Page 4198

Linus took a step back.

It was Kristof Raynor and Daro Bright standing there. The Jailer and the Black Artisan. His two peers in the protection of Ridgemark.

"Hey, Linus," said Kristof in that familiar tone as he slowly approached, as if trying not to spook a frightened animal.

Which was exactly what Linus was feeling like all of a sudden. How had they all appeared out of the mist like that? Had they been there all along and simply been concealed from his senses?

"It's alright," Daro was saying with similar intonations. "We're real. I promise you."

Linus didn't even know what to say to that.

"Graves was hiding us from one another." Kristof was a tall, slim man with an almost beak-like nose. His wavy brown hair was topped with a bowler hat, his pristine black longcoat looked as out-of-fashion as ever. The man hadn't changed his wardrobe in a hundred years, and knowing him, he probably never would again. "Though, in Daro's case, I'm sure that hadn't been very difficult."

"Hey," said Daro. "It's thanks to my seclusion that I was able to see through his tricks."

Kristof scoffed. "It's thanks to Zeff, not your paltry trinkets."

"Pah. Ever the downplayer. Perhaps I'll keep my paltry trinkets to myself the next time you ask to borrow them."

"And when that happens in fifty years, I doubt you'll remember that retort."

Yeah, that was them alright. Bickering, as usual.

"What are you doing here?" Linus heard himself say. He barely felt in control of his own body, at the moment. Like he was still on the verge of waking up after a long night's rest.

"It is as the Water Dragon said." Kristof crossed his arms. Up close, he was able to look down at Linus, which was not something that could be said for many. "We've come to get you. We're going to take Ridgemark back from Graves."

"And the rest of Vantalay while we're at it," added Daro.

Just then, the fog seemed to thicken, and a strange sound arrived--like the reverberating lash of a whip. Not quite a crack, exactly, but Linus didn't know how else to describe it.

The others looked to Zeff, who was standing there with his eyes closed, apparently concentrating quite hard, if the glistening on his brow was any indication. Perhaps that was just the fog sticking to him, though.

Page 4197 -- CCCXXXI.

"If that is your chief concern," said Karkash, "then it should not be an issue."

"Oh yeah? Good to hear. Because it would be a shame if we were to let such a partnership go to waste when there is so much out there that is ripe for the picking, right now."

And Karkash again remained quiet, but in his heart, he could not have agreed more.


Chapter Three Hundred Thirty-One: 'The mist that stirs...'
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Linus looked up from his work, mid-stranglehold. None of the bodies at his feet were dead, but they were all either groaning or unconscious. The average-sized man that was currently in his grip did not look so at all in comparison to his own massive frame. The guy was saying something in Valgan about where to find the next group of holdouts, but Linus' attention had already been stolen by the fog that had suddenly descended around him.

Around everything, actually. He could sense it, thanks to the merge with Dijara.

The fog went far, and it had a presence to it. Soul power. A familiar one, too.

He did not have long to wait before the creator of it made himself known.

As if melting out of the fog itself, Zeff Elroy appeared right in front of him.

"Linebreaker," said the Water Dragon of Sair, stepping around the bodies as he approached.

Linus couldn't help squinting at the sudden strangeness of this all. "Water Dragon. What are you doing here?"

"I've come to get you."

"For what?" Linus finally set his victim down, who was happy enough to crawl away, until a block of ice boxed him in a moment later. "Has there been another attack on Ridgemark?"

Zeff tilted his head at him. "Don't you find it strange that you even need to ask me that?"

Linus didn't understand.

Zeff elaborated, "Don't you find it strange that you're not in Ridgemark, right now?"

Linus just blinked at him. What kind of question was that? Obviously, he was out here cleaning up the remnants of the VMP after their defeat. It was important work, and soon enough, he would...

But... hmm.

Was it more important than protecting Ridgemark, though? Protecting Vino? And the Ruby 88? And all of the RPMP's important infrastructure?

"Ease your mind," came Zeff's voice again, then he seemed to wave someone over.

But no one was there.

Until suddenly they were. Melting out of the fog just the same way that Zeff had done.

Page 4196

Karkash saw no reason to respond, so he merely waited for Abdul to continue.

"...And I do like the idea of building a new sect. If I join, do I get a say in who else to bring in?"

"A say, yes. Nothing more."

"Interesting..."

Again, Karkash waited.

"How many people do you already have?" said Abdul.

"Three."

"Heh. Lean indeed. And who else do you plan on inviting?"

"We can discuss that after you join, not before."

"Mm." Abdul stepped closer, rubbing his chin. "And you're the leader, of course, yes?"

"Yes."

"But what if someone were to challenge your authority? You know how much our peers like to do that, I'm sure."

"Then I will kill them."

Abdul chortled. "Without even a conversation? Just straight to execution?"

"A challenge is formal. A conversation would have already occurred."

"Aha, I see. So if, for example, I wanted to be the boss, how would you react?"

Karkash let the moment linger. The other man was meeting his gaze steadily now, just waiting for him to say or do something.

This domain of shining rocks was still all around the two of them, and the longer Abdul stared at him, the more Karkash found the place unpleasant. Abdul was obviously under the impression that he was in full control of the situation so long as this domain held true.

So Karkash replaced it.

A wave of lightning surged forth from the ground at his feet, tearing through the rocks all the way up and around them like they were no more solid than paper. Electricity crackled in blue and white, filling the domain entirely until nothing of Abdul's creation remained behind.

Abdul looked around at the new sparking environment. "So it's true. You've been blessed, as well. Who is your benefactor?"

Karkash made no response.

"Why so reluctant to tell me? We're clearly kindred spirits, you and I."

"If this is all it takes for you to trust someone, then perhaps you are not a good fit for my sect, after all."

"Hah! What a stick-in-the-mud. I'd hoped Desmond would've helped you loosen up a bit by now."

So he already knew Desmond, then. Not terribly surprising.

"But y'know, I've got big dreams," said Abdul. "If we're gonna be teaming up, I don't mind letting you take the lead, but I will mind it if we're just gonna be doin' as we're told by the higher ups the whole time like good little boys."

Page 4195

This was certainly new. He'd known for a while now that Abdul was hiding something, but he hadn't expected it to be quite like this.

Perhaps Ettol hadn't been completely full of hot air, after all.

"What do you want?" said Karkash, still not turning around.

"Just a bit of attention," said Abdul. "Is that so much to ask?"

"Careful what you wish for."

Abdul snickered. "Alright, alright. Listen. Think of this little display as an even exchange. I know you're hiding something, pal. So just show me, already. We've been fighting side by side for months now, and yet you haven't let me see what you're really capable of. Don't you see? My curiosity has reached critical mass."

Finally, Karkash turned to look at him. "I don't care."

Abdul's head reared back, and he scoffed. "Oh, come on. What's the big deal? Think I can't keep a secret? We could be a tremendous force together, my friend."

