeting into the sinful swamps below; a religious symbology matched with a potent practicality.
Even by the standards of the Tarragon Monks, though, The man''s home was particularly empty, nearly barren. No bed, no trinkets, no adornments¡ªonly a single oversized bubble of water resting by the edge of the leaf to serve as a mirror. He stepped closer, gazing into the bubbles'' smooth surface. His own reflection stared back.
Each monk wore a simple green himation woven from the very leaves and fibres of the monastery''s great plant. But it was not their robes that made the Tarragon monks infamous.
Across Trammel, the monks were known for two things: the perilous, inhospitable land they called home and the striking artistry upon their skin.
Beneath their garments, nearly every inch of flesh was concealed beneath vivid strokes of green and red, a living tapestry of draconic trees, each line symbolizing a chapter of their journey.
The paint was more than ornamentation¡ªit was a declaration. The Tarragon monastery was a place of rebirth and absolution; through these sacred markings, each monk etched the story of their pilgrimage. Their painted bodies bore the weight of past failings, the fire of their convictions, and the path toward their draconic baptism¡ªthe threshold of their ascension.
The man''s body was a canvas, his pilgrimage etched into flesh. It began at the heart, where deep green paint bloomed into the twisted form of a cursed fungus. Its mycelium roots stretched outward, creeping along his limbs and culminating at his toes and knuckles. Meanwhile, the fruiting body rose to his chapped lips.
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From the crown of his shaven head, red paint descended in bold, unrelenting strokes¡ªM¨¦nage, the Blood Dragon, crashing into the fungus at his mouth. The crimson deity coiled down his body, twisting in a fierce struggle against the invading blight. The battle played out in every curve and line, each motion frozen in paint, until finally, at the heart''s center, the dragon''s claw gripped the fungus''s core in defiant triumph.
To symbolize the dragon giving its blessing for the monk''s redemptive mission, each monk would find a dropped fragment from their patron dragon and implant it into the top of their skull where the red dragon paint originated.
As a follower of the path of the Blood Dragon, the man had a large round, pale-pink leaf that had once been a scale from M¨¦nage''s floral hide protruding up and back from his cranium like a large unwieldy headdress.
The leaf that formed his chamber shifted beneath him, dipping ever so slightly. He turned toward the entrance, where a familiar face greeted him.
As a follower of Muse, the Dragon of Knowledge, the approaching monk wore a long blue tuft of fur that cascaded from her scalp, as thick and flowing as any lush head of hair. Despite her age, her smooth complexion lent her a deceptive youthfulness.
She smiled at him with a coy smile, "Will you not be joining in the observations, Squally?"
Squally inclined his head in a subtle nod. "No. Regardless of my absence, I trust you''ll ensure I''m well-informed of whatever discoveries arise. I am much more pressed upon my own meditation. I feel I am close to something tumultuous."
His tone was flat, but internally, the very vocalization of his progress brought with it more anticipation. His meditation had brought him to the precipice of something momentous¡ªsomething that clawed at the edges of his mind, restless and urgent. A shift was coming. He could feel it. The Blood Dragon would soon touch upon his fate line.
The woman laughed at her conversationalist''s bluntness. "I just don''t see how a Tarragon monk can be so unconcerned with the lives of the dragons."
Squally let out a sigh. It wasn''t the first time he had been called out for his aberrant behaviour, and he was certain it would be far from the last.
"I am not unconcerned with the dragons," He said, folding his arms. "I am just focused on my patron dragon above all else. Honestly, I should be asking you the same thing¡ªhow do you all have so much free time to study dragons beyond your own? Especially us. As worshipers of one of the four principal dragons, there''s far more for us to concern ourselves with."
The woman puffed out her chest, adopting a haughty air that clashed amusingly with the poise one would typically expect from a monk. "Well, it is precisely because I am a follower of Muse that it is my responsibility to know all about the dragon''s society. And as a follower of M¨¦nage, I thought you would feel the same way as me."
Squally rolled his eyes at her playful theatrics. "I guess we have different interpretations of what M¨¦nage seeks in us."
"Suit yourself." She gave him a final wave before striding off, eager to join the gathering crowd at the observatories.
Left alone, Squally listened to the low hum of the distant monks, their voices softened by layers of shifting canopy. He stepped toward the edge of his leaf and lay down, his weight pressing it into a gentle incline. The leaf cradled him, swaying ever so slightly as though the monastery itself were rocking him to rest.
His eyes fluttered shut, and sleep took him.
The curtains came to a close, swallowing the stage in darkness. A moment later, the overhead lights blazed to life, casting an artificial glow over a bewildered audience.
Scattered murmurs rippled through the crowd as a few attendees glanced down at their tickets, double-checking the timestamp. The chapters didn''t usually end so abruptly like this; they always concluded with either an invitation to The Tournament or some kind of greeting from the White Witch.
Instead, the scene had simply¡ stopped. Some barely developed character had fallen asleep without doing anything interesting, and that was it.
A young man dressed in fine attire strode onto the stage. He carried a polished megaphone and tapped its side twice before raising it to his lips. "Alright, everyone! We''re starting intermission a little early. Feel free to stretch your legs, take a washroom break¡ªwhatever you need. The next chapter of The Tournament will go live in forty-eight hours."
Much of the audience was unsure of how to act. People exchanged bewildered glances, hesitating. Then, as a few individuals rose from their seats, the rest followed in a slow, rippling wave.
You, however, remained seated, watching the exodus. Your legs weren''t particularly sore, nor did you need the washroom, but since the intermission was offered, you supposed you were a little peckish.
The crowd moved sluggishly, and you found yourself waiting by your seat for a while. The theatre was massive, and every seat had been occupied at the show''s start. Now, as people funnelled toward the exits, time stretched in an idle lull.
You reached into your pocket, fingers brushing against your crumpled ticket. Unfolding it, you scanned the time stamp.
'' The Tournament [A Non-Traditional Fantasy] - Chapter 60: An Acquaintance''s Dream - Word Count: 4,227 Words
The chapter shouldn''t have ended yet.
By the time you pulled your eyes away from your ticket, you realized something.
You were alone.
The auditorium, once brimming with life, was now cavernous and silent. You stood, ready to leave¡ªto follow the others to the food stands¡ªbut as you took your first step toward the aisle, a strange hesitation gripped you.
Your gaze drifted back toward the curtain. A slow, poisonous curiosity seeped into your thoughts.
You weren''t even that hungry. And with no one around to stop you¡
Perhaps a little exploration was in order.
Rather than ascend the aisle, you moved down¡ªheading toward the stage. You hadn''t secured the best seat in the house, and now, standing at the foot of the towering platform, you truly grasped its magnitude. The stage loomed above¡ªhigher than you were tall.
If you were going to explore on your break, you may as well go all the way.
With a quick hoist, you pulled yourself up, hands pressing against the smooth wooden boards. Once mounted, you took a couple of steps to get to the very center of that theatrical world. You then turned around to see the view from the vantage point of a performer. Rows upon rows of empty seats stared back, an audience now absent, yet their presence still lingered in the air. You felt as if you were still being watched.
Was this what it was like to be a character? Not a reader, not a spectator, but one of the figures within the story itself?
Somewhere to the side of the stage, in one of the traveller wings, you could hear the soft rustling of fabric¡ªN¨¦v¨¦ preparing her costume for the next chapter. You felt a niggling call to sneak out back and try to speak with her; she was one of the more heavily foreshadowed characters throughout the previous chapters.
You had been watching this play for a long time now and so it was hard to remember every reference; but if you recalled correctly, she was supposed to be a child prodigy who Bennu the Phoenix said would be the most powerful human to enter The Tournament. Apparently, she betrayed humanity to join the White Witch, though, firmly cementing her as one of the story''s villains.
Having a chance to speak with her personally was enticing indeed, but you had something else you were even more interested in.
Your fingers tightened around the edge of the red velvet curtain.
And then, with a breath you barely registered, you stepped through.
Chapter 60: An Acquaintances Dream pt. 2
Squally was at home, but it wasn''t his home. Ill remembered placements of old furniture he couldn''t quite recall the shape of were oddly cramped into corners, littered bizarrely about the rooms in a way he was certain they wouldn''t have been. As his eyes passed over them and then returned, he swore some had repositioned.
Squally rubbed at his eyes, hoping it could somehow clear the image, but when he pulled his arms down, he found himself in front of his parents'' bedroom. The bronze doorhandle gleamed just out of reach of his short, stumpy, child-like arms. He stretched onto his toes, fingers grazing the metal, but the moment he tried to grasp it, the knob slid away like oil on glass, his touch unable to claim it.
Frustration swelled in his chest, and he ran an aggravated hand through his full head of hair.
Then he heard a voice¡ªwarm and melodic that cut through the fog of this estranged home. "Supper is ready!" His mother''s voice.
A grin spread across his young chubby cheeks, and without hesitation, he turned to run toward her call. "Coming, Mama!"
He ran from hall to hall, up and down floors, his home so much larger than he remembered. As he continued to run, the wooden floors gave way to cobbled streets, walls dissolving into narrow alleyways. The farther he ran, the less of his house remained¡ªhis childhood home swallowed piece by piece, replaced by the twisting, shadowed corridors of Abut''s ghettos.
"Squally supper is getting cold!" His mother''s voice rang out again, teasing, warm, distant.
"I''m coming, Mama!" Squally tried to answer, but his voice barely carried, swallowed by the labyrinth around him. He ran faster and faster with ever more urgency, searching for his homely kitchen; corner after corner, his house lost its roof, and walls grew into entire buildings. His small legs lengthened, muscles surging with each step.
"Mama, where are you!?" His voice cracked and deepened, maturing as his body did the same. He ran even faster, he had to find her, he had to tell her.
Each step Squally took further into the maze seemed to age him, each step a leap in his life. The twenty-four-year-old Squally turned another corner and came upon a fork in the road.
To his left: the city crumbled, buildings disintegrating into swirling dust, all drawn toward a single puddle where a tiny green herb sprouted¡ªfragile, new.
To the right: the city grew monstrous, its structures rising impossibly high, converging at infinity, forming an oppressive tunnel of stone and flickering candlelight. At its end, a large, rounded chest sat in the gloom.
And then¡ª"If you don''t come soon, there won''t be any supper left for you!" His mother''s voice, bright and beckoning, drifted from the chest.
That beautiful, impossible voice was all he needed to make his decision.
Squally took a step to the right. He entered into the overbearing confines of Abut. The sky disappeared behind the infinite rise of buildings pressing in from all sides. Air thickened, stale with candle smoke and dust, the silence broken only by the muffled, shifting echoes of distant footsteps¡ªthough none walked here but him. Each step further aged him more until he finally reached his familiar age of fifty-six.
At the tunnel''s end, the chest loomed. It was smaller than he''d expected, yet the padlock affixed to it was monstrous¡ªa behemoth mass of blackened iron larger than the chest itself, warped as if sculpted by some impossible weight. The keyhole, absurdly small, was no larger than a pinprick. It was an impossible barrier to surpass.
Then, from the chest''s seam, the gale wind howled out. It struck Squally with a crushing weight, peeling away his body. His adult form shredded, dissolved, flaking away into nothing. He barely had time to scream before he was small again¡ªpudgy hands, short legs, breathless wonder. A child.
Something heavy dropped into his pocket. He didn''t remember it being there before.
The young boy pushed his pudgy hands in and pulled out the offending object.
A key.
A tiny ink-stained origami key, damp paper fringes curling at the edges. Yet oddly enough, the thing was unbelievably heavy¡ªdenser than lead. His tiny arms ached just holding it, his fingers trembling under the burden. It was too heavy and the na?ve child wanted nothing more than to be rid of it.
He cast the key away into the padlock mechanism, and with a resonant click, the chest was unlocked.
The raucous wind died in an instant. A vacuum of silence swallowed the world.
Then the lid of the chest groaned, its hinges croaking like something ancient stirring from sleep. It opened all the way, the movement powered by nothing, its gaping maw beckoning. The darkness inside was soft, somehow relieving.
The boy entered.
With a deafening slam, the lid was sealed shut.
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"Supper is cold now."
Then, as suddenly as the silence arrived, it left with an explosion of sounds.
A sickening wrench, the percussion of fists against flesh, the shuddering collapse of bodies against husk and stone. It clawed through the wood, through the dark, through him. The boy shrank, curling into the corner of the chest, pressing his hands against his ears¡ªbut the noise did not fade. It was in the marrow of his bones, in the space between his thoughts, a brutal symphony that struck with each breath.
With every impact, his body twisted. Limbs stretched, muscles corded, clothes shifted. He was growing again, aging between the blows. And then the chest wept¡ªthick rivulets of red and green paint bled from the seams, sluggish and viscous. The liquid dripped onto his skin, branding him, carving his story into him with an agonizing slowness.
A final impact, louder than all the rest.
Then, silence.
Squally, the older monk, opened his eyes to nothingness. A void of absolute black, stretching infinitely in all directions. No chest. No city. No wind. No sound. Only his own breath, shallow and cold, whispering into the abyss.
The world seemed different now, more concrete than just before. And yet, for all his clarity, he did not know if he was still dreaming. Or if he had woken up somewhere else entirely.
Like that, in the darkness, he waited.
Time became meaningless. Hours bled into days, days into weeks, and weeks into something beyond reckoning. He had no body to hunger, no lungs to fill, no tether to anything but his own mind. The nothingness left too much time for his own mind to torment itself with. It twisted in violent spirals: regret lashed at anger, fear gnawed at desperation, longing tangled with loathing. He was an impossible storm of conflicting selves, tearing at the walls of his psyche, trapped in an eternal deadlock.
A sudden glint in the distance.
There was no land for the man to walk upon, so instead, he moved forward simply by the thought of the very concept. One light became two. Two became ten. A cascade of white pinpricks stitched themselves into the abyss like an unravelling seam, a slow and deliberate weaving of the cosmos into existence.
It was only as he drew closer that he understood.
This was not merely like the night sky.
It was the night.
He drifted before a titan, a gargantuan blue star, its core a roiling inferno of ionized destruction. It screamed in unfathomable heat, massive tendrils of burning plasma reaching out, lashing at the fabric of the universe itself.
It was unlike anything he had ever known. He had never seen a blue star, and the heat it exuded was unmatched by even the hottest of summer days in his home world.
Five rocky planets orbited around this blue star. Like a cracked egg, one of these planets had burst open from one side, discharging its inner magma out into the solar system.
Squally stared into the planetary ruin, awe-struck by the sheer scale of devastation¡ªwhen suddenly, he heard the chime of a bell. A small pink rhombus suddenly grew out of thin air. Or it was a rhombus, but its body would reject any stable state. It would shift and transform, shrink and grow, continuously morphing into other shapes.
Squally''s attention was taken away from the strange sight by the chime of a second bell off to his side. At this new location, a small blue cuboid grew, twisting upon itself and fluctuating through dramatic states of being.
A third chime.
A fourth.
More and more.
Soon, the void swarmed with colour¡ªa great congregation of impossible geometry, all distorting, all shifting and transforming, shrinking and growing. The final form that each coloured entity took was different. Some figures bent just enough toward familiarity: warped semblances of animals, crude parodies of human forms. But others¡ others drowned the mind in their sheer foreignness, their very existence an affront to the notion of perception.
The collection of beings did not seem to notice Squally''s presence. They turned to each other and communed, humming out mystifying melodies, some occasionally interrupting others.
He''d guess they were speaking, but his mind refused to let go of the idea of singing. Their voices were too alienatingingly musical in such a way that it tore at Squally''s mortal ears. Sounds he knew not possible played upon progressions even more so.
It was a maelstrom of resonance that neither obeyed rhythm nor melody yet still held some indecipherable structure. Notes twisted into shapes. Vibrations curled into colours. He clung to the term music¡ªbut it was music flayed and reformed.
The entities, oblivious of the mental decimation they caused on this unnoticed onlooker, all hovered around that shattering planet, occasionally shifting and morphing in the direction of the planet as they sang like an incomprehensible facsimile of gesturing.
The collective song finally concluded, and one entity stepped¡ªor rather, shifted¡ªforward.