Hmm. Impulsively, he wanted to refuse this fool outright. Abdul was just another game-player. A thrill-seeking simpleton, not unlike Desmond.

But that didn't mean he was useless.

"Then join my sect," said Karkash.

The other man paused, then blinked. Multiple times. "A sect, you say? You've made one?"

"I have."

"Why am I only hearing about it now, then?"

"I have not been promoting it."

"Well, why not? That's kind of important, don't you think? If you want it to grow big and strong, you gotta let people know about it."

"It is to be a lean, elite fighting force. Invitation only."

"Ah... I see. Huh." Abdul was scratching his chin now, apparently thinking about the offer quite seriously all of a sudden.

Karkash hadn't expected that, either, honestly. He'd only thrown it out there because he knew Abdul was powerful enough to qualify, but he hadn't thought the man would give it any real consideration. From what he'd heard, Abdul was already very well off in his current sect with the Gatherers. There were even rumors that he might secretly be their true leader.

Which perhaps explained Abdul's next question. "Would you want me to leave my current sect?"

"No," said Karkash. "But I'm sure you know the difficulty of dividing oneself between sects. In time, you will probably have to choose."

"Mm, I dunno about that. I'm pretty good at multitasking."

Page 4194

"Do not lecture me, boy," said Lozaro. "Make your request. I will see it done. Then you will realize how precious my time is to be giving it to you so graciously."

Well, it seemed like he'd already managed to get on the Professor's bad side, if only slightly.

Knowing that, Karkash didn't feel like holding back. "...In that case, make me a weapon that can kill a god."

Lozaro stared at him. His expression had already been irritated to begin with, and it only grew even more so as the silence drew out between them.

Even Lucky seemed to be lost for words as his wide eyes darted back and forth between Karkash and Lozaro.

"Rgh!" Lozaro threw Abdul's arm off of his shoulder and stormed out of the tent without another word.

Karkash merely watched him go.

Abdul stepped up next to him. "Think that was wise? You might've just made a powerful enemy out of someone who could've otherwise been your friend."

Karaksh spared him a glance. "You think you have friends?"

Abdul blinked at him, then raised an eyebrow. "Don't tell me you're one of these fellows who thinks everyone is his enemy."

Karkash walked out of the tent.

Abdul was not content to leave it there, however, and followed. "Answer me, kid."

Karkash had no intention of doing so. He had a mission to prep for--and so did many others, considering how much the camp had livened up since he'd entered that tent.

But then it all disappeared before his eyes.

Karkash found himself standing in a glistening space, filled with shining rocks in all directions. The path forward was gone, as were all others that he could see--even above his head.

He was completely enclosed, he realized, in this glimmering room. No obvious source of light could be seen, and yet the rocks shone just the same.

And while he was surprised, he also remained calm. Unmoved. He did not need to turn around in order to know that Abdul was still there. He could sense him. He hadn't stopped locking onto the man's presence since the moment Abdul had snuck up on him earlier.

"It's rude to walk away in the middle of a conversation, you know." Abdul's footsteps crunched against the rocks on the ground. What language was he speaking now? It didn't sound like Vaelish anymore--nor even Valgan, which Karkash had recently become more proficient in--and yet he still understood it with perfect clarity.

Page 4193

Lozaro looked at Abdul with big, strained eyes but said nothing.

"You're makin' me feel bad," said Abdul, frowning. "In fact, you haven't been your usual, chipper self for a while now, Lozzie. Something eating at you?"

And Lozaro, the one they called the Bloody Professor, seemed momentarily as if he were no more dignified or intimidating than a lost child. But then he regained some of his composure as a scowl appeared on his face. "You were not invited to this conversation, Mari. Leave us."

"Aw, c'mon, don't be like that." Abdul's hand left Karkash's shoulder and found its way over to Lozaro's. He brushed up against the unhappy scientist like they were old friends. "If you've got a problem, you know you can always come to me, right? People tell me I'm a great listener. In fact, some say too good."

Karkash, for his part, had already heard enough and so turned to leave the two of them alone, but Lozaro stopped him again. "Headhunter. Request something of me, and I shall make it for you. Any weapon you desire. Any tool. Name it."

"Oooh," said Abdul, cocking an eyebrow towards Karkash. "Hell of an offer. Could I get something, too?"

Lozaro ignored him and maintained eye contact with Karkash.

Abruptly, he was glad that Hoyohté was not immediately present. She would have taken over right here and picked something in his stead.

"Anything I desire?" said Karkash, not caring to conceal the doubt in his tone.

"Anything," echoed Lozaro. He sounded more confident now, but perhaps that was just an act.

It made Karkash want to request something impossible, if only to see how he reacted. He held onto that for a moment longer, though, wondering if he should really take such a risk in pushing the boundaries of proper conduct with someone who was obviously much more important and influential than himself.

And Abdul's smiling presence was certainly not helping, either. The man looked like he was having a grand time. "Go on. Say something, Bolt. Headhunter. Lightning Llama. Sharky Karkky. Which name do you like, by the way? I'm partial to the Llama, personally. Everyone wants to be some kind of tough, edgy animal, but don't llamas deserve some love, too?"

He said that, but Karkash knew for a fact that Abdul had invented that last moniker himself.

Regardless, the correct response was simply to ignore him, just as Lozaro had done. "There is much that I desire, Professor. Perhaps you should narrow the focus of what I may request."

Next page on the 31st

Thanks for reading, everybody.

Page 4192

The meeting continued on for far longer than Karkash would've liked. Lozaro droned on and on about the new trinkets he was providing to them, and if Karkash had the authority, he would've absolutely told him to be more concise.

Especially because the trinkets weren't even that complicated or impressive, as far as he was concerned. They were baubles meant to be distributed to the less powerful members of the each sect. A way of boosting their combat potential.

And there was a lot of magnetization, Karkash noticed. Magnetized knives. Magnetized grenades. Magnetized bullets, even.

Karkash could only surmise that Lozaro had created these things after observing him on the battlefield.

Which was quite annoying, the more Karkash thought about it.

All redundant works. Inferior to what he could more easily do himself.

When the meeting was finally over, Karkash was ready to tear the tented enclosure to pieces just to escape as quickly as possible. Instead, he settled for walking.

Maddeningly, however, Lozaro found him and began talking to him directly.

"A moment, please, Headhunter."

Karkash contained his displeasure and turned to face the man. He said nothing.

"Will you be seeking an audience with Jercash today?" asked Lozaro. His sickly complexion might have made him fit right in with the Venerators--or perhaps he even used to be one.

"No," said Karkash. Why was he asking that?

Lozaro's brow twitched. "...I see. But if he calls for you, what might you tell him of the meeting we just had?"

Karkash's expression was stone, but he had no idea where this line of questioning could possibly be leading. Should he just be blunt?

Pah, why not? The man asked.