An enormous orange form, composed of two hovering crosses, flanked on either side of a continent-sized pyramid. The pyramid peeled open like the pages of an ancient tome, revealing within its center a monolithic eye.
A ray of orange divinity erupted from its gaze, a light that swallowed existence itself, a brilliance that dwarfed even the blue giant in the distance.
Squally shut his eyes from the blinding flare.
And when he opened them again¡ª
The destroyed planet was gone.
The beings were gone.
He was alone.
Squally was suddenly awoken by the chime of a bell. A small pink rhombus grew out of thin air, or it was a rhombus, but its body would reject any stable state. It would shift and transform, shrink and grow, continuously morphing into other shapes. The pink shape finally locked into a form resembling that of a featureless human with only one limb. The arm was outstretched towards Squally holding a glowing parchment: It read.
| You have been invited to |
| The Tournament |
| You are The Ascetic |
Chapter 61 pt.1: Just a Child
Proselyte was energized with a raucous fervour of a scale which vastly outstripped that of the typical bustle of the small city-state. Once a year, the physical entente was awash in a wide array of vibrant reds and blues; buildings and streets were dressed in rich linens and nationalistic tapestries. Dichotomous paints fell from windows and people alike in a riot of colour. For this one time in the year, both members from either sodality could be seen peacefully walking side by side, sharing the same streets, the same sights, and the same food.
The Elemental Festival was the continent''s grandest yearly celebration, a tribute to the alliance between the two sodalities of Rain and Cinder. No matter how fragile that alliance may have been.
The stalls lining the thoroughfares swelled with the pride of their homelands: the air was thick with the scent of Rain''s fat fish and plump fruits, while oddly juxtaposed across the way, Cinder''s boiling stews and roasted meats sent up fragrant clouds of spice.
Not even a full block away, one could see the clashing aesthetics of Rain''s diverse flowers against Cinder''s detailed metallurgy. Though so close together, these divergent residents took no arms and bore no malice; rather, they joined in a unified solidarity.
For one week in the year, they appreciated one another''s culture and art; for one week in the year, they tolerated one another''s blood and lineage.
As much as the event was a festive celebration, it was also much more than that. Beneath the revelry, the sodalities seized the chance to flaunt their power against the other, and nothing embodied this unspoken contest better than the Elemental Tournament.
Though built for the grand centennial Tournament, the arena of Empedocles remained unused for such a goal in a century. The arena was a towering spherical monument that stood impossibly balanced upon its own vomitorium stairwells. This glorious architectural marvel, though, would, if not otherwise repurposed, have been but a curious exhibit of the city-state.
Yet, its namesake and steward, Director Empedocles, refused to let his incredible home languish in irrelevance. Empedocles was a being heavily invested in the relations of the sodalities, so, in the interim of the arena''s out-of-reach objective, he graciously lent it out so that it could house the combative duels that made the elemental festival so popular.
Each sodality selected its finest warriors, pitting them against one another in a dazzling display of skill and power. In many ways, the Elemental Tournament was but a lesser echo of The Tournament itself.
At least, that was how the elemental festival marketed itself. In truth, there were many differences that set the two apart. Beyond the disparity in frequency, there was a fundamental distinction¡ªElemental contestants were not divinely ordained but entered of their own accord, provided they could afford the considerable entry fee. Unlike in the tournament, participation was strictly limited to members of the sodalities.
The duels were the heart of the festival, drawing crowds that swelled beyond the arena''s limits. The auditorium was filled to bursting, spectators clinging to their hard-won seats, unwilling to surrender their vantage points. The air hummed with anticipation¡ªthousands holding their breath, waiting for the first clash of the Elemental Tournament''s main bracket to shatter the expectant silence.
At either end of the arena, two raised platforms bore witness to an unspoken war. The royal families of Rain and Cinder, draped in their respective finery, sat in mirrored grandeur¡ªpresent in full for the festival''s most anticipated spectacle. Yet despite their proximity, neither sovereign deigned to acknowledge the other beyond fleeting, derisive glances.
Their enmity was an unbroken current, coiled beneath the pageantry of unity, betrayed only by the rigid posture of guards and the carefully measured distance between their courts.
Far removed from their quiet battle of wills, nestled high in the nosebleeds, a young N¨¦v¨¦ watched with silent wonder. Ignorant of political machinations, she was here for the fight, for the magic and might that would soon erupt below. This was her first Elemental Festival, and she watched on, maintaining a stoic vigil that was betrayed by her exhilarated grip on the edge of her seat.
N¨¦v¨¦ drank in the spectacle below, her eyes sweeping across the grand stage. Encircling the battlefield, an elevated platform stood apart from both the audience and the combatants. Upon it, a network of glowing runes pulsed with arcane energy, and stationed along its length, wizards stood at the ready, weaving a protective dome which would ensure the chaos about to unfold remained caged within the arena''s bounds.
At the center of the stage, two men faced each other, poised for battle. One carried the military garb of Rain and the other of Cinder. They stood motionless, every muscle taut with readiness¡ªuntil the gong struck.
In an instant, the stillness shattered. The duelists erupted into motion, hurling their elements with practiced ferocity. Water met flame in a dazzling storm of steam.
The crowd roared, their voices rising and falling with every exchange, every near miss, every strike that drew blood. They revelled in the spectacle¡ªevery broken bone, every spray of crimson only deepened their investment, heightened their fervour like sharks to chum.
The fight raged on, neither warrior yielding, the intensity only mounting with time. Their attacks grew wilder, their aggression more ruthless, each seeking to claim dominance in this battle of pride. And then, at last, it ended.
A final surge of flame engulfed the Rain fighter''s left arm, consuming flesh and bone alike. When the fire ebbed, nothing remained but charred air, an ashen pile, and the slightly unsettling smell of barbeque.
The Rain fighter crumpled to the floor, his face twisted in agony, one hand smothering the last flickering embers of his cauterized stump. The crowd erupted, and the stands were divided in their reaction. Cinder''s spectators leapt to their feet in thunderous applause while those of Rain groaned in collective despair.
N¨¦v¨¦ watched the entire ordeal enthralled, the faintest grin breaking her stoic visage. That was a real fight.
Healers rushed onto the arena floor, gathering the writhing loser while the victorious Cinder fighter, slick with sweat, basked in the cheers of his people. He pumped a celebratory fist in the air, which redoubled the Cinder triumph, then strode from the stage. The duelists'' place was soon filled by another figure. Unlike the combatants before him, the newcomer wore neutral brown garments, bearing no allegiance to either sodality. As he stepped forward, his voice rang out over the arena.
"Wow! What an electrifying start to the main event! I doubt anyone expected such an intense clash on the festival''s very first day. However, due to the unexpected length of the battle, we''ll be heading straight into an intermission. But don''t leave too quickly! For those of you who choose to stay, we have a special sideshow to keep you entertained!"
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A woman with a blank expression placed a hand on N¨¦v¨¦''s shoulder. "It is time."
N¨¦v¨¦ gave a small nod and rose without hesitation, following the woman without question.
N¨¦v¨¦ and her guide slowly shuffled their way down while around them, the arena buzzed with movement¡ªspectators shifting, chatting, and seeking refreshments. Yet, on stage, the showman carried on, his voice rising above the din.
"After such an intense battle, I''m sure everyone could use something a little lighter! For our intermission event, we present the first juvenile match of the festival!"
The announcer rambled on a little more about the history and evolution of the different age categories for the tournament while N¨¦v¨¦ and her chaperone entered the changing room to don the juvenile bracket''s mandatory armour padding.
Through the thin door leading to the main stage, she heard the announcer continue,
"Now let me introduce to you our first two burgeoning warriors of the Juvenile Bracket. Representing the Sodality of Cinder, we have Sinecure Blaze! At only five years old, young Mr. Blaze has already demonstrated remarkable control over fire¡ªhis future burns bright!"
Though subdued compared to the earlier fervour, the crowd gave a polite cheer, more placating for the children than actively excited.
N¨¦v¨¦''s chaperone synched the last piece of padding, and the announcer resumed,
"...And representing the Sodality of Rain, we have N¨¦v¨¦! Despite her common birth and being only a mere four years old, N¨¦v¨¦ has self-taught herself the secrets of water, garnering the attention of her countrymen. She will be sure to make a splash!"
As her name echoed across the arena, N¨¦v¨¦ strode onto the stage, her gaze locking onto the boy before her. Even before the match began, she was already dismantling him¡ªanalyzing his every flaw¡ and there were many flaws.
His stance was weak and unbalanced; his centre of mass at least a few degrees past his legs. He made no effort to hide the fact that he was right-hand dominant. The protective padding required for the juvenile bracket draped awkwardly on his body. It clearly chafed against him¡ªhe had yet to grow accustomed to its restrictive weight. And then there was his posture, the way he held himself with effortless confidence.
Arrogance. Na?ve, noble arrogance.
She could see his name was sharper than his proverbial sword.
The audience members who had remained during the intermission cooed at the sight of the adorably young combatants, enchanted by their small frames and serious expressions. They fawned over how earnestly the children tried to mimic the ferocity of the main-bracket fighters.
"Now, let the first duel of the Elemental Tournament Juvenile Bracket of 3989 commence!"
The announcer''s voice rang out as he raised his hand. A moment later, the gong struck.
The instant the sound reached her ears, N¨¦v¨¦ launched forward.
Her opponent barely had time to register her movement before she was upon him. Judging by the startled gasps from the crowd, neither did the audience expect her to close the distance so quickly.
A weak flame sputtered to life in the boy''s right hand, but it was too late. N¨¦v¨¦ seized his wrist, yanking it away from his body. In the same motion, she twisted her hips and delivered a sweeping high kick, her foot cloaked in water. The impact landed with surgical precision¡ªhis elbow snapped with a sickening crack, the skin splitting as bone gave way.
The boy screamed, his arm falling limp at his side, tears spilling freely down his flushed cheeks.
N¨¦v¨¦ did not hesitate.
The first lesson she had ever learned in training was simple¡ªuse every source of water available.
Before anyone even registered what her first attack had accomplished, she took control of the boy''s tears, forcing them backward with violent precision. The sudden reversal burned his eyes, inflaming them into a swollen blur of pain and blindness.
His wailing barely had time to break through the stunned silence before N¨¦v¨¦''s fist drove into his gut. A choked gasp escaped him as his small frame crumpled, folding inward like paper as he collapsed onto the arena floor.
With practiced elegance, she pulled the moisture from the humid air, coalescing it into a dense, rippling sphere.
Then, she pressed it over the boy''s mouth and nose.
The boy''s eyes bulged in panic, his mouth twisting as he fought for air that wasn''t there. His face darkened with strain, the veins in his temple pressing against his reddening skin. With his one good arm, he clawed desperately at the suffocating water, his fingers raking through the liquid barrier. But his struggles were pitiful¡ªhe could do little more than stir the current slightly as it continued unperturbed, just as suffocating as before.
N¨¦v¨¦ watched the boy''s futile struggle on the ground, perplexed. Was this really the best Cinder had to offer?
She had expected at least some kind of resistance or counterattack, something worthy of the tournament stage.
She hadn''t expected it to be so trivial.
How had this boy ever survived his training sessions with that degree of skill?
The fight was so simple that N¨¦v¨¦ wasn''t quite sure what to do with herself. She didn''t even have to grapple with him to stop him from dousing her water with his flames. Did he forget that he was a child of Cinder?
Unsure of what to do next, N¨¦v¨¦ turned toward the edge of the arena, seeking guidance from her chaperone.
That was the moment N¨¦v¨¦''s narrow focus on the battle broke.
And suddenly, she heard it¡ªthe shrill, insistent ringing of the gong.
She let her weapon dissolve back into the air and turned to face the crowd, mimicking the victorious fist bump of the Cinder fighter before her.
Though she didn''t seem to receive as warm a welcome as he did. Not even those of her own sodality were cheering.
Instead, a suffocating silence pressed over the arena, thick with disturbed shock.
The spectators who had been moving toward the exits for intermission now stood frozen on the stairwells staring aghast at the stage. The very air of celebration had curdled into something painfully uncomfortable.
A team of healers rushed onto the stage, yet unlike before, they did not carry the boy away. Instead, they dropped to their knees beside him, hands already moving in frantic, glowing gestures to repair the damage.
Another group of adults stormed toward N¨¦v¨¦¡ªobviously not to tend to her, but her expectation of praise was proven incorrect as well. The adults formed a barrier between her and the boy, their movements hurried, urgent, as though shielding him from something monstrous.
Before she could react, her chaperone ran up, seized her wrist and yanked her offstage, escaping the increasingly chaotic fury in the audience.
N¨¦v¨¦''s chaperone dragged her roughly into the combatants'' changing room. The moment the door shut behind them, the woman spun on N¨¦v¨¦, her face stripped of its earlier stoicism, replaced instead with sheer panic.
"N¨¦v¨¦, are you insane?! Why would you do that to the poor child?!"
N¨¦v¨¦ blinked up at her, tilting her head in quiet confusion.
She did not understand why everyone had been so roused by the battle. The duel was much less impressive than the one that the two adults had earlier, and the boy''s injuries were far less severe, yet somehow everyone was much more disturbed by it.
She met her chaperone''s wide-eyed stare and answered with unwavering certainty.
"I was winning the fight."
Chapter 61 pt. 2: Crossed Stars
An illustrious manifold garden was snuggled within the metropolitan stonescape of Proselyte, hidden behind Ersatz University. The garden bloomed beautifully as a verdant jewel, impossibly thriving through odd nourishing magics. The garden was both a place for noble exhibition and alchemical harvesting. The garden contained a nearly exhaustive collection of flora¡ªa living archive, at once wild in its density yet precisely curated in its purpose.
Despite its abundance, the garden saw few visitors. Now and then, an ambitious student wandered in, lured by some fleeting whim, or a weary apprentice drifted through in search of rare ingredients. But for the most part, the garden was appreciated from a distance. From the towering spires of Ersatz University and vast balconies, scholars and dignitaries gazed down at its treetops, admiring the woven canopy as one might admire a masterful painting¡ªbeautiful, untouchable.
Inside the garden, hidden from the observational towers and deep enough to avoid attention from the shallow delving inquisitives, lived a different world. And within that world, concealed behind a thicket of bristling bushes, lay a small, hidden clearing.
A space unnoticed, untouched.
At its center stood a single flower.
And beside it, a single girl.
N¨¦v¨¦ stretched her sore limbs, wincing as the motion sent dull aches rippling through her battered body. Bruises of every shade¡ªdeep violets, sickly yellows, angry reds¡ªmarked her pale skin like an artist''s careless strokes. One of her brown eyes was swollen shut beneath the puffy bloat of battered flesh, her lips split and raw. Her ears burned a furious red, the sting of recent blows still clinging to them.
Things had spiralled quickly after her debut match.
The Sodality of Cinder had been outraged by what they called an "act of aggression" and threatened retaliation. The Sodality of Rain, on the other hand, denied any forethought to orchestration, insisting that N¨¦v¨¦''s incredible performance had merely been an unfortunate oversight¡ªa miscalculation by the festival staff underestimating her.
The festival staff, in turn, did not take the push of responsibility lightly and had their own misgivings to share.
Accusations, denials, and grievances had flung back and forth, each party eager to wash their hands of responsibility. In the end, a compromise was reached: N¨¦v¨¦ was expelled from this year''s tournament and given what they called a minor retaliatory punishment.
To her, it had not felt minor at all.
Amid all the turmoil, N¨¦v¨¦ was still struggling to understand why everyone had been so upset in the first place. Thankfully, her confusion was mostly alleviated when she met the royal family of Rain.
It was her first time encountering nobles in person. They spoke weirdly and dressed weirder still. She was smart enough to tell that when they spoke, they were saying so much more than just the words spoken, but she wasn''t smart enough to decipher any of it. What she did know was that behind closed doors, they had made one thing perfectly clear¡ªthey were proud of her.
They told her she had done a wonderful thing, that her performance had been commendable.
For the first time since her fight concluded, someone finally praised her efforts, and she smiled.
They even said they would reward her for her outstanding performance. They assured her that when the festival ended and they all returned to the sodality, she would no longer be under the guidance of her ''weak-willed chaperone.'' Instead, they would save her from the tragic life of a pauper and ensure that she had nothing but the finest resources available to properly cultivate her growth.
For now, however, she was to lay low. She was to avoid anyone from the Sodality of Cinder. Apparently, it would be safest for N¨¦v¨¦ to stay out of sight and hopefully out of mind for the rest of the festival duration.
N¨¦v¨¦ carefully pricked the swollen mess around her eye with a thorn she had procured from the garden, and lanced the bloated flesh. A stream of pressurized blood jettisoned from the blobby mass, splattering onto the once-bright green grass. She pinched at the engorged flesh, forcing more of the thick liquid out until the swelling had shrunken enough for her to see clearly again.
On her way to this secluded alcove, she had gathered an assortment of plants, which she now ground and mixed with practiced efficiency¡ªfabricating healing salves and calming tinctures.
The Rain royalty had assured her that, now that her potential was undeniable, she no longer had to concern herself with commoner problems like food or shelter. That was nice, she supposed. But she doubted the new chaperone they would select for her would have as practically useful advice like which common herbs abated infections or which flower buds dulled hunger.
She would still need to take care of herself.
A rustling in the distance made her fingers still.
The thick vegetation shuffled unnaturally, deliberately.
Being a metropolitan garden, the only possible intruder was human.
However, given her current infamy, she would have preferred a wild beast.
She heard the irritated grunts of a boy struggling through the dense foliage, his heavy steps crunching over twigs and leaves. N¨¦v¨¦ remained perfectly still, hoping he would pass by without noticing her.
Alas, luck had never been her ally.
With a final, clumsy push, the boy burst through the bristling bushes, his fine Cinder garb snagged with thorny spikes.
To most people, the nine-year-old was undoubtedly a young boy. To N¨¦v¨¦, he was massive. He was more than twice her age and still looked larger than his peers, while N¨¦v¨¦ was considered small for her own age.
The boy towered over N¨¦v¨¦; his dishevelled hair was tangled with leaves, his face ruddy with exertion. Scowling, he swiped at his clothes, dusting off the grime before his gaze locked onto hers¡ªor, more precisely, onto the colour of her clothes.
The boy reacted without hesitation, fanning a large ball of flame out of his fist and hurtling it at the little girl.
N¨¦v¨¦ leaned slightly to the side, letting the flames pass harmlessly by. The fire crashed into the small flower adjacent to her, reducing it to nothing but a blackened smear of ash.
She dropped into a defensive stance, her eyes darting over him, analyzing every detail.
Unfortunately, this child was much more skilled than the tournament contestant she previously fought, and his added size posed a daunting challenge for her.
Flames surged around him, engulfing his body in a thick, roiling inferno. Raging tongues of fire licked off his roused body; the heat rippled through the clearing, pressing against her skin in oppressive waves.
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He glared at her, eyes burning with pure, unfiltered hatred.
N¨¦v¨¦ braced herself, enveloping her body in a thin film of cool water. Though meagre in volume compared to her opponent''s raging flames, the liquid pulsed with concentrated essence, flowing like a second skin.
The boy''s fire surged, condensing around his dominant hand into a spear-like inferno. With a fierce leap, he lunged at her, driving his burning fist straight toward her chest.
N¨¦v¨¦ remained steady, keeping her body calm and her mind clear.
She twisted smoothly to the side at the last possible moment, his strike slicing through empty air. A smirk curled on her lips as she could see herself triumphing over this daunting challenger.
Then, the explosion came.
A fiery detonation erupted from his fist, sending a wave of scorching heat in every direction. Her watery armour hissed as it painfully evaporated into burning steam. Reflexively, she released control, letting whatever remaining liquid there was to splash onto the dirt below and muddying the ground before it could boil her alive.
The explosion''s resultant shockwave struck like a hammer. N¨¦v¨¦ was flung backward, crashing onto the hard garden floor. Every bruise and welt from her earlier punishment flared with searing pain, the fresh burns layering agony atop agony.
No time to breathe.
The boy was already upon her, his foot wreathed in flames as he aimed a brutal kick at her skull.
She rolled.
The blazing strike missed by inches, heat licking at her exposed skin. The moment his foot passed overhead, she reversed direction, rolling inward. Her legs snapped around his grounded limb in a fluid motion, yanking him off balance.
He crashed into the damp mud where her discarded water armour had pooled.
Before he could react, N¨¦v¨¦ seized control. The moisture surged, swallowing him whole. The mud sucked him downward, encasing his limbs, his chest, and his head.
She tightened her grip.
The moment his body was fully buried, she stripped the water away¡ªsolidifying the ground into an unyielding prison.
And then, she waited for him to suffocate.
Muffled cries rose from beneath the hardened ground. Unlike her opponent from earlier that day, this boy didn''t plead for mercy but rather angrily howled for vengeance.
He fought to free himself, channelling fire to crumble the caked dirt, but it only sent thin streams of smoke escaping through the few cracks in the ground.
N¨¦v¨¦ watched, unimpressed.
The smoke only revealed what air pockets she needed to plug to complete her entrapment. Once she fully sealed him in, any further attempts with fire just burned through his oxygen supply expediting his asphyxiation.
N¨¦v¨¦ waited a while for a silence to settle below her feet. She was fully content to let him die.
She had always been told by her parents and teachers that those of Cinder deserved nothing more than absolute animosity. Besides, it wasn''t too strange for the occasional sodality member to go mysteriously missing during the element festival.
Though given some time for pensive reflection, she realized that murdering this boy probably was not abiding by her laying low requirement, which she had been very explicitly ordered to follow by her royal patrons.
She sighed. If she let him go, surely everyone would understand this was just self-defence¡ right?
She really didn''t want to be punished again.
N¨¦v¨¦ siphoned moisture from the nearby plants, saturating the hardened clay until it softened back into pliable mud. With a flick of her magic, she loosened just enough of the ground for the boy''s head to break the surface.
His face emerged, pale and slack. The fury that once burned in his eyes had dulled to a vacant glaze. His breath came slow and uneven, his body too starved of air to do anything but focus on surviving.
N¨¦v¨¦ exhaled, relieved. She had nearly been too late.
For a long moment, he lay motionless, drinking in the air like a parched animal. Then, once he had recollected himself, his wrathful ire snapped back into place. His eyes sharpened, his expression twisting with rage.
"You¡ dirty¡ water¡ bug," he rasped, his voice weak but seething. "I''ll¡ kill you."
His threats barely registered to her as he was still fully immobilized by his muddy coffin. She pondered releasing him, but she still planned on relaxing here for a while longer, and he was clearly going to resume his attack the second he was released; rather, she chose that it would be best to just ignore the boy and resume her planned activities as if he wasn''t even there.
N¨¦v¨¦ walked over back towards where she had left her half-concocted medicine and returned to tending to her wounds now with the added task of making some soothing ointments for her newfound burns.
"Hey! Don''t ignore me!" He thrashed against the mud to no avail. "Do you even know who I am? Do you know who you picked a fight with? I''m Scoria Cinder¡ªTHE Cinder! As in, prince of the Sodality of Cinder! You''re just a dirty, pathetic commoner! There''s no one to protect you! When I get out of here, I''m going to¡ª"
N¨¦v¨¦ calmly readjusted the mud, sealing his mouth shut while leaving his nose free to breathe. She released her hold on the water and let out a relaxed sigh. She couldn''t kill him, but she certainly didn''t have to listen to him either. His furious shouting softened to muffled grunts, and eventually, he gave up on trying to curse her.
A few hours passed with her peacefully treating her wounds, reading a book she had brought, and at one point, when wanting a brief respite from studying, even tried her hand at braiding the boy''s dirty hair.
His hair wasn''t quite long enough for proper braids, but she found the repetitive motion soothing nonetheless. More surprising was the boy''s utter lack of resistance. He sat still beneath her hands, whether in quiet resignation or because he thought cooperating would make her forget about his slow, subtle attempts at escape.
N¨¦v¨¦ was fully aware of his attempts to escape, of course. She simply saw no need to intervene. He could barely conjure a flicker of flame in his tightly packed prison, and besides, she found studying how he toyed with his fire surprisingly educational. It was always useful to collect information on the enemy¡ whatever that meant.
Finally, with her treatment completed, and her allotted break time coming to an end, N¨¦v¨¦ turned her focus back to her own training. With no natural water source, she was resigned to siphoning moisture from the plants and air. She worked meticulously, drawing in the ambient humidity and shaping it in complex patterns. Slowly, the air thinned, the ground cracked, and the barometric shift grew noticeable.
To her mild surprise, in the atmospheric change, the clay muzzle sealing Scoria''s mouth crumbled apart. He sputtered and spat, gagging out the dirt, but for once, he didn''t launch straight into shouting. N¨¦v¨¦ cast him a brief glance but said nothing, returning to her exercises.
Minutes passed in near silence before he finally spoke. "How''d you get those injuries?"
N¨¦v¨¦ remained focused on her practice, concentrating intently on her controlled water. She replied without sparing him a glance. "Punishment."
Scoria scoffed, shifting slightly in his muddy prison. "Well, that''s what you get for trying to murder someone in the middle of the festival." His voice carried a forced restraint¡ªhe knew if he got too heated, she''d silence him again.
"I didn''t kill him," N¨¦v¨¦ corrected flatly as she tried to branch her controlled water in two separate directions at once. The water wobbled as she struggled to multitask, and she frowned at the failure before trying again. "I was just securing a decisive victory. I wasn''t expecting him to be so incapable."
Scoria let out a sharp breath, part scoff, part bitter laugh. Even if he hated to admit it, she wasn''t wrong. "Sinecure is a spoiled brat. His parents practically bought his way into the tournament." He hesitated, then muttered, "Doesn''t change the fact that you''re a water bug, but¡ maybe I attacked you too hastily. Even I sometimes hurt people more than I mean to when I forget how weak kids my age are."
Silence stretched between them.
Scoria waited, expecting some kind of response¡ªa returned apology or an offer of a truce, some kind of extended hand, anything.
None came.
N¨¦v¨¦ continued her practice as if he weren''t even there.
Scoria''s brows furrowed, and he had to restrain himself from yelling against this insult. "Here I am, trying to do the noble thing and make amends, and you just give me the cold shoulder. I don''t know if all you water bugs are like this or if it''s just because you''re a commoner, but you should fix that rotten attitude."
Once again, N¨¦v¨¦ ignored him.
To Scoria, her silence was a deliberate insult¡ªan arrogant display of superiority, a mockery of his royal lineage.
Truthfully, she just didn''t have anything to say.
Scoria exhaled sharply, straightening as much as his buried body would allow, his voice shifting from frustration to certainty. "I heard they''re moving you up to the youth bracket next year. That means you won''t be fighting weaklings anymore¡ªyou''ll be fighting me. And I don''t plan on giving up my trophy, especially not to a water bug and definitely not to a snot-nosed kid." His lips curled into a sneer. "I''ll make sure to beat you senseless and wipe that annoying, haughty attitude off your face while I''m at it."
At last, N¨¦v¨¦ turned to look at him.
She made a purposeful gesture of looking him up and down at his body buried to the shoulders and raised a single questioning eyebrow.
Chapter 61 pt. 3: Prodigies
The rest of the Elemental Festival passed in uneasy quiet. N¨¦v¨¦ never saw her old chaperone again. In the woman''s place was someone new¡ªan older, more irritable bat draped in heavy jewels. Her words were slow and overly complicated, her nose perpetually raised as if the very air offended her. She clearly thought she had better things to do than tend to a commoner, and N¨¦v¨¦, in turn, decided she had better things to do than tolerate her.
N¨¦v¨¦ took every opportunity she could to hide within the Ersatz Garden, determined to wait out the festival in peace. Unfortunately, she was not the only one with that idea.
Every day, without fail, that annoying Cinder Prince was there to greet her. She wasn''t the only one trying to escape the irritants of the outside world. Although while she hid for survival, he merely hid to avoid his chores. At first, there was tension¡ªtwo unwelcome presences from opposing factions in the same retreat, neither particularly fond of the other.
But eventually, an unspoken truce formed.
The garden became neutral ground, a sanctuary untouched by their duties or the expectations of the outside world. They did not speak of the tournament, of nobility, of the Sodalities that had made them enemies before they were old enough to understand why. It was a quiet place, a hidden space just for them, where silence was not loneliness but something almost like peace.
The elemental festival and her rest eventually came to an end, and N¨¦v¨¦ was escorted to a different carriage than she had arrived in. It was an entirely different beast than what she was used to. Ornate filigree curled over every frame, the windows were clear instead of foggy and scratched, and the seats were plush velvet. For a fleeting moment, she almost looked forward to the ride.
Then her new chaperone stepped inside, and her stomach dropped. She would be trapped with that malevolent witch for days.
What followed was a torturous experience, a barrage of corrections so constant it felt like the carriage itself had deemed her unworthy. Apparently, nothing N¨¦v¨¦ did was ''proper'' enough. She didn''t sit right. She didn''t speak right. She didn''t eat right. There was always something.
The scenery was different, but the rules were always the same. N¨¦v¨¦ knew how to stay quiet and follow instructions.
At least the carriage itself was nice. The seats were comfortable, the ride smooth, and the windows wide enough for her to lose herself in the ever-changing scenery. It almost made the trip bearable.
Until they rode straight through her hometown without stopping.
N¨¦v¨¦ pressed her finger to the glass, her breath fogging the surface. "We just passed my house."
The chaperone barely spared her a glance, her expression set in a perpetual scowl. "Do not point, N¨¦v¨¦. It is unbecoming of a citizen of Rain."
N¨¦v¨¦ lowered her hand, lips pressing into a pout. "But¡ aren''t I going home?"
The chaperone finally turned to face her, eyes sharp with disdain. "Do not talk back to your elders, N¨¦v¨¦. It makes you petulant."
N¨¦v¨¦ clenched her fists in her lap. How was she supposed to understand anything if she wasn''t allowed to ask questions? Nobles were strange. She exhaled slowly, pressing her forehead against the cool glass, watching her home shrink in the distance. "Mama was going to bake me some pudding when I won the tournament."
The chaperone scoffed. "Worry not, N¨¦v¨¦. You won''t be eating that commoner slop anymore."
N¨¦v¨¦''s fingers curled tighter. It was going to be a long year.
"And sit up straight. A proper woman should always keep a straight back."
A very long year.
Ten-year-old Scoria trudged through the underbrush, grumbling at the endless thorns clawing at his skin. Burrs clung to his pristine clothes, and he swatted at them with increasing irritation as he pushed through to the familiar clearing.
As expected, N¨¦v¨¦ was already there.
The five-year-old stood poised, a whip of water coiled and ready in her small hands, her gaze flat and unreadable.
Scoria barely had time to sigh before throwing up his hands in exasperation. "Oh, come on. I told you yesterday. And the day before. And the day before that¡ªI''m not here to beat you up." He tilted his head, smirking. "I''m saving that for when we face off in the finals."
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For the first time in as long as she could remember, N¨¦v¨¦''s blank expression cracked. A small chuckle slipped past her lips. "You mean you didn''t come here to get beat up."
Scoria grunted at her obvious goading. "I''m totally different from last year, and unlike you, probably still drinking your mom''s milk, I hit puberty!" Scoria declared proudly with a voice crack to match.
N¨¦v¨¦ tilted her head, unimpressed.
She had hoped that this year, she wouldn''t have to deal with Scoria constantly barging into her moments of peace in the Ersatz Garden. But just like last year, the moment he figured out her schedule, he was there¡ªevery single day¡ªgreeting her.
She might have been able to avoid him by coming at a different time, but that wasn''t an option. Ever since her debut battle last year, her life had been strictly regimented. The royal family had recognized her talent, and from that moment on, every second of her day had been planned, controlled, and filled with relentless training.
Ironically, the start of this years elemental festival tournament was her first proper break since she''d been under her new regime. They wanted her in top condition for her fights, so her training was blissfully postponed.
Where others found competition stressful, N¨¦v¨¦ saw it as a rare chance to relax, a brief reprieve where she could let her muscles recover. Compared to the brutal sparring partners assigned to her by the royal family, the children in the tournaments were barely a warm-up.
Scoria sat at the opposite end of the clearing keeping his distance from N¨¦v¨¦. She had once asked Scoria if instead, he could just come to this special spot at a different time, but it appeared he was in very similar straits to her as he, too, was tightly confined in his schedule.