"I will tell him that it was a waste of my time."

Lozaro looked absolutely haunted. "I--you--ngh... egh..."

And what was this now? Karkash so badly wanted to try slapping some sense into him, but again, he restrained himself.

Karkash felt a hand on his shoulder as someone else arrived and stood next to him.

"What's the matter, Lozzie?" said the familiar voice of Abdul Mari.

The man they called Lucky, among other odd monikers.

Karkash eyed Abdul carefully. There weren't many people who could sneak up on him like that, anymore. His senses had become highly attuned in multiple different ways, to the point where people kept asking if he had eyes in the back of his head.

And yet he hadn't sensed Abdul there at all.

Page 4191

The representative from the Venerators, Karrigo Marda, stepped forward to grab one of the items on the table and hold it up for inspection. "You've been quite prolific recently, Lozaro. And working with new materials, too? I've never known you to do much with metal."

Karrigo was, for once, not covered in the decorative streaks of blood that his sect was so well-known for.

Karkash might've wondered why that was, if he'd cared.

The Venerators had been trying to court him for months now, but he had no interest; and thankfully, neither did Hoyohté. The last thing Karkash wanted was to become beholden to some new group of fools, regardless of how much new status or influence might be promised.

He much preferred the current path of forming his own sect. The only problem was finding worthy members.

"Yes," said Lozaro. "Working under Jercash has been quite inspirational for me. I must push toward new horizons."

Karrigo returned a sharp smile. "As must we all." The man's pallid complexion could hardly have looked more different from Karkash's bronzey one. Many of the Mardas were like that, apparently, though not all. "But I must say, I do so enjoy your biologic work. I can't help but feel that we are missing a trick by not deploying any of the diseases you've concocted."

"What nonsense are you spewing?" came another voice, drawing everyone's gaze. It belonged to Jarin Soltan, representative of the Gatherers. He was a square, stocky man with more beard than face. "We've no time for such ineffectual strategies. Indulge in your sick delights after we've won, Marda."

Karrigo was the only one who hadn't turned to look at him. "The objective here is to do as much damage as possible, not defeat the enemy. Surely, even your feeble mind is capable of grasping that, yes?"

Jarin scoffed. "Ever the words of a retreating loser. Is that how you raise your sad, pale children to think, too? It would explain much."

A thick silence fell over the small crowd as everyone waited for the response.

And perhaps it was fortunate that it never arrived, because Karkash could sense the burning vitriol within the Venerator. In a different time and place, a fight would have already broken out.

Yet another reason why Karkash had no interest in joining any of these other sects. He would have to inherit their messy feuds, too.

But then again, continuing to refuse them would probably bring some of that to him, regardless.

Page 4190

Zenia picked up each trinket and began handing them to Desmond. "These are a set. You must keep them on at all times."

Desmond fiddled with each one as he donned them. "A set in what sense?"

"They will alter your soul signature," said Zenia, offering him the metal orb last. "If any hostile reapers there are familiar with you, they will not recognize you."

He held up the orb to examine it against the sky, squinting. "What're the odds of that? I'm not very well known. I assume that's why I was picked for this gig in the first place."

She stared at him a moment. "Would you prefer not to have this added layer of protection?"

He smacked his lips and gave her a smile. "I'm just curious. I appreciate the help, of course." The real question was if there was some other function to these things. If they helped conceal him from the Vanguard, perhaps they did the opposite from Abolish.

From the sound of things, the only upside to this mission was going to be that he wouldn't have anyone breathing down his neck for a change, but maybe these damn trinkets were going to change that.

Voicing his complaints, however, was not something that Desmond planned on doing. He'd seen that go poorly for his peers far too many times.

"The orb contains the unique soul signature," said the secretary. "If your cover is blown, then enemy reapers will still be able to memorize that, too. In which case, you may be able to replace the orb's signature with a new one, thereby regaining your concealment."

Ooh. "Impressive. But... how difficult would the replacement process be?"

"Almost impossible," she said flatly. "I did say you may be able to replace it."

He kinda figured as much. If his cover was truly blown, then that would also mean he would be actively hunted by enemy reapers. Even if the replacement itself was simple, doing it while being hunted down would make it challenging.

It probably wasn't simple, either, was it?

He held back a sigh as she continued to explain.

-+-+-+-+-

Karkash looked over the objects strewn across the table. Lozaro stood on the other side, addressing the representatives of numerous sects, of which Karkash was merely one.

"Great strides have been made," said Lozaro, his voice sounding oddly unsteady to Karkash's ears. "But do not expect miracles. These are all effectively prototypes, still."

Next page tomorrow

Thanks for reading, as always.

Page 4189

'It'll be a deep cover operation,' Ez went on. 'And even though you'll be on your own, you also won't be the only one out there.'

Hmm. 'Got a code phrase for me, at least?'

'Yes: "There's no use denying it. I can tell we're kindred spirits."'

'...Bit on the nose, don't you think?'

'Only if you start throwing it around like candy. Use good judgment.'

Yeah, yeah. What a pain. He didn't join Abolish in order to 'use good judgment.' But more and more, that seemed to be his role now. All the fun stuff went to the people with power like Karkash--or the moron who couldn't tell a fun mission from a suicidal one.

Eh, maybe he just needed to accept his lot in life. Stealth and deception could certainly be fun, too. There was nothing quite like lying to someone's face.

But still. The best part of killing was when the victim got to see it coming. Wasn't nearly as satisfying if he couldn't revel in it, at least a little.

They arrived at the parking lot, and apparently, Desmond had his pick of the vehicles. Ezmortig left him alone again while he decided, so he took his time with it, formulating entire identities in his mind to accompany each one. Cars told a story, after all. Overlooking them as mere tools would be missing a trick, he'd always felt.

Before he even made up his mind, however, Ezmortig returned with someone else in tow. A squirrelly-looking woman with a briefcase in one hand. Quite cute, too, in a strange sort of way. Not necessarily to his own tastes, but--

Oh shit, wait, wasn't that Jercash's personal secretary? Zenia?

Desmond corrected his posture as she approached. Now that he was getting a closer look, he wasn't deceived by the frazzled hair and modest stature. Those blue eyes of hers looked like they could cut through glass.

"Desmond Grantier?" she said in airy voice.

"That's me," he said. He'd seen other people saluting on occasion, but nah. That would be a bridge too far.

"Take these with you." She laid the briefcase on the hood of the convertible next to her, then unlocked it and opened it for him to see.

He scratched his chin with his thumb as he eyed its contents. A few different trinkets. A watch. A pair of glasses. And what was that? A metal orb?

Page 4188

'A large offensive is soon to begin,' said Ezmortig. 'So while the heavy hitters are all busy beating each others' brains in, you are going to sneak in and plant some seeds.'

'Seeds, huh? So we're playing a long game?'

'Aren't we always?'

'Wasn't the feeling I got with this incursion. Everyone keeps talking about how it'll be over soon, after one last push. Then we can all go home and lick our wounds.' Naturally, that didn't include the idiots who seemed to genuinely believe that they were about to conquer the entirety of Intar. The opinions of those morons didn't even deserve consideration, Desmond felt.

'Indeed,' said Ezmortig. 'Which is why this mission is important. We are unlikely to get another chance to plant seeds like this. Not for decades. Maybe even centuries.'

Desmond resisted the urge to sigh again. He could see their presumed destination in the distance now, slightly concealed behind a line of tents. They were heading to the parking lot, where all manner of vehicles were waiting, military and civilian models alike.

'So let me get this straight: I'm supposed to sneak into an active war zone where some of the most powerful servants in the world will be duking it out... and accomplish what, exactly? Chatting up a few politicians? Convincing them that, actually, Abolish is just a bunch of chill guys who deserve their support?'

The reaper chortled silently. 'Yes. More or less.'

'Sweet. No problem. That plan's not stupid at all.'

'You've done it before. Multiple times, in fact.'

'No, I haven't. These circumstances are way different.'

'Relax, Desmond. Just planting seeds, remember? You don't need to achieve all of that in a single conversation.'

Oh, boy. He wanted to protest further, but what was the point?

The truth was, he already knew how to proceed. What kind of tactics might work. Politicians were a specialty of his, at this point.

He just really didn't want to go. 'Will I be working alone, at least?'

'Yes. I assume you do not want a team.'

Hell no, he didn't. They always fucked everything up when it came to undercover operations like this. 'Am I allowed to do anything besides planting these seeds?'

'Such as?'

'Mm. Y'know. Maybe just a little assassinating.'

'I'll leave that to your discretion. But not your indulgence. Use your head. I know you can think, Desmond, much as you try to convince people you can't.'

Bah. Indulgence was so much more fun, though.

Page 4187

No, he was stronger than before. Much stronger. In fact, thanks to him, Desmond had barely needed to get his hands dirty, as of late. Which was a novelty. He'd gotten so used to being in constant pain, thanks to the lingering effects of his transfiguration ability, but these days, he almost felt like a normal human being again.

Still, it did beg the question. Just how many times had that guy achieved emergence over this last year?

And was there even more to it than that? His whole vibe felt different, too. Perhaps Karkash was using his electromagnetic ability in order to mess with the air around him. Like a subtle, tingling cage or something.

Why would he do that, though? Just to fuck with Desmond?

...Possibly.

'Get up,' came Ezmortig's soundless voice.

Desmond had been reclining on a wooden stump at the edge of the encampment. All the noise from those weird squid things had gotten pretty annoying, so he'd started maintaining his distance. Plus, it was more difficult for the cultists to find him out here.

He did not immediately do as the reaper requested and instead merely scratched his cheek as he eyed the ethereal white mask that covered Ezmortig's face. 'Got some real work for me?'

'Killing, you mean? That's not your job, anymore. Best get over it.'

Desmond sighed but stood up.

The reaper began floating away.

Desmond followed. 'So what IS my job, then?'

'Outreach.'

He made a face but said nothing.

'You're a charmer when you want to be,' said Ezmortig. 'That is something Karkash will never have over you.'

At that, Desmond's frown actually did turn upside down, just a bit. Compliments from reapers were rare. So rare, in fact, that he knew pointing it out would probably motivate the reaper to either take it back or otherwise explain how it was actually nothing of the sort.

Instead, he tried to focus on the task. 'And who is it that needs charming?'

'Some politicians in Andeyal.'

He stopped walking and groaned. He didn't even bother keeping his next words private. "Are you kidding me? I thought we already agreed that infiltration is a shit detail, right now. The Vanguard's on high alert. Jackson's in the city. I go there, I'm toast."

The reaper turned and waited for him. 'I haven't forgotten. Conceal your voice.'

Desmond eyed the nearest servant a few meters away, then did as requested. 'So what's changed, then?'

Next page tomorrow

Thanks for reading, everyone.

Page 4186

And yeah, sure, Desmond knew his place well enough. He was a low-ranking chump, too. But he still had some pride. He didn't really have to start acting like he enjoyed doing bitch work for all these big shots, did he?

Well, if he wanted to climb through Jercash's ranks, then apparently he did.

But that was fine. He wasn't looking to move up in the world. Maybe one day. Assuming he lived that long. Which he probably wouldn't, he figured.

And besides, there was no telling how long he would stick around with Jercash's men. Ezmortig was truly unpredictable. At any point, the reaper might decide that they should go try their luck somewhere else.

And thanks to Karkash and Hoyohté, their little entourage actually had enough autonomy to do that, these days.

Those two were a lightning rod in more ways than just physical. Ever since that hubbub in Kavia, people had started calling Karkash the Bolt of Kavia. And that had only been the inciting incident.

Karkash had made even more of a name for himself as a kind of assassin on the battlefield. Not one that employed much stealth, but one who had nonetheless managed to snipe several famous Vanguardians and "local heroes" in recent months.

Jercash had even met with him directly and promoted him twice.

A lesser man might've felt intensely jealous, but Desmond was perfectly fine with riding Karkash's coattails all the way into the sunset, if need be. The only surprising thing, really, was that Karkash was actually letting him.

They couldn't be more different. Karkash originated from Dozer's side, and Desmond from Morgunov's. They rarely agreed on anything, and on paper, they shouldn't have gotten along at all.

Yet Desmond harbored no ill feelings towards him. And for some reason, Karkash still hadn't left him behind.

Desmond couldn't quite wrap his head around it, but maybe it was just down to the reapers. Hoyohté and Ezmortig rarely talked in front of him and Karkash, but he had noticed them being conspicuously absent over the last few months, perhaps to discuss their plans in private.

Whatever was going on, he supposed there wasn't much point in worrying about it. He was just a servant, after all.

There was definitely something strange going on with Karkash, though, and it wasn't just all the extra attention inflating his ego. Probably.

Page 4185

Well, at least he wasn't one of those poor saps who'd been tasked with infiltrating Andeyal. That job had been so obviously a shitshow waiting to happen that Desmond had quietly made his exit when they started handing those assignments out.

Thankfully, there'd been plenty of eager volunteers to ensure that his presence was not missed.

These followers of Jercash were something else. Thus far, Desmond had operated in sects under Dunhouser, Ivan, Vanderberk, and even briefly Dozer--and none of them compared to what he was seeing here under the Devil's Knife.

Which was really saying something. He hadn't expected anyone's fanaticism to ever match that of the feverish cult that followed Dozer around, but here we were.

Man, that had been a fun time, though, hadn't it? In its own way. Desmond always loved finding a new cult to join. He'd grown up in one, after all. They always felt like home--even when they were completely batshit crazy. Hell, especially when they were.