So once again, for the second year in a row, they shared this clearing as a rare escape from the burdens waiting outside, and in return, they left each other alone.
Or at least, that was how it was supposed to go.
They haven''t announced it yet," Scoria began, unable to help himself, "but Bennu told me that you, Firn, and I are being moved up to the Adolescent Bracket next year. People are already calling us the ''prodigy trio!''"
N¨¦v¨¦ sighed and reluctantly pulled her eyes from her book, fixing him with a glower.
Scoria smirked proudly, "You heard me right, Bennu the Phoenix, Grand Wizard of the Murrugan Squad, talks to me. He''s been training me all year, so you''d better rethink that annoying arrogance of yours. What you saw in my previous battles, That was nothing. I''ve been saving my real techniques just for you."
N¨¦v¨¦ rolled her eyes in exasperation. "I don''t care about that. I thought a part of this ''garden peace treaty'' was that we don''t talk to each other."
Scoria blinked. "Oh."
A lustrous arras of mingling waters unfurled in midair, so vast that it cast a sprawling shadow over the open field below.
The floating tapestry depicted a grand battle¡ªan army of resolute warriors trampling over their retreating foes, the chaotic motion captured in liquid form. The sheer scale of the composition rivalled that of a towering building, its depth enriched by countless woven currents, each shaping spells, trees, and soldiers into a breathtaking tableau of magically directed waters.
Coloured dyes coursed through hidden streams in the water, breathing a vibrant chroma into the scene. The victors, clad in vibrant sky-blue garb, stood proud and unyielding, their skin luminous with life while a swirling sphere of deep brown liquid gleamed in their eyes. Their fallen adversaries, by contrast, were draped in muted reds and oranges, their hues subdued as though the life had been drained from them.
While the undercurrent was knotted in a convoluted web of rushing dyes, the surface of the mosaic remained completely still.
So far, the dyes had yet to reach the very top of the display leaving the overhanging spells and trees still dull in the plain blues of pure water. Here and there, ambitious streams of pigment crept toward the untouched regions, but the underlying currents resisted, making the grand mosaic tremble ever so slightly.
"Stop!"
The aggravated shout of an elderly woman shattered the moment, heralding the abrupt dissolution of the grandiose sculpture. Within seconds, the entire mass of water dispersed into the air, thickening it with dense humidity that left everyone and everything around moist with thick dew.
"How many times must we redo this simple scene?" the woman snapped, her voice sharp with exasperation. "I tell you again and again that when you adjust your conjurations, you must only move within a localized area. If you keep forcing your power through all at once, you''ll destabilize the entire creation! If I hadn''t stopped you, would you have just kept pushing until you collapsed the spell and flooded the entire town?"
She dragged her rugged fingers through her now-damp gray hair, letting out a weary sigh.
"No, ma''am."
The soft, apathetic voice of a young child rang back. She was a small thing, her skin vibrant and her cheeks full¡ªnot malnourished or unhealthy by any means, merely of a naturally slight frame. Even for her young age of six, she was short, and her arms were so thin that one might think a strong wind could snap them apart.
Like her instructor, she was clad in the customary training garb of the Sodality of Rain¡ªa light, full-body dress woven from blue hydrophobic fibres, designed so that the dew from dissipating so many water spells would simply roll off without soaking the fabric.
"Keep your station in mind, N¨¦v¨¦," the instructor continued coolly. "Just because you are to be betrothed to Master Firn does not change anything; you will be no more than a concubine, a brood wench. Always remember you will never be more than a commoner, a tool of the Sodality. And tools have no place for arrogance or complacency."
The young girl stood perfectly still, betraying nothing in her expression or posture. "Yes, ma''am."
"Good. We depart for Proselyte early tomorrow, and the Rain Royalty wants you in top condition for it. With that in mind, I have been instructed to limit your training to only eight hours today. Tomorrow''s session will be delayed until after we arrive, so enjoy the rest while you can, N¨¦v¨¦."
N¨¦v¨¦ responded with the same detached tone. "Yes, ma''am."
Chapter 61 pt. 4: Promises
Strangely enough, N¨¦v¨¦ found herself actually anticipating Scoria''s usual intrusions into her secluded garden spot this year. Even as a child of the enemy, he had become something of a constant with which she felt a kinship. They were two prodigies seeking refuge from the weight of expectations in this cozy little garden.
He showed up every other day of the festival, but it looked like he wasn''t coming today.
She could understand why, in two days they were supposed to have their first duel of the year against each other. Or they would have¡ªif he had won his match this morning.
But he didn''t.
This year, the two of them, along with her fianc¨¦ Master Firn, had all been advanced to the Adolescent Bracket of the elemental tournament. Master Firn and Scoria were both battling a whole age group higher than themselves, and N¨¦v¨¦ was fighting an astonishing two age groups higher.
It was the first time in the entire festival''s history that there were three children advancing a stage, let alone one of the children being advanced two stages, and it was clear why this state was unprecedented.
Their opponents all ranged between the ages of sixteen and nineteen, and they dwarfed the children in terms of both raw physical strength and surpassed them in experience. Even N¨¦v¨¦, who had dominated in past years, found herself struggling to hold onto the top of the leaderboard.
Firn had already been eliminated¡ªwhich she knew would only deepen his acrimonious jealousy toward her¡ªand Scoria was now just two losses away from following suit.
If Scoria wanted a chance to duel against her this year he would have to win every one of his matches henceforth to face her in the finals.
Something which everyone was now fully aware would not happen.
The Elemental Festival of 3991 had finally come to an end, and later that day, N¨¦v¨¦ would return to the Sodality of Rain. The last few days of the festival had been miserable. With the Adolescent Bracket concluded, she had been forced back into her usual gruelling training while Master Firn refused to speak to her in his childish disdain towards her victory in the face of his failures.
And through it all, she never once saw Scoria.
After skipping the garden on that day of his first loss, Scoria had gone on further to lose his next two matches, knocking him out of the tournament in seventh place. Still, it was far more impressive than Master Firn''s dismal fifteenth¡ªbut she knew Scoria wouldn''t see it that way. He especially wouldn''t want to confront the girl half his age who had taken first place.
Yet, for some reason, N¨¦v¨¦ found herself still making one last trip to their clearing before she left.
She didn''t know why, nor did she know when she started calling it their clearing. But she did.
When she arrived, she was surprised to see Scoria already there.
From what she heard; he was supposed to have left the day prior¡ not that she was paying any attention to what he was doing or anything.
"N¨¦v¨¦!" He shot to his feet, his voice eager, but then quickly cleared his throat and corrected himself.
"N¨¦v¨¦," he repeated, this time trying for a more composed, serious tone.
She didn''t know why, but for some reason the sight of his antics brought an unfamiliar warmth to her chest. A smirk almost reached her lips before she caught herself, masking it behind a more practiced expression of disapproval.
She still hadn''t quite gotten used to the whole expressing thing, but since being betrothed to Master Firn, she was being well trained for noble etiquette, which helped a lot.
"I''m sorry for ghosting you like that," Scoria admitted, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes low. "I just... felt embarrassed, I guess."
It was clear he had prepared for this moment, but now that he was standing here, the words weren''t coming as easily as he''d expected.
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"Anyway," he went on, his voice regaining its usual fire, "next year will be different. I''m gonna train harder than I ever have before, and I''ll finally get my revenge. Just you wait so I can beat you up. I''ll beat you so hard you''ll completely forget about Firn!"
N¨¦v¨¦ tilted her head, genuinely puzzled. "What does Master Firn have to do with anything?"
She didn''t understand what Scoria was trying to say. But somehow, even without understanding, his words gave her a strange sense of comfort.
She made a mental note to refine her noble etiquette further¡ªperhaps then she would learn how to decipher such odd, incongruous feelings.
The river: it was an enormous biome deeper than the tallest castles containing a breathtaking ecosystem unparalleled in diversity. It was a world within a world. Its elaborate intricacies could never be fully appreciated with just a glance at the simple sways of its surface.
Beneath its dark mirror lay a realm of unparalleled complexity, its vast ecosystem woven from countless unseen interactions.
Life and death, birth and growth.
Thousands of species colliding in an eternal ballet¡ªfeeding, sleeping, exploring, loving, fighting, warring, all to never be seen by humanity.
Except for N¨¦v¨¦.
Standing at the river''s center, poised atop its surface, she felt its entire history whisper to her. She heard every silent tragedy and triumph.
She spat out a viscous string of blood. Her mind flickered in and out of consciousness, wavering between presence and oblivion.
Yet, beneath her feet, the universe unfolded. She was everywhere at once¡ªher heartbeat in a thousand creatures, her eyes seeing through all of theirs. Their sorrow and joy, their hunger and fear. To this world, she was mother and reaper.
She was God.
Matron of reality.
But she was still imperfect.
The power coursing through her did not come without cost. It was ripping her apart, wringing every last drop of energy from her failing body. Her muscles had withered, her limbs trembled, her throat burned with thirst, and her vision blurred with tears.
It was physically painful to maintain her territory.
And yet¡
More than any training she had endured, more than any battle she had fought¡ªthis was fun.
It was beautiful. And in time, she learned to love her river.
She loved the children of her dominion. She loved her universe.
Above all, the vastness of her training ground gave her the perfect space to discreetly hone her secret skill.
With time, she became disconnected from her Sodality. There was once a time when she might have eagerly shared her discovery with them, might have sought their approval, their praise. But now the discoveries were hers and hers alone.
She knew her secret would forever be hers. None of the incompetents of her Sodality could ever accomplish what she did. No one, not even Firn, had even a glimmer of hope of obtaining it.
She planned to secretly train and unveil her skill at the upcoming elemental festival to show Scoria.
She didn''t know why he was the first person she wanted to show her secret to. Perhaps it was the kinship she felt¡ªthe two of them, outcasts standing above the masses. Deities among the inept.
"Enough."
The word of release.
She exhaled, and the river vanished in an instant, its vast body dissolving into clouds that drifted away across the continent. In its absence, an endless rain of sea life cascaded from the sky, stretching from horizon to horizon¡ªthe creatures of her domain displaced, abandoned, their homes erased with a single command.
Once, she had watched as the pilgrims wandered into her world. She watched as they settled, as they grew¡ªfamilies forming, lives intertwined, all so intimately connected to her heart. And yet, she had cast them aside without hesitation.
Now she watched them fall, their river gone, mouths gasping for breath. Suffocating.
N¨¦v¨¦ ensured to have the water below her and her instructor relinquish slowly like an elevator descending them casually to the ground that hid impossibly far down.
"Only two months," her instructor scolded, unable to hide their disappointment. "your progress has slowed. Why can''t you improve upon the simplest of tasks? Are you failing me, your Sodality, on purpose? After all that we have given you, the clothes we have dressed upon you, the food we have fed you, the money we have paid to your parents. You owe us N¨¦v¨¦. When I tell you to do better. Do better!"
N¨¦v¨¦''s face refused to return any sense of apology or reaction at all.
Internally, she was ecstatic.
She hadn''t been practicing her secret skill during her first attempt at creating a river ecosystem. The fact that she managed to improve both skills simultaneously was an undoubted accomplishment.
Besides, she had far given up on any possibility of actually pleasing her instructor. It was clear that more was always expected of N¨¦v¨¦ regardless of her results.
N¨¦v¨¦ collapsed to the ground, her pain only obscured by her satisfaction. Not even her instructor''s scoff and following words could discourage her. "You will have one day''s rest, then try again. Do not disappoint this time."
Chapter 61 pt. 5: A Talent for Nothing
A tree exploded, its trunk shattering in a deafening crack, sending splintered shrapnel in every direction. N¨¦v¨¦ stormed through the Ersatz garden, her breath ragged, her hands trembling with rage. Every step left a trail of destruction¡ªa thrash of water uprooting bushes, an errant shot stripping branches bare. She destroyed indiscriminately, tearing through anything that dared obstruct her path toward her clearing.
And it was her clearing!
Hers.
Not his.
Not anymore.
Her fingers curled into fists as she fought the urge to scream. She didn¡¯t have to worry that Scoria might be sullying her private space¡ª she made very sure that he wouldn¡¯t be coming here anytime soon, he wouldn¡¯t be going anywhere any time soon. She was very thorough in their fight earlier that day. If he could even move, it would be a miracle.
His performance was so pitiful compared to hers it was aggravating. She felt betrayed, he was so weak it wasn¡¯t even worth showing him her secret skill.
She had been looking forward to their battle for so long. She had been anticipating the moment when she would finally show him the secret technique she had kept hidden for so long.
But he betrayed her.
The realization made her stomach churn.
She had trained, she had pushed herself further than anyone else. She had pushed herself for him. She had honed her secret skill, anticipating the perfect moment to unveil it¡ªto prove to him that she was beyond him, beyond anyone.
And yet¡ it hadn¡¯t been necessary.
He was weak.
Pathetically, disgustingly weak.
She lashed out again, a surge of water bursting from the ground like an uncoiling serpent, wrapping around a bristling bush and wrenching it from the garden. Roots snapped. Soil sprayed. She flung the entire thing aside like trash.
How dare he be so disappointing.
How dare he make her waste her time.
She wanted to fight him. The real him. The one who would push her, who would challenge her.
Not¡ whatever that had been.
The air was thick with humidity from her rampage.
And waiting for her, standing motionless in the center of the space she had claimed as her own, was a woman.
N¨¦v¨¦ stopped, shoulders rising and falling with each breath, and took in the intruder.
N¨¦v¨¦ had never seen anyone like her before.
The woman was entirely bathed in white¡ªa phantom of snow. Her long, stark-white hair spilled from beneath an equally white, ludicrously tall wide-brimmed witch¡¯s hat. TThe folds of her pristine robes draped like untouched snowfall, swallowing any hint of shadow. Even her skin was a perfect alabaster, devoid of imperfection, devoid of warmth.
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The only thing that broke the monochrome was her eye.
That single, revolting eye.
Clouded red, unfocused, it drifted in its socket completely unseeing. N¨¦v¨¦ could only give out an internal sigh of thanks that the woman¡¯s other eye was hidden under a white eyepatch.
Her ears¡ªinhumanly long¡ªtwitched at the sound of N¨¦v¨¦¡¯s stomping feet. Then, with a slow, deliberate grace, she turned to face the child. ¡°Disappointed by your toy?¡±
The very mention of Scoria sent another seething rage ripping through N¨¦v¨¦, hot and acidic. ¡°He lied to me!¡± Her teeth clenched so tightly it hurt. ¡°We were supposed to be the same, we were supposed to be rivals!¡±
The woman lifted one of her hands¡ªunnaturally long fingers curling with a too fluid motion. She gestured N¨¦v¨¦ closer.
¡°You are special, N¨¦v¨¦,¡± she murmured. ¡°You won¡¯t find anyone else with your talent¡ at least, not around here.¡±
The words felt like ice water poured over the fire of her anger, but it only made the flames sizzle and rage harder.
¡°HE was supposed to have that talent! HE abandoned me!¡± N¨¦v¨¦¡¯s nails dug into her palms. ¡°I thought he was different. I thought he understood! But he¡¯s just like the rest of them¡ªjust as stupid and weak and pathetic as the rest of them!¡± Her voice cracked. The fury spilled over and out her eyes, ugly tears streaking down her cheek, hot and humiliating, but she didn¡¯t bother wiping them away.
Then the white woman moved, swift and soundless, and before N¨¦v¨¦ could react, she was enveloped in a long embrace.
It was the first time N¨¦v¨¦ was ever hugged.
The white woman spoke with a musically soothing calm. ¡°I heard they barred you from the Elemental Festival,¡± she murmured. ¡°Too powerful for the Adolescent Bracket, but they refuse to enter a seven-year-old into the main event. How very¡ small-minded of them.¡±
N¨¦v¨¦ shook her head fiercely, burying her face in the woman¡¯s chest, gripping at the endless white fabric like it could anchor her into stability.
¡°I don¡¯t care about that.¡± Her voice came out muffled, raw.