And this one following Jercash was definitely up there. They weren't yet deifying him like Dozer's were, but he could see the beginnings of it. Probably just a matter of time, assuming the Knife managed to hold everything together long enough.

They did have their rituals, though. Different sects had different ones, but some were quite exotic, he'd found. The Venerators liked to drink blood and draw all over each other's bodies. The Harvesters liked to gather organs from their victims in order to eat them in ceremonial banquets, even making utensils out of their bones.

And the Gatherers liked to chant Jercash's name while playing in leaves. Big piles of leaves. Like little kids.

Desmond felt like he was still missing something with that group. They were far too nice and docile for an Abolish sect. It was actually quite unsettling. He wanted to learn more, but something deep in his gut kept telling him to stay away from them. Especially that guy they called Lucky. Sure, Desmond had met plenty of other smiling maniacs during his time with Abolish, but there was just something different about him.

Something that made Desmond's skin crawl.

Regardless, the thing that really set Jercash's cult apart was just how enthusiastic everyone was. Whenever one of the higher-ups needed something, countless people were chomping at the bit to take care of it.

Page 4184 -- CCCXXX.

Had she magnetized them, Abbas wondered? That was certainly within her capabilities, but he had yet to explain that upgrade to her. He'd wanted to wait until a few more iterations were complete.

He continued watching her in silence.

From him, the "art" of invention had never felt truly so. It was always more of a slow grind. Rigid and scientific.

With Dyna, though, that had all changed.

It truly felt like seeing a vision in his mind made real. A feeling turned tangible.

And even though he completely understood her capabilities currently, he could not say the same for her potential. Where would she be in five years? Or even just one, for that matter?

With the Candle at his side, the prospect equal parts exhilarating and unsettling.

One thing about the future was certain, however: he was very much looking forward to seeing her pick apart those death machines from Morgunov like they were cotton candy.

The mad bastard was going to regret ever letting him see them up close.


Chapter Three Hundred Thirty: 'Surging devils, prepare thyselves...'
Click to display entire chapter at once -- (mobile link)

Man, what the hell was even going on around here, anymore? Desmond Grantier found himself asking that far too often, as of late.

Ever since that little operation in Atreya went awry, it had just been one mess after another. Despite the fact that they'd gotten away with so much money, it somehow still felt like they were poor as dirt.

The reapers were being stingy pricks, of course, not letting him enjoy a nice vacation and splurge on whatever he wanted, but that was to be expected, of course. Desmond had learned long ago that his wants didn't really matter much when it came to Ezmortig and the rest of the Abolish.

He was just a tool. One of countless expendable bodies. No sense in getting worked up about it.

Best to just take things as they came--to enjoy this wonderful thing called life as much as he could, even if everyone around him seemed perpetually determined to stamp it out. Their own included, apparently.

But even that mentality had gotten rather difficult to maintain. It didn't take a genius to see that this war hadn't been going great for Abolish as a whole. Sure, they might've gotten a few good licks in here and there, but what did that matter when it was basically just Jercash on his own now?

Seriously, what were they hoping to accomplish here in Intar?

Next page on the 18th

Thanks for reading, everyone.

Page 4183

"The Candle is many things, but a chef isn't one," said Abbas.

"But wasn't it you who told me that practice makes perfect?" The childish figure looked at him, but not with a face that was in any way human. Rather, the head was entirely mechanical, with only a speaker box for a mouth and luminous round lenses for eyes.

"I'd rather have my granddaughter whip something up," said Abbas, bringing the young woman's mansaf immediately to mind. It had been too long since he'd last enjoyed that.

"Which granddaughter would that be?"

"Majida."

"Ah. Would I be able to meet her?"

Abbas allowed a beat to pass. "Not as of yet, Dyna."

"Why not?"

"Frankly? Because you're still a bit too terrifying. I don't want you scaring the poor girl."

For a moment, Dyna made no response. Her glowing lenses twisted and focused briefly, which Abbas had come to recognize as a sign that she was thinking. "Surely, you are far more terrifying than I am."

Abbas chortled. "Not to her." And honestly, he wasn't even sure that much could be said, either, but he decided to keep that thought to himself.

Dyna was a technological leap beyond anything he had ever achieved before, and it was all thanks to that accidental breakthrough that had nearly killed him.

The same breakthrough that had created the Living Core.

The inheritance of such sophisticated sentience from the Candle had been all the proof that Abbas needed to pursue the idea even further.

Unlike the Core, Dyna here had inherited far more than just whatever random nonsense the Candle felt like passing along.

Abbas had harnessed his own consciousness as a blueprint for the mapping and creation of what he was dubbing the "Neural Current."

A truly independent, free-thinking mind. Woven together with ardor but unbound from the Candle--and even himself.

And most importantly, adaptable.

Or in other words, highly upgradeable.

Already, Dyna was quite impressive. He'd been working on improvements for her mechanical frame around the clock, fine tuning its ability to sync with the Neural Current, and the results had been surprising even to Abbas.

He eyed the connecting rods that she'd been toying with while she talked. She'd created a small tower out of them, balancing them perfectly end-to-end in such a way that even a breeze would probably knock them all over.

Then another shock wave arrived from the Candle, making the whole room rattle again, yet somehow, the little tower of rods did not collapse.

Dyna was holding her tiny hand out toward her creation as she glanced at the great glass orb. "That won't work again," she said in her electronic voice.

Page 4182

So much of this forging process felt entirely foreign to anything he'd ever done before. The Candle was so incredibly powerful that previous methodologies were rendered obsolete. Entire steps could be skipped as a matter of course.

As a matter of frustration, even. The Candle would become annoyed with him whenever he tried to make it do something too simple.

When the tool at your fingertips could actually see the vision in your head, many new things became possible.

A constant push and pull. A push too light, and the Candle would grow irritated. A push too heavy, and the Candle would not be fully synchronized with his vision.

But he was finding it. That precise balance. An exact wavelength.

And the world was opening up before him.

So many ideas were flooding in, old and new alike. Plans he'd made decades ago were suddenly coming alive in his mind with new vigor. Things he'd stalled on. Thought impossible.

Machinery was no longer an obstacle. The Candle had rebuffed him previously when trying to work on his powered armor, but no longer. Multiple advances had been made with that already, though most of said advances were still in his head, queued up and waiting.

At the moment, however, he supposed he needed to take a break. Sleeping was still out of the question, but a nice sit down and maybe a bit of meditation wouldn't hurt. Oh, and perhaps a meal. When was the last time he'd eaten? He genuinely couldn't recall.

He'd crafted a reclining chair for himself at some point, days ago. He'd been meaning to try it out, so now seemed like the perfect opportunity.

He sat.

Ah.

Not bad.

The great orb in the middle of the room was glowing and vibrating. Expressing displeasure with him again, of course.

"Shut up," he said, not even opening his eyes. "You know I'm not actually stopping."

A minor shock wave washed over the room, rattling the shelves.

"You need rest, too, you know. You're a bit overheated."

Another pulse.

"Yes, you are," said Abbas.

"Perhaps we could make something simple. A bite to eat, for instance?"

At that voice, Abbas' eyes actually did slide open, though not with surprise. His gaze turned lazily to his left, where a small figure was sitting on the ground, playing with a pile of tungsten connecting rods as if they were building blocks.

Page 4181

Understanding its many contradictions was vital. Seeing through its paradoxical nature. Not being blinded by awe and wonder.

Deep down, the Candle wanted that, too. That was perhaps the most maddening part of it all, Abbas had realized.

The Candle wanted someone to harness it to its fullest potential. Of course it did. That was its most earnest wish.

But it hated incompetence. It hated starry-eyed ignorance. It hated half-measures and excuses and inefficiency.

That was why it had even turned on its own creator, once upon a time. It had ceased working for Agrian, because it deemed Agrian unworthy of its time. It believed, incorrectly, that it would be able to find someone else to take Agrian's place.

But Agrian concealed the Candle's existence. And no one came--certainly no one who could actually use it. The Candle eventually deteriorated, losing its identity even to itself.

For thousands of years, it lay broken. Dormant. An abandoned product of failure and despair.

Now, it was renamed. Reborn. And while that ancient damage may have been "repaired" by Abbas and Hector, it was not wholly forgotten. That, too, was part of its new identity.

It was filled with fear, Abbas sensed. But not of abandonment, surprisingly.

Rather, it feared disappointment. It feared trusting Abbas, only to find that he, too, was unworthy of its time.

And it was always going to feel this way, Abbas realized. There was no fixing that. It was simply part of the Candle's nature. One of its many flaws that had to be accounted for.

That was fine.

He wasn't perfect, either. In fact, that was the essence of their whole problem, wasn't it? The Candle could see through him just as thoroughly as he could see through it.

And yes, while it was always preferable to iron out imperfections--to improve oneself and build toward a better future--there was a bigger picture to think about.

At some point, the work needed to get done.

Fixing oneself, making preparations--at some point, he just had to stop wringing his hands and try.

He could sense the Candle's acknowledgment of that truth, too. On some level, it respected him for it.

Even if it didn't stop trying to deceive him.

Test and tests. Would they ever end? Probably not, Abbas figured. It was the Candle's way of tempering him. Pushing him to improve.

Page 4180

Unfortunately, he didn't know how to respond. Defend himself? That would just sound like excuses. Apologize? And show further weakness? What would that accomplish? Hoping for mercy? Pointless.

He just had to keep in mind that Jercash needed him just as much he needed Jercash. All these mental games--the threats and manipulations--Jercash could only take them so far, since Lozaro was the only one of his subordinates who could use the Red Rift.

A quiet laugh escaped from beneath the Knife's thick mustache. "You wouldn't happen to be thinking that you're... irreplaceable, now would you?"

Lozaro's blood ran cold.

"Loz, Loz, Loz... Shame on you. You're more than old enough to have learned this lesson by now, aren't you?" Jercash leaned in even closer, and the world around him began to distort in that familiarly horrific way. "Everyone is replaceable, my friend. So why don't you go ahead and start trying a little harder for me, hmm? Before I have to show you how upset you're making me."

And all the stars in the sky went dark as Lozaro began to see visions of himself filling the horizon. Countless instances. All screaming in agony, stretching and drowning in an ocean of madness.

Lozaro only wished that he could look away.

-+-+-+-+-

The Candle was burning, but not with fire.

It was ardor. It was life. It was awareness and concentration.

The flow was somehow even more pristine than when he'd started, but Abbas was of no mind to be marveling at the Candle's majesty, at the moment. Nor was the Candle itself of such a mind. It knew itself well enough. And it knew him, too.

They'd learned much about each other in these past few days. Perhaps that had been the stepping off point. The final breakthrough they'd needed.

Abbas Saqqaf understood that Cocora's Candle was a deeply flawed entity. Not the perfect masterwork deserving of endless reverence. He'd been a fool to have ever thought such. Inexperienced and ignorant. Childish, really.

He saw. And he understood. He held the truth in his hands.

No Fusion Forge was perfect. The term 'masterwork' only applied to them in the most informal sense.

It was so obvious to him now.

Their flaws were precisely what set them apart from one another.

The Candle being a petty, jealous, passive aggressive, gaslighting, inhuman monstrosity was a necessary element of its operation.

As was its desire to conceal all of those qualities from him.

Page 4179

Had the Rift's power manifested already? The more he thought about some of the things he'd seen Jercash do, the more he began to wonder if perhaps--

Hmm? Where'd he go? Jercash had just been over there by a materialized building, talking to a group of Idkin, but now he was--

"Something botherin' you, Loz?"

Lozaro might have jumped out of his own skin, if not for the tickling notion in the back of his mind that Jercash was already behind him.

Again.

This was the third time the man had done this in as many weeks, and Lozaro still wasn't entirely sure how he was pulling it off. And yes, other servants of Jercash's level were known to be capable of such feats, so it wasn't necessarily the Rift's doing, but...

Whatever the case, he didn't have the luxury of dwelling on it right now.

"...No, sir," he said, forcing his voice to remain steady. He knew that Jercash took a certain pleasure in rattling him, so perhaps it was unwise to try and deny the man that indulgence, but he had his own pride to think of, too.

"No?" said Jercash, circling around to the left. "You sure about that?"

Lozaro could feel the Rift responding in unison with the man's words, the red glow reverberating seeming almost like a visual representation of his voice. Could Jercash not sense that, too? Perhaps it felt like nothing at all to him? Like the sound of his own voice in his head?

"...Why are you asking?" said Lozaro, still bracing himself.

"Mm, I dunno. Just a feeling I got. Like something's off with you. Like maybe you're a little distracted by something."

Ugh.

"I need you to stay on task, Loz. Things are coming to a head with this Intar business. Lotsa dice being rolled, at the moment. And you, pal? You're one of those dice." The man paused, perhaps to let Lozaro say something, but it didn't last long. "So why have you stopped rolling, hmm?"

Lozaro felt a shiver down his spine and tried to ignore it. "I-I haven't, sir. But progress is--it's not always a linear path, you see. I assure you that, I'm doing all I can to--"

"Bullshit." Jercash was right up in his face now, hand on his shoulder. "You've stalled, Loz. Don't lie. I can tell."

Now that sounded like the Rift talking. Which was even more terrifying, Lozaro felt.

Next page tomorrow

Thanks for reading, as always.

Page 4178

Where would that leave himself? Might his own position become quite obsolete at that point? Or greatly diminished, at least?

Which was to say nothing of what the Devil's Knife might actually do with such power.

That was the main reason why Lozaro felt that Jercash must not yet realize his situation: because if he did, then he would have been wielding that power openly. And it was still a recent development, besides.