¡°I don¡¯t care about the Elemental Festival, or the Sodality of Rain, or the Sodality of Cinder, or Scoria. I don¡¯t care about any of them. Their obsession with fighting each other is stupid, and their training is stupid and it¡¯s all so stupid!¡±
Her body trembled, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
The woman simply held her, unmoving, as if she had all the time in the world.
And for the first time, in a very, very long time¡
N¨¦v¨¦ felt something close to relief.
The White Woman stroked N¨¦v¨¦¡¯s hair gently. She allowed the girl a moment to cry, to let the raw storm of emotions pass. Then, in that same eerily soft voice, she asked, ¡°Well, if you have no reason to stay¡ then why don¡¯t you just leave?¡±
N¨¦v¨¦¡¯s breath hitched. She pulled away slightly, lifting her head to stare up in confusion.
Leave?
The White Woman tilted her head, her long, thin fingers adjusting the wide brim of her hat. ¡°You are special, N¨¦v¨¦, but you are not the only special person out there. I can take you somewhere where we are all special. And together, we are going to change the world.¡±
N¨¦v¨¦ stiffened in disbelief. The White Woman smiled. ¡°The sodalities won¡¯t have to fight each other anymore. And you¡¡± The White Woman reached out, the tips of her fingers ghosting over N¨¦v¨¦¡¯s damp cheek. ¡°You won¡¯t have to be so different from everyone else.¡±
A tremor of hope, so small and so unfamiliar, bloomed in N¨¦v¨¦¡¯s throat.
She hiccupped between her tears, her voice fragile, uncertain. ¡°Really?¡±
The White Woman knelt down, bringing herself face to face with the child. Though her clouded eye drifted, failing to make proper contact. N¨¦v¨¦ actually found herself thankful she wouldn¡¯t have to face the direct gaze of that horrible eye.
The woman brought N¨¦v¨¦ back into another hug.
It was warm. Comforting. Safe. A hug had only ever been something seen from afar, enacted between two foreign characters. And now, it was something for her.
N¨¦v¨¦ hesitated, then, with small trembling arms, returned the embrace.
She didn¡¯t want to let go.
She didn¡¯t want this feeling to stop.
She wanted more.
The White Woman whispered against her ear. ¡°Really. Just you wait, my little N¨¦v¨¦¡ In eight years, during the Grand Centennial Tournament, we will take all of this pain, this hate¡ªand we will cast it away.¡±
N¨¦v¨¦ wiped her eyes countless times trying to wash them clear enough so that she could properly see her savior. Her voice was barely more than a whisper. ¡°Who are you?¡±
The white woman smiled at N¨¦v¨¦ ¡°I am the White Witch.¡±
Chapter 62: Bottled Value pt. 1
A deep shade of red pulsed through the darkened cave, flooding every shadowed nook and every hidden crevice with an ominous monochrome. But the crimson dye was fleeting, its brilliance slowly fading away until darkness nearly swallowed the chamber until only a single pillar of red stone at the room''s centre remained illuminated, its dim glow barely enough to outline its own form.
Then, as if drawing breath, the pillar regained its strength¡ªuntil, with a rumbling pulse, another wave of red light burst forth, washing over the cavern anew. After, the stone dimmed once more, and the cycle repeated.
The rhythmic waves of bleary light exposed the cave''s every peculiarity, if only for a brief revealing moment. In the short revelations of those pulses, a strange sight emerged¡ªan assortment of objects hovering near the ceiling. Rocks, books, cups, and other scattered oddities drifted together in silent defiance of gravity, suspended by nothingness.
Atop the glowing red pillar, a girl lay on her back, arms outstretched, fingers delicately pinching a splintered shard of flint. Like the monolith beneath her, the fragment synchronously pulsed with the same soft crimson glow.
The waves of red came in steady, all-encompassing beats, each one washing through her, like a guttural tremor swallowing her whole. She felt it in her bones, in her breath, in the very rhythm of her pulsating life. Slowly, her very own heartbeat adjusted its regular pumping to match the monolith''s unyielding cadence. They beat as one¡ªstone and flesh in a perfect, calm harmony.
Meanwhile, that small crimson flint stole her attention, its faint glow reflected in wide, unblinking brown eyes. A hollow obsession corrupted her glazed gaze as if the shard had ensnared her very soul. Eyes so deeply enthralled by the flint yet simultaneously not quite present in the room either.
She pocketed the red flint and¡
A pair of grand oaken doors swung open, their weighty creak swallowed by the lustrous foyer beyond. The eager intruder strode inside, unbidden.
On the stairwell, a servant¡ªhurrying to answer the incoming guest¡ªhalted midway upon recognizing the intruder. For a fleeting moment, trained decorum faltered. Despite years of discipline, a sharp, disapproving glare slipped through.
The girl entered the massive greeting hall of this noble estate, her shabby rundown clothes of frayed wool a jarring contrast against her surrounding opulence. The servant''s barely concealed ire didn''t help fend against the unwelcoming coldness.
Yet, despite the silent rejection pressing in on her, the girl couldn''t have been happier to be there. She met the servant''s disdain with a wide, deviously amused grin, drinking in their disapproval as though it were a personal delight.
The intruder lifted her arms without so much as a greeting, presenting a wide clay tray piled high with dark, fluffy chocolate squares. Between her fingers dangled a small, overstuffed brown bag bulging from the plentiful substances within.
"I brought brownies!" she declared, grinning.
The servant swallowed their disdain, forcing the thinnest veneer of cordiality. With stiff reluctance, they gestured for the girl to follow. The servants'' movements were more warden than host, and their posture was more watchful than welcoming.
Wordlessly, the servant led her through the mansion''s grand corridors, finally ushering her into one of its many opulent lounging rooms.
The lounge, vast enough to dwarf even the grand greeting hall, was already occupied with a few early arrivals. Scattered throughout the space, a handful of teenagers¡ªeach close to the girl''s age¡ªand a few unfortunate servants busied themselves with preparations for an upcoming event.
But she paid them no mind. Her gaze cut past the idle rabble, locking eyes instead onto a single object across the room¡ªa cube-shaped artifact that instantly seized her attention.
Without a second thought, the girl shoved her tray and bulging brown bag haphazardly into the servant''s arms, barely sparing them a glance, her excitement flaring, too wild to contain.
The girl erupted with giddy glee, her voice warped by the heavy accent of her impoverished upbringing. "OH MY GOD! Is that the Incalescent firebox?!"
Heedless of any response, she dashed toward the object, her feet skidding at the last moment to avoid crashing straight into it. Her hand moved but then stopped, hovering just above its surface. Her hands trembled with restraint, unwilling to tarnish the beauteous jewel with her touch. Her wide eyes gleamed with something close to reverence¡ªpure, unfiltered love.
She toured a circle about the device, drinking in every detail with hungry eyes. It was a sturdy brown box slightly tapered at the back. The front surface¡ªa convex pane of deep, inky black¡ªgleamed like a darkened mirror, reflecting only the faintest hints of light. Atop the box, two long, slender metal rods jutted upward, angling away from each other in a way that seemed both strange yet undeniably intentional.
A young boy, only a year or two older than the girl but markedly taller and broader, approached.
Everything about him stood in stark contrast to her¡ªhis garments were richly coloured and intricately layered, his skin unblemished, his hair smooth as silk. When he spoke, his voice carried the crisp precision of practiced elegance. Every syllable was perfectly enunciated.
"Yep, I was worried for a while that it wouldn''t arrive in time for the show tonight, but luckily, it came in just this morning. Turns out, getting a high-profile item like this shipped out to some no-name hamlet like this isn''t exactly easy."
Despite the refinement of his words, an unmistakable excitement bled through. His carefully polished demeanour cracked just enough to reveal his own boyish enthusiasm, his face alight with mirth¡ªmuch to the silent disapproval of the ever-watchful servant.
The girl studied the marvellous relic from a distance, soaking up all its beauty, but distance could only satiate so much curiosity. As much as she tried to hold back, she needed more. "Well, are you going to turn it on? Let''s see this baby purr!" she demanded, her voice tinged with impatience.
The boy''s verve soon turned to hesitance. He hadn''t actually tested the machine yet, driven by a foolish fear that, upon activation, it might fail. It was a silly concern, really¡ªwhat did it matter whether he turned it on now or later? And yet, the doubt lingered.
The girl''s eager look broke through any of his self-conscious defences, and he knew he would have to push through if only for her.
With a deep breath, the boy steeled himself and moved to the side of the box. Trying to mask his nerves with a veneer of nonchalance, he gestured toward the controls. "Sure. The control dials are on the side here. Though nothing''s being broadcast right now, so all you''ll get is static."
The boy was using all kinds of terminology that were completely foreign to the girl, but unlike the typically irritable gravitas of unnecessarily flowery noble speech, she was loving every second of the created befuddlement. "What''s static?"
The boy flicked a switch jutting from the box''s side, and suddenly, the black pane at the front of the box whirred to life into a scattering of white and black dots incessantly jittering in an unplaceable pattern, all while chittering with a constant shuttering drone.
"That is static," he explained, his voice barely audible over the noise.
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To an outsider, the box whined with an irritating sting. But for the girl, the moment the machine hummed to life, it danced with divine music. She was instantly energized by its complex excitations.
It was as though the machine had reached into her very veins, intertwining with her own lifeblood. She could feel the copper ropes¡ªthose delicate, sinuous snakes¡ªinside, pulsing with power. She sensed that hidden current waving its way through the copper to awaken the black pane into that mesmerizing canvas of noise.
"This. Is. Amazing!" she breathed, her voice thick with awe and delight.
The two teen''s giddy revelry was then interrupted by an unsure query from behind, "Excuse me, Sir Yearn, where do you want to put the candy?"
The girl couldn''t help herself. She cupped a fist over her mouth to stifle a chortle. "Sir? Hey Yearn, I didn''t realize you invited jesters to this party."
She turned to face the newcomer who had interrupted them. The boy, just like her host, was decked out in a wild, multi-coloured array of flamboyant costumes. He probably thought himself quite the handsome figure, but to her eyes, the extravagant garb only confirmed her earlier claim: a jester through and through.
Yearn raised a hand to cover his growing smirk, but the newcomer clearly did not appreciate the humour. The new boy''s face turned as red as his shirt collar, the noble not taking the offence lightly, "How dare a dirty pea¡ª"
Yearn swiftly stepped between the two, his tone calm but firm, ready to de-escalate the issue. "Woah, Puce, relax. She''s cool."
"But she''s not even using any honorifics to address you!" Puce exclaimed, flinging an accusatory hand to the girl in question.
"And you don''t need to either, at least not while my parents are gone. Let me formally introduce you two. Puce, this is Tiffany; you know, the one I talked to you about?" Yearn seemed to emphasize the end of his statement as if referencing a very directed conversation they must have had earlier.
Tiffany didn''t even try to hide her delight at the thought of the snobby noble Yearn needing to warn his friends about her before introducing them. Even better was the drastic shift in Puce''s demeanour after Yearn''s clarification.
"And Tiffany, this is Puce, first son of Earl Sorrel. He will be staying at this residence for the next few weeks, so I hope that you can go easy on him¡ please."
A mischievous grin tugged at Tiffany''s lips as she considered him. "Don''t worry, Puce, I don''t bite¡ much." She extended her hand out in an offering to shake his.
Puce squirmed, visibly uncomfortable, his gaze flickering from her calloused hand to Yearn before forcing a strained smile and returning the gesture.
Tiffany released his hand, her attention drifting over his shoulder to where he had come from earlier. "So what''s this about candy?"
Puce, still frowning at his now-tainted hand, glanced back to Tiffany in confusion. "You''re the one that brought them over didn''t you?"
Tiffany paused, her brow furrowed in thought, trying to piece together what he meant. Then, as the realization hit her, she sprang with jubilation.
She jumped upward, looping one arm around Puce''s neck and squishing his cheeks with the other. "Oh my goodness, he''s so precious! Yearn, can we keep him?"
As soon as Tiffany took hold of him, Puce tried his best to squirm out of her grip but somehow found himself incapable of matching the dainty girl''s strength. It wasn''t that she was particularly strong, but his own strength appeared to be somehow withheld from him by some seemingly supernatural force. "Unhand me, wench!"
Tiffany paused, her eyes glancing down at the flustered boy trapped within the crook of her arm. She sputtered with laughter, the absurdity of his words too much to resist. "Wench?" she chuckled. "Okay, at first I thought you were kind of a pansy, but I take that back. Yearn, this guy''s a riot. I think I''m in love."
Yearn merely shook his head in expected disappointment. "I thought you were going to go easy on him?"
Tiffany quickly released Puce, then pointed an accusatory finger at Yearn, her expression utterly deadpan. "I never agreed to that."
Yearn rolled his eyes and made his way toward a nearby table where the servant who had guided Tiffany earlier was arranging a buffet. "So, what sorts of ''candies'' do you have?"
Tiffany''s face lit up at the question, as though she had been waiting for someone to ask since her arrival. "Hey Puce, say what."
Taken by surprise, Puce replied with the requested, confused question, "¡?" But as his mind moved, his lips didn''t respond, remaining completely still. Similarly, his entire body froze in place mid-step for just that one moment.
Out of the servant''s hands, a small brown bag flew through the air and landed gently into Tiffany''s waiting hands.
"I got everything you could ever want for a good party!" Tiffany said eagerly, her excitement barely contained as she pulled smaller containers from within the bag, revealing a diverse array of pills, capsules, and powders of different sizes and colours.
"I got molly, Venin, flakka, Fillip, coke, Xylose, Levulose, Odium, A whole bunch of papaver-based goodness, Gore root, White nectar-"
She kept pulling out more and more bottles of the varied substances, releasing them in the air where they idly floated, suspended impossibly like a strange, chaotic pharmacy. Puce and Yearn stood frozen, their mouths agape as they watched, stunned into disbelief.
Behind them, the servant had stopped in their tracks, visibly pale, shocked still by the sight of Tiffany''s expanding arsenal of substances.
Eventually, Yearn shot an arm forward, halting Tiffany''s eager showcase, interrupting her with a little concern tinged in his voice. "Woah, Tiff, you went super hard this time. This is¡ a lot of¡¡± Yearn''s mouth dried as he struggled to find the right words. "¡really intense stuff."
Tiffany giggled, her elation unrestrained. "I know." She popped open one of the bottles with a flourish, tossing an orange capsule into her mouth. "I also have some more basic stuff if some loser wants to actually remember tonight."
Tiffany pulled out a smaller pouch and opened it to reveal a collection of paper rolls packed with different leaves. Each roll had a number inked carefully on its surface, indicating which type of grass had been used inside.
She pushed the pouch forward toward the two boys in offering. Yearn silently declined, his expression unreadable, while Puce didn''t even react, still recovering from the earlier shock of the ''candies'' revelation.
Tiffany shrugged, unfazed, pulling one of the paper rolls for herself. She stuffed the pouch back into the larger bag and pointed casually toward the table. "Also, I made some pot brownies because¡ well, pot brownies."
Tiffany puckered her lips around the paper roll and placed her thumb and middle finger together. A sharp snap rang out from her pinched fingers, though they didn''t budge; the end of the paper roll in her mouth was suddenly set alight.
She sucked in a deep breath through the burning paper. She let the chemicals dance in her lungs for a bit, then pulled her joint away and released a satisfied sigh, exhaling and expunging a thick blue smoke. The blue smoke curled in dizzying vortices of curls and turbines for a few moments before shifting to green and rising to the ceiling.
Puce''s mouth moved slightly as if finally finding the will to speak again, though his voice still choked for a second in search of the specific words he desired.
He swallowed heavily and then tried again. "Should you really be mixing drugs like that? Or¡ taking them at all?"
Tiffany''s brows furrowed at the perceived insult. "Hey! I make only the best quality stuff you got that? Like, for example¡" Without missing a beat, she thrust her hand back into the bag, pulling out a simple, clear vial. Inside, a thin metal sheet divided the container into two sections: one side contained a small splinter of red flint, and the other, a perfectly symmetrical blue prism.
She eagerly pointed to the blue prism. "This right here is my magnum opus! An actual, real arcane pill. This stuff is so pure that if you don''t drain all of your essence before consuming it, you will literally die! It is actually incredible." She grinned. "And until I came along, only the biggest team of Ersatz eggheads were able to create these."