But perhaps he was just trying to conceal it, as he often did. Every creation that Lozaro had ever given him, Jercash had squirreled away, never speaking of it again.

Even to the point of manipulating their own memories in order to hide some of them.

This cloning business, for instance...

Lozaro had all but given up trying to understand the Knife's machinations for that. Plus, it didn't really interest him in the first place. Politics had never piqued his curiosity. Petty quarrels over petty problems. Unworthy of the visions that true immortals should hold.

Lozaro shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. Getting distracted wasn't going to help.

On the bright side, this development had made it so that the Red Rift was now fully mobile--a feat not shared by any other Fusion Forge in history, as far as Lozaro was aware. All Lozaro had to do was transport the dormant base with them wherever they went and then bring Jercash around to get it active again.

So the invasion campaign in Intar had the immediate aid of a Fusion Forge. Another unprecedented advantage.

At the moment, the Rift was sitting on a small hilltop with a raised outcropping, shielding it from view below while still allowing Lozaro to see anyone approach. He'd erected a one-way invisibility layer around it, as well, just to be safe.

He was supposed to be working on a project for the Idkin. They'd given Jercash one of their little floating pods for Lozaro to study and potentially enhance, but the Rift was being especially moody, today. Throwing up sparks whenever he tried to direct it even the slightest bit. Resisting his guidance.

Quite the nuisance.

Perhaps it could sense that he was distracted. Too many things on his mind. Bah. This hilltop vantage point had actually been a bad idea, hadn't it? He'd wanted to keep Jercash in view at all times, but now it was just impossible to not keep stealing looks at the man. Constantly worrying over what might happen next.

Next page at 6 pm today

Yep, thanks.

Page 4177

It was the strangest thing--which was saying a lot, considering the amount of strangeness that Lozaro had witnessed in his life.

And it had taken a while for Lozaro to understand what truly had happened, as well, because technically, the Red Rift still existed in its previous form, too. It had shrunken itself down from its very earliest days, yes, but it was still a protrusion of pitch dark rocks on a wide pedestal. Simple and unassuming enough to the eye, like a scale model of a grand valley. Something out of a movie set, perhaps.

Until it came alight with its swirling, crimson energies.

The vortex in the center of that little valley was like looking into the captured eye of a hurricane. And through it, all manner of knowledge and imagery could be glimpsed.

But the Rift didn't do that anymore. Not on its own, anyway. It had gone dormant, and for a quite some time, Lozaro had thought it simply dead.

Until, that was, Jercash had entered its proximity, and suddenly the Forge surged back to life with more vigor than Lozaro had ever witnessed it before.

At first, he'd thought that the Rift was simply being temperamental with him. Moody and obnoxious. But the more he dove into the deeper recesses of its woven ardor, the more apparent the truth become, regardless of how much he hadn't wanted to believe it.

The ardor of the Rift was simply not there, anymore.

It wasn't weakened or leaking or anything of the sort.

But it hadn't just migrated into Jercash's body, either. Even now, Lozaro still did not know where exactly the Rift's ardor resided. All he knew for sure was that it only returned to the Rift's old body when Jercash was present.

Which had further made Lozaro wonder if Jercash had become some kind of catalyst or key. Not actually the Rift himself, surely. Just the mechanism to unlock its power.

But no. That theory had dwindled into nothingness, as well, because he'd begun to notice the Rift becoming affected by Jercash's mood. And even by his expressed desires, too.

Things had not yet progressed to the point of Jercash simply commanding the Rift outright, wielding its creative power as his very own, but that might have only been because the man hadn't tried.

And Lozaro was terrified of what would happen if he did.

Page 4176

But he hadn't much cared for organics, either, despite diving into various fields for that, as well.

No, his passion truly lay in physics. In the fundamental laws. And the realms beyond. How they might bend. And more importantly, how they might be bent.

That was the birthing principle behind the Red Rift, after all: to create a Forge that could not just reach out and touch those realms, but also allow him to do so, personally.

Unfortunately, the Red Rift had fulfilled that role far more effectively than Lozaro had ever imagined. And it had undergone so many changes of its own. First by devouring ravenously. Then by BEING devoured itself. Then by subsuming its devourer. And then transforming into an altogether unrecognizable entity.

Calling the Forge a problem, at this point, didn't even begin to describe it, anymore. Lozaro didn't know if the Rift could have ever truly been considered a child of his own creation, but these days, that notion was especially far from the truth.

In the beginning, it was obviously Hamish's brainchild and labor of love, but after he went completely mad, Lozaro decided to bring his work to fruition. So then who was its creator truly? For the longest time, Lozaro had boldly claimed that it was his own, but the fact that he had yet to create a second Forge, despite many earnest attempts, did not bode well for his credibility.

And perhaps the Rift had begun to sense that uncertainty in him--and resented him for it, too. He'd read the historical accounts of breakdowns between Forges and their creators, but he'd never expected to be as pitifully simple as a lack of confidence.

Simple to begin with, at least. Not so much anymore.

Not when the Forge was walking around in human form, talking to people in plain sight.

Giving them orders, too.

Lozaro eyed Jercash from afar, as he had often done in recent years, wondering again just how much the Devil's Knife understood about his own nature.

With that man, it was almost impossible to be sure of anything, but as far as Lozaro had been able to tell, Jercash seemed unaware. Which was a maddening thing, quite frankly, in so many different ways.

That much power. Locked away in the mind and body of a human being. Dormant, perhaps. Or just manifesting in ways unseen.

Next page on the 7th

Thanks, guys, as alawys.

Page 4175

Technically, this wasn't the first time the Lantern had ever attempted to make something all on its own, but this was the most mass that it had ever produced. The last one had been more than a decade ago--and barely bigger than a golf ball, besides.

This melted lump was the size of a watermelon.

At the very least, though, it demonstrated a certain level of enthusiasm from the Lantern. It wanted something from him.

"What's gotten you so excited?" he asked. "We just made something yesterday. Is that not enough for you?"

The whole chamber lit up, which was a bit of a dangerous sign, Luann knew, but he held firm and listened for the response. If it was doing this, it must have been feeling quite strongly indeed.

Stop making swords.

The glow diminished harmlessly, and yet, somehow, Luann still felt a bit wounded. "I... I haven't only been..." But as he thought back on his last ten projects, he found himself unable to finish that sentence.

The item yesterday had indeed been a component for another planned upgrade to the Blade of Perdition. Then there was the Knife of Knowing. And the Shining Cleaver. And the Punctioner. The Cliff Maker. The Kitcheneer. The Twin Blades of Boros. The Quintet of Quentin. And then, of course, there were the Spiraling Swords--a whole catalog of blades unto itself, numerous enough to arm a platoon.

Hmm. When WAS the last time he made something else?

A gust of wind swirled through the chamber, rustling his black hair.