Puce took a step back from the increasingly terrifying bag of horrors.
Yearn simply shot her a disbelieving look. "Ersatz University manufactures drugs?"
Tiffany rolled her eyes, "Arcane pills are so much more than simply drugs." She flashed him a mischievous smile. " The fact that they give the greatest high ever is just a happy accident."
Yearn laughed at the girl''s antics, clearly unconvinced. "Uh-huh, sure."
Meanwhile, Puce threw a worried glance at the other substance in the hallowed container "And the red rock?"
Tiffany''s smile faltered, her face twisting to an irritated scowl as her arcane pill was so easily dismissed. She should have known that a bunch of ignorant nobles wouldn''t appreciate the effort that went into her work.
With a sharp motion, she shoved the bottle back into the pouch and dismissively mumbled a response to Puce: "Don''t worry about that."
But just as quickly, she tossed her scowl aside, her upbeat demeanour snapping back into place. "Instead, what we should be worrying about is where the alcohol is!" Tiffany sung that last part with a playful eagerness, and Yearn was content to show her around the preparations that he had made for the party, including the plethora of snacks and, of course, alcohol.
Chapter 62: Bottled Value pt. 2
It didn''t take long for the party to truly come alive. More guests arrived in waves, filling the grand chamber with a chaotic energy that pulsed through the air. Laughter rang out over the din of music and clinking glasses, and the once-spacious hall quickly became cramped with bodies in motion.
By this point, Tiffany had already indulged in more than her fair share of her own goods. Lost somewhere in the sea of revelry.
Meanwhile, Yearn was preoccupied greeting new arrivals and so left Puce stranded¡ªthe lone noble adrift in a riotous tide of inebriated peasants.
Without Yearn as a social buffer, Puce wasted no time retreating to a plush couch tucked into the corner of the room, hoping to escape the worst of the drunken debauchery. He had no right to complain¡ªhe was a guest in this estate just as much as they were¡ªbut his family had never been ones to mingle so freely with the common folk.
Despite the loud and dishonourable jumble that had conquered the atmosphere, Puce ensured to keep his noble demeanour, even if it was only manifested by standing perfectly still as small as possible at the couch''s edge.
The only issue with his plan of being out of sight and out of mind was that Tiffany''s increasingly befogging mind had found a strange magnetism with the poor boy¡ªand where Tiffany went, a crowd inevitably followed.
At some point in the night, she drifted toward his corner, finally collapsing onto the same couch and resting her head atop his lap as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Puce stiffened, every fibre of his being recoiling at the indignity of it. The boy did not dare speak out against it, though, with all of these begrimed ruffians around, and the crowd was only getting larger.
A young man, built like an ox and twice as sturdy, pushed his way through the gathering crowd by the couch. Broad shoulders stretched the seams of his worn tunic, his arms thick with the kind of muscle that came from years of hard labour rather than idle training. His weathered face bore a grin full of yellowed teeth, a testament to both his easygoing nature and the vices he indulged in.
Despite his imposing stature, Stark''s demeanour remained lighthearted, though his brow furrowed slightly at the sight of Tiffany sprawled across Puce''s lap. Still, his tone was as affable as ever. "Hey, Tiff, you''re still here?"
Before he even finished speaking, Tiffany was already rummaging through her bag, fishing out a short paper roll marked with the number two. She tossed it to him without looking. "Are you kidding me, Stark? I wouldn''t miss seeing a firebox for anything."
Stark caught the roll between his teeth and leaned forward, raising his thick fingers in front of the joint, poised in a snapping gesture. His lips curled back in an anticipatory wince as he braced for oncoming pain.
Tiffany smirked at the reaction. "What, don''t trust me?"
His words came out garbled around the paper roll. "You don''t have the best track record."
The snap rang out, crisp and sharp¡ªbut his fingers didn''t move. Instead, a small flame burst to life at the tip of the roll, instantly scorching his upper lip before settling into a steady ember.
Stark ripped the burning grass away from his lips, "Ah! Dammit, Tiffany! What did I just say!?" he recoiled, rubbing at his singed lips while Tiffany cackled beside him.
Stark''s pained grimace only fueled Tiffany''s laughter, her giggles bubbling over in a wild, unrestrained fit. "Sorry, Stark, I''m suuuuuuuper high right now¡ or wait¡ªam I wasted?"
She turned her head lazily, tilting up toward Puce, who steadfastly ignored her, his gaze locked onto the nearest blank wall as if willing himself out of existence.
Undeterred, Tiffany began her assault. ¡°Puce¡, Puce, hey Puce! Puuuuce! Hey! Hey! Hey, Puce!" Her voice sing-songed with each repetition, dragging his name out in exaggerated syllables.
When he still refused to acknowledge her, she jabbed a playful finger into his cheek, drawing out one last, elongated plea. "Puuuuceeeeeee."
Puce let out a long, exhausted sigh; any resistance he once had now eroded into numb acceptance. He finally turned toward her and met with a pair of hazy, red-rimmed eyes and cheeks flushed from intoxicated delight.
"What?" he muttered, bracing himself for whatever nonsense was about to follow.
Tiffany fought through a fresh round of snickers, barely managing to form the words through her breathless amusement. "Am I high or wasted?"
Puce blinked, unimpressed. He had no idea what she found so funny or how any of this could be enjoyable to anyone. "¡Both."
Tiffany''s eyes widened as if he had just unravelled the secrets of the universe. "I''m Highsted!"
That was it¡ªthat was the peak of comedy. She immediately dissolved into a howling fit, clutching at her stomach as if it physically hurt to laugh so much.
Stark, too, joined in the laughter but seemingly less so from her actual ''joke'' and more in reaction to her overly entertained response to it.
Stark took another puff from his joint and then circled back to his original question. "What I meant to say, Tiff, was¡ªweren''t you supposed to be at Ersatz University or something?"
The instant that irritant name poisoned her ear, Tiffany jolted upright with righteous indignation. "All right!"
She paused.
Just as quickly as the fire ignited, it flickered out¡ªher train of thought slipping through the cracks of her fogged mind. Frowning, she dug into her pocket and retrieved a small glass tube, uncorking it with a practiced flick of her thumb. A thick, cloudy vapour coiled into the air before she inhaled the entire plume in one sharp snort.
The effect was instant. Tiffany flinched as the hit slammed into her, blinking rapidly to clear her head before shaking off the stunned daze.
A brief moment of clarity reminded her of her train of thought, and she continued. "Don''t get me started on those fat bourgeois stooges! Are you getting me started?"
Without waiting for an answer, she sprang to her feet, her pacing across the sofa erratic and forceful, like a caged animal worked into a frenzy.
Stark turned to a few people adjacent, offering a tight, uneasy grimace to show his concern toward the unexpectedly violent reaction to his simple question. "Yikes. I didn''t mean to get you started on anything."
"Well, too late!" Tiffany jabbed a finger in his direction, eyes ablaze. "No backing out now, Starky boy¡ªyou got me started! You asked, so now you''re gonna hear it. Let me REGALE you the horrors I had to endure!"
She leaned forward, her grin sharp and wicked, soaking in the anticipation¡ªreal or forced¡ªof her audience.
"So there I am, hitchhiking my way over to Proselyte, right?" She threw out her arms as if setting the scene, eyes flicking between them like she was preparing for battle.
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Stark, recognizing the makings of a long-winded rant, found an open spot within the huddled circle and plopped down, readying himself for whatever verbal storm was about to hit.
"I had to pick up a bunch of gigs with the Adventurer''s Guild to cover food, inns, carriages, and whatever because, news flash, travelling is stupid expensive."
Puce gave Tiffany a doubting look.
Tiffany caught it immediately and snapped, "Keep it to yourself, you ivory stick puppet." Tiffany made a rude hand gesture to emphasize her comment, enticing a round of laughter from her inebriated audience. "It was expensive for me. And REALLY expensive¡ªProselyte is far away okay? Took me, like, two weeks ''cause I kept having to stop and make enough money just to keep going."
She paused, arms crossed, jaw tight, seething at the mere memory of it.
"So, I finally make it to Proselyte¡ªfour days before my interview."
A slow inhale. A visible clench of her fists.
Puce got the feeling that whatever came next was not going to be pleasant and inched his way further off the couch to try to escape the ever-increasing stomping of her pacing feet.
"Remember how I made money by working with the Adventurer''s Guild!?" Tiffany spun on her heel, throwing her arms up. "Well, even with all that, I couldn''t afford the cheapest inn in Proselyte. And guess what? There were literally no job postings that could get me the money I needed in time. LITERALLY, no way to pay for a bed!"
She sucked in a breath through her teeth, nostrils flaring, fists tightening at her sides. Reliving the memory reinvigorating the irritation all over again. "So I stay calm¡ªbecause, you know, I''m a reasonable person."
A scoff from Stark. A doubtful look from Puce.
Tiffany ignored both. "I go to Ersatz University, it takes me like two hours to convince the moronic prejudiced security to let me in¡ªand that''s after they searched me for weapons like I was some kind of low-life criminal. Like, come on! You know you''re being looked down on when the magic wizards search you for prison shivs."
She started gesturing wildly, emphasizing each point with sharp, deliberate movements. "I''m wandering around this giant maze of a campus, trying to find anyone¡ªa clerk, a teacher, someone¡ªwho can help me with my housing issue. And the whole time¡ª"
She stopped, turning to the group with an incredulous glare.
"¡ªI feel like a devadoot or something with all these rich, arrogant snobs staring at me as I walk by!"
She placed a hand to her chest in mock horror, mimicking an exaggerated noble''s gasp. "Oh no, she''s poor! Someone, fetch the guards!"
Laughter rippled through the gathered crowd, but Tiffany wasn''t laughing. She was still fuming, arms crossed so tightly that her nails dug into her sleeves.
Tiffany took a few laps of the couch in silence to quell her anger. "SO finally, I find this¡ªthis help desk thing, right? And I explain everything. I lay it all out for them, plain and simple." Her voice trembled with barely contained rage. "And you know what they say? Do you want to know what they told me!?"
The raucous crowd quietened as they noticed Tiffany''s dour mood and took the enraging story more seriously. Puce found himself feeling a little embarrassed for the behaviour of his compatriots.
Stark, realizing she was actually waiting for someone to play along with her, asked. "Uh¡ what did they tell you?"
"They told me¡ª" Tiffany''s voice pitched up in sheer disbelief, her arms flailing as if trying to physically hurl the memory away, "¡ªthat due to some of the high-profile members of the university, they couldn''t jeopardize the safety of the faculty by housing the unaffiliated peasantry!"
She threw her hands up and let out a bitter laugh. "Can you believe that!? I spent almost half a week homeless in the Proselyte ghetto. I was assaulted seven times in that interim¡ªseven! Sure, none of the assaults were particularly successful¡ªbut still."
The gathered crowd gasped in shock, but Tiffany barely registered it, too wrapped up in the injustice of her own tale.
"And the traffic in and out of the city was so bad that I couldn''t even get to a lake to wash, so I showed up to the interview with some rando''s blood on me. Took me more than just two hours to get inside the university on that day! Turns out university security? Not too keen on homeless people drenched in the blood of multiple strangers."
She snorted at her own misfortune, shaking her head in amused disbelief as she recalled the heated debate she''d had with the guards that morning.
Taking a pause, Tiffany lifted that tiny glass tube from her pocket, uncorked it, and inhaled another deep whiff. Her eyes rolled back slightly from the hit, her shoulders shuddering with pleasure before she exhaled and pushed on.
"Next to no one is willing to talk to me, so it takes me forever to find where I''m actually supposed to go. But eventually¡ªEVENTUALLY¡ªI find my way to the waiting room for all the scholarship students."
She let out an exasperated sigh, flopping onto the couch beside Puce with exaggerated exhaustion.
"Obviously, I''m the only person there who doesn''t have a diamond spoon rammed up their rear looking mega out of place. I wait forever for my turn, constantly getting approached by security and staff, questioning what I''m doing here. Like lady, I''m here for the interview. Why else would I willingly trap myself in this silk prison?"
Much of her audience found themselves caught between disturbed amusement and unfortunate camaraderie, nodding along at the relatable struggle of dealing with nobles. Puce, however, just felt profoundly uncomfortable.
"I''m this close to breaking loose, you know?" Tiffany held up her fingers, barely a sliver of space between them. "But I''m also too close to finishing this stupid journey, so I keep my cool. Which I''m sure most of you here already know¡ª" she gave the crowd a knowing glance, "¡ªthat''s not really my style."
She hesitated for a beat before turning toward Puce, who was still doing his utmost to fade into the upholstery of the couch. "Just so you know, Puce¡ªkeeping chill isn''t my style." She said, trying to keep Puce in the loop, but in all honesty, she didn''t need to tell him. He could pretty much make that assumption on his own.
Tiffany smirked half-delirious before rolling back to face her audience and diving back into the story. "So finally, it''s my turn for the interview, and I get invited into this greater than thou over-the-top office and, of course if it isn''t the mighty Ken Ream himself," she exclaimed the legend''s name with a sarcastic gravitas.
She leaned forward, eyes gleaming with derisive humour. "Now, I promise you, this guy looks exactly like someone who would nickname himself ''The Preeminent.'' When I get in, he gives me this lookover, the whole toe-to-head sweep, complete with the ever-classic chest pause and everything." she shuddered with theatric disgust. "Like the shrivelled pervert he is."
A few murmurs of distaste rippled through the group, but Tiffany wasn''t done. She rose back up and recommenced her pacing, incapable of containing her furor.
"And don''t even try to tell me that he wasn''t checking me out. The dude''s got a massive painting of some twenty-something chick on his wall. Not even a good portrait¡ªlike, full-on boudoir energy. That guy''s creeper vibes are off the charts."
She let the disgust settle for a second, then threw her hands up in exasperation. "Anyways¡ªafter all of that, after everything I''ve been through just to get to this one stupid moment, after travelling halfway across the continent, getting de-homed, attacked, discriminated, and turned to eye candy, you know what he says?"
Tiffany let the tension hang for a second before deadpanning: "I''ve never had an interviewee look so ragged before."
The sheer audacity of the statement elicited a few groans from her enthralled audience.
Tiffany gave a sharp, humourless laugh. "Oh, buddy. You have no idea."
"So what did you do?"
Tiffany shrugged nonchalantly. "I did what anyone would have done in my position¡ªI spat on him and left¡ Oh yeah, and I took his hat too."
A ripple of shock and laughter spread through the crowd, but Puce just blinked, stunned.
She what?
Puce had met Ream the Preeminent before¡ªjust once¡ªbut even that was enough to know that the man commanded a level of respect and fear that few dared to challenge. To spit on him? To steal from him? The entire story sounded so utterly ludicrous that Puce felt no difficulty convincing himself that it was but a fabrication of Tiffany''s addled mind.
The rest of the audience, however, weren''t as dismissive. "How did he react?" someone asked, wide-eyed.
Tiffany smirked. "He didn''t." She spread her arms in a dramatic flourish. "No one talked to me. No one even DARED approach me. I just stormed my way out of Proselyte as fast as humanly possible, hoping to never see the place again."
She scoffed.
"Screw that stupid university and its pretentious ignobles. I snuck into one of the lectures during my stay there, and it was all baby stuff anyways; it would''ve been a waste of time."
As she spoke, Tiffany paced along the couch, gesturing wildly¡ªuntil her foot sank into the groove between the cushions. With a graceless yelp, she staggered forward, just barely catching herself from an undignified tumble onto the floor.
"Besides, there''s no way I could party like this in that stuffy place. Speaking of which, someone get me another drink! Chop chop minions!"
The crowd erupted in cheers and movement, eager to keep their favourite storyteller entertained.
Puce, meanwhile, just sighed and sank further into the couch, wondering how much longer he had to endure this madness.
Chapter 62: Bottled Value pt. 3
Finished with her story, Tiffany kicked her legs out from under her, sending her body plummeting down to the couch. Moments before the harsh impact, her body slowed unnaturally, her descent softening until she sank gently into the cushions.
The sudden motion sent her already befuddled mind spiralling, and for a few moments, she lay still, blinking at the ceiling, just trying to psychologically right herself.
Then¡ªjust as abruptly as the bitter memories of her horrible journey had overtaken her during the story¡ªit vanished. Her attention veered sharply with a sudden remembrance. Her face lit up with excitement as if the past few minutes of ranting had never even happened.
"Oh! Stark! I almost forgot!" She sprang upright, a grin creeping across her face. "I wanted to wait to show you, but¡ªcheck this out."
She eagerly dug into her pouch, fingers rummaging past her assortment of questionable goods until she triumphantly produced a vial. Inside, nestled together like some forbidden alchemical treasure, were the blue prism and the red flint separated by that thin metal divider.
Her eyes gleamed with anticipation at his response.
The improbable creation didn''t immediately register with Stark in any meaningful way. He squinted at the vial, unimpressed. "What is it?"
Tiffany huffed, momentarily annoyed¡ªbut no matter how many times she had to explain or how often people asked the same stupid question, it always gave her the same giddy pride of accomplishment to answer. "This, my young grasshopper, is an arcane pill."
The familiar term sparked recognition in Stark''s sensibility, and with such a revelation, his face finally lit with the surprise that Tiffany so desired. "You finally made one!?"
A ripple of astonishment spread through the gathered crowd. Those who hadn''t been present for her earlier reveal gawked at the tiny vial as if it held the secrets of the cosmos.
Tiffany knew most of them had no idea why this pill was such an incredible creation¡ªthe actual mechanics, the artistry of its fabrication, were far beyond their dim little minds. Such was the unfortunate company she kept.
But she had been hyping up this product and her efforts towards making it for so long that surely everyone in this small town understood, at the very least, that it was an impressive feat.
Stark licked his lips, hunger flashing in his eyes. He had spent weeks at Tiffany''s side, and though most of her overcomplicated gibberish sailed clear over his head, he knew one thing for certain¡ªhe wanted that pill. "Let me have it."
Tiffany scoffed at him, dramatically shaking her head. "No way, with your pathetic potential essential flux, you would instantly die. And I cannot have your death wasting a perfectly good pill like that."
Stark frowned, visibly unimpressed by the unapologetic slander. Tiffany either didn''t notice or didn''t care¡ªmost likely both.
Moving on, Tiffany turned her palm downward, channelling the residual essence lingering in her body and forcing it out. A viscous droplet of blackened sludge oozed out from her pores. The ebony goo sheared light into a mesmerizing oil-slick rainbow. It condensed into a dewy, crystalline bead before slipping free and splashing onto the floor.
A second droplet followed. Then another. With a deeper push of effort, the drizzle thickened, and soon, her entire hand was weeping a grotesque rain of shimmering black gunk.
The crowd instinctively inched away from the growing puddle on the floor. Unlike ordinary liquid, it did not spread outward but instead crept upward, shifting and rising like fine-grained sand¡ªyet it remained unmistakably fluid.
Tiffany watched the display with an air of smug satisfaction, then clicked her tongue at Stark. "No, no. This special little child is for me."
As the puddle pooled higher, it became clearer to see that the strange fluid emitted a faint colourless glow. Even Puce, who had been shrinking into the farthest possible corner, found himself leaning forward, torn between instinctive revulsion and a gnawing, fearful curiosity.
He asked, voice hushed. "What are you doing?"
Tiffany smiled, turning to Puce. "Oh, welcome back to the club Puce."
Everyone turned to Puce, finally noticing his noble elegance and rich clothing. The attention made him uncomfortable, and he felt that Tiffany had entirely intended for such. "To answer your question, I am purging my body of any essence and contaminants. A proper arcane pill requires prep."
Stark blurted out into laughter at her informative answer. "Purging any contaminants? Well everyone, we''re going to be here awhile."
Stark''s comment brought with it a round of laughter, but Tiffany could only roll her eyes as she retorted. "Arcanal contaminants, obviously."
Stark deadpanned in response. "Obviously."
By the time the crystalline liquid structure had piled up to knee height, Tiffany''s body was finally ready. The arcane residue shimmered faintly, shifting with an eerie, self-sustaining motion, but she paid it no mind.
Just then, Yearn''s voice cut through the din. "Hey, everyone! Poetaster''s play is about to start!"
Immediately, the crowd''s interest shifted, and they forgot about Tiffany and her pill, snapping their attention to the incredible technology. Murmurs turned to eager chatter as they gathered around the small brown incalescent firebox, its illuminated front pulsing like a heartbeat, the static noise shifting to form a monochromatic image of a stage in Egress''s town square.
Tiffany barely acknowledged them. She uncapped the vial, fingers steady despite the anticipation. She upended the vial, allowing the blue prismatic pill to fall into her palm; the secondary red flint, obstructed by the metal divider, remained inside.
That small crimson flint stole her attention, its faint glow reflected in wide, unblinking brown eyes. A hollow obsession corrupted her glazed gaze as if the shard had ensnared her very soul. Eyes so deeply enthralled by the flint yet simultaneously not quite present in the room either.
"Let''s go."
She swallowed.
An echoing light harvested her muddled sights. A conscientious sway of disordered stimulus rocked along wreathed weavings of wrong wiles.
It was a dance.
She was dancing with phantom children, their elongated silhouettes gnawing down on her fortitude''s manifest. The darling dance''s fevered pace brought her an auspicious levity and a fleeting lightness hollowed her body.
The songs played by sleeping demons became sonic umbrellas, shielding her mind from the venomous rain which once wormed through her thoughts.
She felt the dance play, a sparking call flitting about through that odd box which spoke to her unlike any had before. A unique energy, akin to that of the rare warring sky, but tamed in a content placation to unknown masters.
Her luminant dance partner''s face was a recast progression¡ªa play, a waltz of its own. Its attention so demanding that eyes became lovers, depth buried to the heart thumping along.
A heart snatched.
Torn from the dance, she fell, encircled by the phantom children¡ªno, not children. They were dolls, for their eyes bore no weight. They carried eggs in their hands and pushed her, tossed her, just as they had her dance partner. Together, they were presented with a new hand, an intruding character of embryonic portraits, demanding the next song.
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A lie.
She wanted her former. She wanted the spark to play upon her heart once more.
A heart, she remembered that. Lost in a cave, pulsing with a lulling red glow. The heart was too big for her; she could not carry it. She wanted it, but the heart hated her; it did not want her. No one wanted her; not even the embryonic portrait, not really.
The old glow was walking off on light steps to another anatomy no longer illuminating a familial fuel.
In darkness, she vegetated as a hollow tunnel in hypertension. Her flesh¡ªa cowardly chick desiring escape through wings it did not have¡ªleft only ablation of the procession, instead waiting for a comely mother.
She held dearly to that flesh, begging rest, for her feet had turned to a shadow''s root.
She carried an empty beggar''s cup that chained itself on the unloved tongue hidden in huddled warmth within another''s garden.
The rose, a ghost imposter in a sanguine flower bed of lies¡ or maybe just mistruths. Their running ichor a kinetic heat sealing the holes and branding her with a faux flesh.
The artificers built from her foundations a puppet¡ªa ghostly doll whose strings, though directed, fell upon a silent stage. Her eyes without weight were set ablaze.
A cool fire burning in another room awoke her eyes to an unspoken truth. She crouched beneath linens, embraced in proactive regret. The doll, even when purchased, was assailed by hefty witches whose nags did not sound like butter flying eloquently into honourable ears, but like caterpillars waiting on a future cry.
She died.
A splitting pain snapped Tiffany''s agonized skull to life, forcing her groggy eyes open.
She found herself in a familiar bed, entangled amongst unfamiliar bodies.
Surprisingly, Puce had been among them.
The sight amused her clouded mind, stirring a fleeting curiosity¡ªwhat absurd sequence of events had led to that? But she had no time to dwell on the mystery. A sudden lurch in her stomach sent a warning gag up her throat, and boarded vomit clawed for release.
With a groan, she scrambled over the naked masses in search of relief.
A bucket, placed conveniently beside the bed, became her saviour. Tiffany barely made it before emptying her venomous stomach, granting her liver the smallest, most pitiful reprieve. It was times like these when she was truly grateful that Yearn was such a magnanimous host with the foresight to match.
A discomforted grunt rumbled from the naked heap, alerting Tiffany to the knee she''d just jammed into someone''s ribs.
"Oh, sorry." Her voice came out raw, barely more than a croak. Every part of her ached¡ªher skull throbbed like it had been split open and put back together wrong, her limbs felt waterlogged, and a rancid nausea coiled deep in her gut.
Untangling herself from the mass, she rolled off the bed and flopped onto the floor. The cold stone sent a shudder through her, but its stark contrast against her overheated, sweat-slicked skin was almost blissful. For a moment, she considered just staying there, letting the chill siphon the poison from her soul and lull her back to sleep.
But the lurch of her stomach reminded her she had more pressing concerns.
With a groan, she forced herself up. She barely spared a glance at her discarded clothes before giving up on the effort entirely. Instead, she grabbed the bucket¡ªclutching it to her chest like a holy relic¡ªand staggered out of the bedroom, feet dragging against the floor.
Even with her head half-buried in the metal container and her skull feeling like it was being chiselled open, her body carried her forward on pure muscle memory. The halls twisted around her, her vision swimming at the edges, but somehow, she still found her way to the dining room, her steps powered by instinct alone.
"Well, if it isn''t the woman of the hour!" Yearn''s chipper whistle grated against Tiffany''s raw nerves like sandpaper. She barely managed to lift her head from the bucket long enough to shoot the bright-eyed and bushy-tailed boy a withering scowl.
She groaned, words slurred and stunted between withheld retches. "How¡ are you so energetic?"
Yearn''s laugh hit like hail, each syllable stabbing into her skull and churning her brain to liquefied putty. "Though you did make the idea seem tempting, I had to go cold turkey for the party. There was no way I was going to let the incalescent firebox get damaged. My parents may leave me with uncaring abandon, but even their neglect has limits¡ªand letting THAT much money disappear would definitely bring them back."
He flashed her a teasing grin. "Good thing I did, too. You nearly broke the firebox a couple times."
Tiffany collapsed into the nearest dining chair, boneless. She tried to summon the memories to match his story, but her mind was a wasteland, scrubbed clean by the previous night''s delirium.
A servant entered, balancing a silver platter stacked with fatty foods and aromatic coffee. They halted mid-step, eyes locking onto Tiffany¡ªnaked, awkwardly hunched over a chair and disgorging her stomach''s contents.
Tiffany sluggishly raised her head, eyes meeting the servant''s with bleary disinterest. Then, with a weak wave of her hand, she croaked, "Carry on."
The servant flushed deep red, unsure how to address the nude, hungover peasant.
Yearn coughed into his fist, reclaiming the servant''s attention. "May you please give my breakfast to Tiffany and have the chef cook another meal for me?"
The flustered servant bowed stiffly, then inched toward Tiffany, jolting slightly when Tiffany suddenly lurched forward and unleashed another torrent of vile phonics.
Struggling to keep their composure, the servant set the silver platter on the table in front of her and swiftly retreated from the room.
Once Tiffany found a break between shallow heaves, she gorged herself upon the starchy breakfast laid before her. The heavy meal settled her raging stomach just long enough for her to croak out the question plaguing her. "Why am I the girl of the houuuuuuurrr!?"
Her body violently rejected the meal mid-sentence, and she barely made it to her rapidly filling bucket in time. The rancid m¨¦lange of half-digested pills, molten brownies, and curdled cocktails sloshed together in a grotesque slurry. In a churning moment of disgust, Tiffany swept a clammy hand through her tangled hair to pull it free from where it draped into the bucket, damp and discoloured.
Yearn winced at the sight of his usually immaculate companion displaying the most undesirable aspects of her essence. The dissonant contrast between her beauty and her current state''s sheer wretchedness was, frankly, appalling. He dragged his gaze away as if to spare himself the sight.
"Well," he asked carefully, "how much do you actually remember from last night?"
Tiffany sluggishly pulled her head from the bucket, fixing Yearn with a withering glare. He might have regretted laughing at her karmic suffering¡ªif he weren''t still so thoroughly amused.
Fair enough," he conceded, grinning. "Your loss, though. It was quite the event. I threw this whole party to watch Poetaster''s play, but all the real excitement came after. At the end of his play, Poetaster got an invitation to The Tournament! Not just any Tournament but THE Tournament!"
His voice brimmed with giddy exhilaration as if the revelation alone might be enough to jolt Tiffany back to life. She remained utterly unmoved.
"What does that have to do with me?" she muttered, head dipping closer to the bucket again.
Yearn''s grin widened. "That''s the best part! When Poetaster got his invitation¡ªat that exact same moment¡ªyou got one too!"
This time, Yearn was really expecting her to jump to his levels of fevered enthusiasm, but instead, he got another round of vomit echoing out of the bucket.
After squelching her gut, Tiffany lifted the container toward him pimply. "Can I get another one of these?"
Yearn sighed but gestured to a servant standing off to the side. They quickly scurried away to fetch a replacement. "But what about the invitation?"
Ignoring him, Tiffany dragged the oversized coffee mug toward herself, cupping its gracious warmth in both hands. She took a slow, deep inhale of its rich aroma, savouring the one small pleasure available to her.
"What about it?" she murmured, still half-asleep.
Yearn visibly recoiled back. "What do you mean? Isn''t this amazing!? You''ll get to meet some of the world''s most influential people in the world! The Hero of New Heirisson Conquest, Princes of both Sodalities, Poetaster!" Yearn couldn''t believe Tiffany''s apathy toward being invited to the most prestigious event in the world.
Tiffany took her first sip of the enchanting coffee, the warmth seeping into her bones like a long-forgotten comfort. "Nah." She set the cup down. "I''ll pass."
With that, she pushed back from the table, leaving the rest of the meal untouched. She was done here. She was growing bored with Yearn and this place. She knew if she stayed long enough for the others to start waking, she would be inundated by the foolish queries of admiring toddlers. Their stupidity made good company for crass wantonness, but beyond that, they were nothing but rebarbative barbarians in terms of anything requiring half a brain.
Yearn blinked. "Where are you going?"
Tiffany ignored Yearn and caught the eye of the returning servant. She noticed they''d also brought a fresh set of clothes¡ªone of the spares Yearn always kept for her.
She dressed in the clothes right there, then irritably snatched the bucket and showcased it to Yearn, "I''m taking this with me."
Without another word, Tiffany strode out of the estate, irritation bubbling beneath her skin. Whatever good humour had lingered from the party was long gone, soured by a splitting hangover, Yearn''s idiotic excitement, and the miserable prospect of trudging back to the slums she called home after a night spent in the fief lord''s luxurious estate.
Chapter 62: Bottled Value pt. 4
There was just something about this day that got Tiffany''s hackles up.
And, of course, it only got worse.
She hadn''t even made it to her mould-ridden, dilapidated hovel before another irritation made itself known. Her least favourite person was ambling down the street toward her, stupidly trying to wave her down.
"Ah, Tiffany, just the person I wanted to see." Tiffany rolled her eyes as the elderly man shuffled closer, his enormous, bushy ginger mustache bouncing with every step. "I had the loveliest encounter earlier today," He continued, beaming. "An encounter with a most extraordinary creature!"
"Go die." Tiffany spat back bitterly at the jovial man, then hunched over and retched into her bucket.
The man whose smile remained untested by Tiffany''s hate clapped his hands together, releasing a piercing sound that stung Tiffany''s throbbing skull. "Not even your repugnant attitude can sour this day, Tiffany," he declared. "Because a wondrous opportunity has opened up for you! You can finally leave this little village and¡ª"
"No." Tiffany walked straight past him.
The man turned, still grinning. "But you haven''t even heard¡ª"
"Whatever dumb idea you have this time, Care: no."
The old man hurried to follow her, the rapid thump of his tiny steps trying to keep pace with her vastly younger and spry pace gnawed at her migraine.
"Don''t be so dismissive, Tiffany," Care called out, his voice high and insistent. "Even someone as perversive as you must have some interest in The Tournament?"
Tiffany stopped dead in her tracks, her frustration flaring. She whirled around on her heels, snapping back at the elderly man. "How do you even know about that already?!"
Care''s smile only widened, a maddening grin that made her blood boil. "Oh, so you have met the creature as well! Isn''t it wonderful?"
Tiffany got a sour taste in her mouth, and it wasn''t from the residual vomit. "I''m not going."
Care''s shoulders slumped further than their usual poor posture demanded, a tired sigh escaping his lips. It seemed like every favor, every good deed, turned into an uphill battle when done for her. "But Tiffany, this is your second chance! Ersatz University may not have accepted you, but¡ª"
"I didn''t accept Ersatz University!" Tiffany''s teenage voice cracked hoarsely, the words sharp with raw rejection. "They would have been a waste of time, wouldn''t know magic if it struck them in the face!"
"Oh please, Tiffany," Care chuckled, his voice full of that patronizing tone that grated against her soul. "You may fool those morons you call friends, but don''t try to pull wool over my eyes. You sabotaged that interview because you were afraid of getting rejected."
Suddenly, without warning, every muscle in Care''s body froze; Tiffany''s vomit-ridden bucket hung perfectly still in the air behind her, and an invisible force crashed into him, smashing him against the nearby wall with a sickening thud. Tiffany was on him in an instant, her fury burning so hot it could melt the summer day itself.
Her voice was a hiss of venom as she threw a pointed finger at his trembling form. "I was not afraid!"
Despite the danger he found himself in, Care remained perfectly calm. He had long since adapted to the calamitous threats of Tiffany''s rage. "Just like how you aren''t afraid of losing at The Tournament?"
Tiffany''s grip closed around the old man''s wrinkled throat before she even registered the motion. Her fingers twitched, barely restraining the urge to squeeze. To feel him struggle. To dominate him as she knew she could.
"I could wipe the competition clean if I wanted," she snarled, her voice a barely restrained growl. "I could crush them as easily as the ignoramuses at the University. They''re all just a bunch of overhyped clowns."
But even with her hand wrapped around his throat, Care''s damnable expression remained the same¡ªunshaken, unmoved, unbothered. Smug eyes bore into her, that insufferable knowing gleam making her stomach churn with something that felt too much like doubt. He wasn''t afraid of her. He never was.
"Then prove it."
She hated it. She hated him.
Care was an incessant thorn in her side, an annoyance that refused to be removed no matter how much she pushed, screamed, threatened. Everyone else she knew either revered or hated her, oftentimes they would do both; she was comfortable with that. But Care only ever pitied her, saw her as a weak child in need of guidance, and she hated that even more. "I don''t have to prove anything to you!"
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He snorted a soft chuckle, utterly unshaken by the furious girl looming over him. "No, you''ve long since given up on that. But you do have something to prove. I know your secret." His voice softened, but that only made the words cut deeper. "You''re just a scared little kid¡ªjust like the rest of them."
Tiffany''s body lurched before her rage could even form a response. Another violent wave of bile forced itself up her throat, spilling messily over Care''s trapped body. The spew soaked into his robes, seeping into his mustache. His nose wrinkled at the smell, but his gaze never wavered.
Tiffany wiped her mouth, "You better shut your¡ª" she spat out an uncomfortable morsel of undigested meat, "¡ªmouth before you say something you can''t take back."
The smugness fell from the man''s eyes. The girl in front of him, no matter how hard she tried, could never be threatening; she was simply tragic. "But you don''t have to be scared. If you just let go of your ego for a second and let others help, then you could become someone amazing! You''re smart Tiffany, and talented, but you have a terrible attitude."
Her hand tightened against his throat, silently urging him to stop speaking. But Care didn''t yield. Even as his voice strained, rasping from the pressure, he pressed on. "This Tournament will be a great experience to finally surround yourself with people who aren''t so¡ simple. "
Tiffany''s lip curled. "Well, sorry to break it to you," she sneered, "but when that Tournament is happening or whatever, I''ll be here¡ªwith the simpletons."
She let go. The invisible force pinning him to the wall vanished, and Care''s frail body crashed onto the hard ground. His limbs folded awkwardly beneath him, a sharp wheeze tearing from his throat as the impact knocked the breath from his lungs.
Tiffany laughed. A harsh, mean little thing. "You''re pathetic." She loomed over him, savouring the way his withered face twisted with pain. "Why don''t you stop trying to force other people to live the dream you were too weak to accomplish?"
For a fleeting second, Care''s expression cracked. That subtle wince of pain¡ªreal pain¡ªwas like a victory. She grabbed her floating bucket from the air, turning away, shoulders squared in triumph.
But Care wasn''t finished.
"Like I said, Tiffany." His voice was steady despite his battered body. "I know all your secrets."
Tiffany slowed.
"I know that the one thing you care more about than being powerful¡ is people believing that you are powerful."
She scoffed at the man''s feeble attempt at an insult. "People think I am powerful because I AM powerful."
She turned to see the man''s disheartened face once more, but instead of defeat, he carried an unmatched mirth. "Oh, by the way, I almost forgot to mention." His voice was downright chipper. "As soon as I had heard the news, I sent a courier to inform the royal family of the incredible news that one of their citizens had been invited to The Tournament. I''m sure they are very happy to be getting the news as we speak."
Tiffany''s blood turned to fire.
The bucket slipped from her grasp, slamming into the mud with a thud, sinking under its own weight. Her breath hitched, and then she erupted.
"YOU DID WHAT!?"
Care serenely stood up. He calmly dusted himself off, gingerly stretching his aching limbs as he straightened. "This will be good for you, Tiffany."
"Who do you think you are to choose what is or isn''t good for me!?" Tears blurred Tiffany''s vision, hot and unchecked, burning as they trailed down her cheeks. The revelation was swimming against her dizzying head, and she felt sick in a totally new way. "Why do you keep meddling in my life, huh!?" She was shaking now, voice raw. "You think I''ll put out or something, you sicko!? You think I''ll take care of you in place of the children you never had, you impotent mule!? Her breath hitched. "You think you''re my father or something!?"
Sadness filled the man''s eyes. It wasn''t her insults that hurt his heart so much. He accepted it as a simple matter of intervening in Tiffany''s life. No, it was how fragile she turned out to be that made him feel this way, this pity. It just took a single question.
His voice was unbearably gentle. "No, Tiffany. I''m not your father." He met her gaze. "I care."
Tiffany snapped.
Her body moved before thought could catch up. She lunged¡ªdriving her fist straight into Care''s gut, forcing the breath from his frail lungs in a painful wheeze. He crumpled, folding in on himself, and she threw the old man into the dirt.
Her chest heaved. Her blood roared in her ears. "You''ve gone too far this time."
She towered over him, her shadow swallowing his curled form. "How, after all these years, have you learnt nothing!"
A sharp stomp¡ªher foot pressing down, crushing against his feeble throat. She could feel the frail bones shift beneath her heel. "I''ve told you to leave me alone," Her voice was barely above a whisper, a frenzied hiss. "I''ve let your interfering slide so many times, gave you warnings."
She pressed harder.
"But you kept coming back."
Through everything, it was Tiffany who showed pain and anguish in her expressions. The old man kept his firm veneer of confidence "I''m old Tiffany, you can kill me if you want. But if I die, I''ll have died, ensuring you did at least one good thing with your life."
She released him.
Her foot lifted from his throat, and she staggered back, breath shaking as she fought to steady herself. The drugs still in her system twisted through her veins, fanning every emotion into something oversized and unbearable. She ran a trembling hand through her sweat-slicked hair, forcing herself to breathe.
And then¡ª
A sharp inhale. A narrowing of her gaze.
"No."
Her voice was hoarse, a whisper laced with venom.
"I won''t let you die happy, you psycho."
She straightened, rolling her shoulders back, "Fine, I''ll join your stupid tournament."
She leaned forward, the ghost of a smirk on her lips, though it held no real amusement. "But when I win The Tournament, and I get my wish granted, I''ll have a wish so awful that you''ll regret having ever met me!"
The man simply smiled. "I look forward to it. Welcome to The Tournament: Craven."
Chapter 63 pt. 1: The Hero Of New Heirisson Conquest
A final turn of the corner and there they found it.
After a week of relentless combat, sleepless nights where nightmares bled into waking horrors, and blood flooded up to the ears. They suffered an arduous trek through territories unknown, rushed by endless battles of unrecognizable allegiances, foot after foot, breath after breath, day after merciless day, until they finally arrived.
It had been a disorienting week¡ªa spontaneous convergence of every improbable coincidence culminating in a single miraculous opportunity. Somehow, against all odds, this arduous war of thirty long years would conclude in all but a single climactic week.
Now, at the end of that week, they found themselves at the final door. Hiding behind that door was the final obstacle to end this eternal war.
The fight to end all fights.
They were the Saviors¡ªa name once mocked for its arrogance, now spoken with reverence. Five of humanity''s greatest warriors each found themselves fully armed and unharmed before those final mighty doors.
At the rear of the group, Ken Ream¡ªThe Preeminent Sage¡ªreclaimed his breath, resting weathered hands upon equally weary knees. He was by far the eldest member of the troupe at the ancient age of ninety-six.
Once a child prodigy, he had graduated from Ersatz University at the impossible age of eight¡ªthe youngest wizard in its long and storied history. In the decades that followed, he reshaped the academic world, publishing treatises that revolutionized humanity''s understanding of magic and aether alike.
He was a legend, invited to the Fifth Centennial Tournament at just twelve years old, and progressed all the way to the third round. His raw magical strength was so vast it went unmatched by even the mokoi.
And yet, even legends bend to time. His only true weakness now was the stamina of a man whose body had begun to betray the strength of his spirit¡ªa stamina sorely tested by the endless stairwells and winding corridors of this alien castle.
Supporting Ken at his side stood Forgo Miff¡ªThe Ballista. A compact, steel-nerved woman who bore a crossbow large enough to be mistaken for siegecraft. Her bolts could fell even the mightiest of opponents, and her aim was always true. Among all living marksmen, only Schlemiel the Savage Archer could outshoot her¡ªbut where Schlemiel was an uncultured peasant with brute instinct, Forgo had been rigorously trained in both the art of sword and strategy.
Her noble skills were far-reaching, and her abilities as a ranger were limitless. Together, she and Ken formed the perfect rearguard. Ken carried with him, single-handedly, the most powerful offensive capabilities humanity could muster on par with that of siege weapons, while Forgo could pinpoint and neutralize high-value threats with surgical precision, all while shielding the fragile frame of the aging sage.
In front of the rearguard standing as a mobile wall, stood Jocund¡ªencased head to toe in a personal fortress of steel. His tower shield was thicker than a man''s and heavier to boot. Dubbed Jocund, The Wall, he was an insurmountable force. Throughout all the eleven years he had spent with the Saviors, not once had a single attack managed to make its way past his impenetrable defences.
At the very front of the group stood the final two.
The first of which was none other than Iatric Eminence, sole princess of Bemean. The royal bloodline had been blessed by the devadoots, who had granted the Eminence name with the very same divine powers that they possessed. Iatric herself was an unparalleled prodigy by birth; her devadootian blood had awakened with a never-before-seen potency, gifting her superhuman healing capabilities. Her powers, irreplicable by mortal magic, were what allowed the Saviors to escape every battle thus far unscathed.
This noble woman, demigod by birth, hero by occupation, gleaming bastion of humanity: crumpled with defeat.
Tears welled at the corners of her eyes as she clutched the arm of her commander with trembling hands, desperation squeezing through her death grip. "You don''t have to do this." she pleaded. "We''ve made it this far without using it. We can finish this without using it." She tried to retain a modicum of her Noblesse Oblige, but the sorrowful begging bled through her quivering voice.
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The rest of the team was silent, melancholy choking their hearts, but they all knew as well as she what needed to be done.
Their leader remained unwavering¡ªthe leader of the Saviors: a man who was once but a commoner. What was once just a young boy known by little more than his own family wound up becoming the legend who forged the most formidable band of fighters history had ever seen.
He single-handedly shifted the tide of the world''s greatest conflict. He was part of the first group of humans to ever land on the Mokoi Badlands and pushed his way through, across the entire continent in one week. He started with nothing but the clothes on his back and a rusted sword chipped at the edges, unbalanced for proper combat; now, he wore only the firmest armour and carried only the sharpest sword. He was humanity''s greatest warrior; he was The Savior, The Mokoi Slayer, The Blessing of the Battlefield, The Hero of New Heirisson Conquest: he was Doyen.
Doyen sheathed his sword and turned to face his team with a resolved look. In silent acknowledgment, each member returned his look with a mix of remorse and steadfast commitment. Then he fixed his gaze on Iatric, locking eyes with her.
Doyen, for presumably the last time in his life, took in her face. The beautiful depth of her hazel eyes, her short rotund nose that pointed ever so slightly to the left, her full soft cheeks always flushed with a warm red, her silken cascade of auburn hair that shined brighter than starlight.
In that moment he felt an almost irresistible urge to agree with her, to throw away his responsibility, to tell his team that they had done enough. He wanted to tell them that they could wait for the Pangean Entente to catch up with their group. He wanted to run away and form a family with Iatric and spend his long, quiet days with this beautiful royal, whom he had no right as a lowly commoner to be with. They''d have two children, a boy and a girl, and together they''d all be content.
But Doyen was a leader¡ªand above all, a hero. He had to do what heroes do. With a hardened heart, he offered Iatric the bravest smile he could muster. Doyen projected his voice with a put-upon confidence, one so great that he hoped those on the other side of the door could hear, too.
"Today, the Mokoi Khan will die. The stars had aligned, and a path opened before us; across our entire journey through this accursed continent, everything went perfectly smoothly; all obstacles shifted from our way. Fate itself wanted us here before these doors. For years, we have trained. For years we have fought and dreamt and prepared. It was this moment that brought us together. It was this moment that we had planned for since the day we met. It was this moment for which I named us the Saviors."
His heart ached, yet he masked the pain behind a stoic mask. Doyen nodded firmly to Iatric. At first, she hesitated, rooted to the spot in silent defiance. It took Ken placing a gentle hand on her shoulder to finally give her the courage to move forth.
From a small pouch at her hip, Iatric drew out a dark cloth wrapped around a long, thin object. The object itself seemed larger than the pouch it came from, yet somehow, the action of removing it appeared completely natural.
Iatric held the object gingerly, still wrapped in its unassuming cloth, both hands trembling ever so slightly. She, too, like the rest of them, was a hardened warrior¡ªtrained to silence her emotions, to act decisively in the name of humanity. And yet, at this moment, she had to summon every ounce of will just to hold back her tears.
She was too lost in her grief to notice that the same struggle lived behind every other pair of eyes in the room.
Doyen stepped forward and placed his hands gently over hers, stilling the tremor in her grip. Then, without hesitation, he leaned in and kissed her. The two''s lips locked, and without a word, they shared each other''s love, sorrow, desires. That imaginary family, that impossible future, they lived it all in that single kiss.
Eyes closed, lips still touching, Doyen reached down and began to unwind the cloth. Bit by bit, the subdued red of the dagger was revealed beneath the folds.
The two finally separated, and Doyen looked back at Iatric, not as a leader but as a lover. "I love you with all my heart. But this must be done."
Iatric, her throat too tight to form words, simply gave a solemn nod. And with that, Doyen took the dagger from her trembling hands.
The dagger itself didn''t appear as an effective weapon by any means; its rounded edges made it incapable of cutting, and its blunt tip meant that its utility as a thrusting weapon was also non-existent. At a glance, it was hard to tell if the weapon was even coloured red or if it was simply rusted from age. The only noteworthy matter of the dagger was its pommel, which was where a large glass container resided.
It hardly looked like a weapon at all. Its edges were smooth, incapable of slicing, and the tip was too dull to pierce. At a glance, it was impossible to tell whether the blade had been forged in red metal or if centuries of rust had painted it so. The only remarkable feature was its pommel cradled at the hilt¡ªa glass vessel, large and oddly pristine.
Doyen stepped back from the group, gripping the hilt with his left hand. "We don''t know what state I''ll be in for the fight," He said, voice steady. "So Forgo will take command."
Forgo silently nodded, accepting her responsibilities.
"And remember," Doyen continued, his gaze sweeping over them, "no matter what happens, you all are the greatest family I have ever known."
He turned the blade inward and let out a deep breath. After a brief pause, he stabbed down. The blunt weapon easily pierced through armour and flesh alike, and it lodged deep into his heart.