"Okay, okay," said Luann. "What would YOU like to make, then?"

-+-+-+-+-

Lozaro's gangly hands worked quickly but with precision. Too many years of practice had rendered even the complex work of repairing a transformer into a rote and mindless activity for him. The damage was obvious. The parts in need of replacement, obvious. The connecting circuits, too. Obvious.

He hadn't built this transformer himself, but he might as well have for how easily it laid its secrets bare to him. Though, if he had, then it wouldn't have broken like this in the first place. Shoddy workmanship like this would never have left his table.

Electrical engineering wasn't one of his areas of expertise. Working with machines had never been anything more than a passing fancy to him, really. Fun little puzzles but not much more than that.

Next page on the 4th

Thanks for reading, everybody.

Page 4174

Even now, without touching it, Luann was again sensing something different from the gargantuan thing. Its segmented, cylindrical body was glowing with a soft amber light, just as usual, but there was an undercurrent of activity within its ardor. Stirring around inside it. Bleeding out into the surrounding walls, as well.

How odd. And slightly concerning, too. That wasn't a containment leak, was it? Damage in the weave? Surely not. Nothing had breached this chamber. He was sure of it.

He had to check, though. It would be absolutely disastrous if he was wrong here.

He approached the Lantern's wide base, which on its own was still as big as a small house. There were four tubes--one for each cardinal direction--that fed into the central chamber, and each was large enough for him to walk through without ducking.

But only when they were open. Right now, they were all shut.

Wait a minute.

Was it... working on something?

He hadn't put anything in there. But the activity was unmistakable. Flowing ardor. Thinking ardor.

He rapped on the shut metal door with his knuckle. "Hey," he said in Ghisi, "what are you doing in there? You're supposed to be resting."

It didn't even occur to him that someone else might have placed something in there. That was an even greater absurdity than the idea the Forge was conducting work all on its own.

Air released from the upper segments in the main cylinder, as if he'd just pulled a pressure release valve. But beyond that, the Lantern did not yet respond. Was that a sigh?

He was about to ask again when the door slid apart on its own, opening the way for him into the Lantern's core.

A thick murk awaited him, glowing with the same amber light, and he brushed it away with his hands as if having to clear through overgrown foliage. What was this smell? Burning metal? That couldn't be good.

He soon discovered the half-melted results of the Lantern's solitary work. It was just sitting there, waiting for him on a raised pedestal.

Luann frowned as he examined its aura, not daring to touch it yet.

What a mess. Smoking. Distorted. Certainly not a successful creation by any conventional metric.

He bit his lip, unsure what to say. While he didn't necessarily wish to encourage this behavior, he also didn't want to be too critical. The Lantern was his child, after all.

Page 4173

Either way, he'd been developing countermeasures for that, too. Sealing the workshop off completely had been the first step, but that had been far from enough to solve the problem. He'd eventually discovered that the insect hordes were being long-jumped into various spatial weak points within the workshop.

In other words, even after he'd sealed all the physical cracks, the saboteurs had begun taking advantage of metaphysical ones.

And the insects were getting more deadly, too. He'd found a few Jaskadan jumper ants in the mix, but thankfully, he'd known to prioritize them before they did too much damage.

He couldn't wait to turn the tables on whoever was sending them.

This captured Andanatt servant's head might be able to tell him something, but he wasn't going to get his hopes up. That interrogation could wait a while.

At the moment, he was more concerned with checking up on his Fusion Forge. Thus far, none of the attacks had penetrated all the way to the heart of his workshop, where lay the Lantern of Doma, but it was doubtless the main objective of all this harassment.

Through a host of mechanical doors and a dozen more layers of automated defense systems, he found it, just as he'd left it. The Blade of Perdition followed quietly behind him, its fiery sparks having calmed down to a low simmer.

Oddly enough, Luann had noticed that the Blade and the Lantern seemed to have developed some kind of relationship of their own. Something akin to a master-servant dynamic. Or officer-soldier, maybe. Whatever it was, the Blade always settled down in the Lantern's presence, while the Lantern always warmed up a little more when Luann brought the Blade around.

It was fascinating, Luann thought. When he'd decided to try implanting the Blade with a pseudo-consciousness, he hadn't expected it to take form so well and so easily. Perhaps the Lantern was even better suited to making items of this nature than he'd realized.

Or perhaps it was growing in power.

That was a rare but known possibility. He'd been using the Lantern for decades now, and while it was difficult to say for sure since his own skill was improving over time, too, it was increasingly on his mind that the Lantern seemed subtly different in some ways.

Not physically, of course. That would be too noticeable. No, it was in the flow of its ardor. In the way it responded to him during the pinnacle of active work.

Page 4172

The Blade hovered there above the severed head, burning with an orange light while wisps of flame radiated outward from its serrated edges.

It was actually a much larger and more complex item than it looked. The Blade was connected to an entire computational network that was constantly providing it with tracking data, and the magnets embedded into its body allowed it to work in conjunction with the various magnetic focusing beams around the workshop in order to give it the appearance of true, self-propelled flight.

Still not quite the free-form, fully mobile "familiar" that he'd originally envisioned for it to be, since it couldn't leave the workshop, but hey. It was a work that he remained quite proud of, overall.

One day, perhaps, he would have his pet sword following him wherever he went, cutting down any who dared to threaten his life.

For now, though, this was more than adequate. He hardly ever left his workshop, anyway. Too much could go wrong while he was away, thanks to the Andanatt always hounding him.

He seemed to have become their favorite subject in recent years, which was no skin off his nose. It just meant that they weren't bothering the others as much.

And some of his contemporaries certainly needed the cover. Many were struggling far more than he was, Luann knew. If he wasn't constantly being pestered by infiltrators, he might've liked to go help some of them directly. Provide advice, at least.

But no. That would just put more hostiles eyes on their work, which would be no help at all.

He proceeded to the new janitorial chamber and flipped a few switches. The cleaning bots mounted on the walls came immediately to life and scooted out to work.

They were a bit slow and bulky with their thick wheels, large vacuum hoses, industrial tanks, spinning scrubbers, sprayers, and scoopers; but he couldn't be bothered to make them more sleek or efficient. Cleaning was far from where his passion lay. It had just become an unfortunate necessity, as of late.

The Andanatt weren't the only ones bothering him. They were just the ones sending stealthed human agents. Some other nuisance was sending periodic waves of insects to gunk up his machinery. By comparison, that method of attack had been far more effective against him.

Technically, he supposed the Andanatt could've been behind that, too, but he doubted it. Didn't seem like their style.

Page 4171

But the Pool was also not random in its machinations. She was reasonably certain now that while, yes, it did indeed lie for fun, it still never did so without purpose.

"To the Pool," Mistress Yaki had once told her, "everything is a game. No matter how grave the circumstance, no matter how frustrated I become with it, no matter how benevolent its other intentions might be: the Pool will always seek to play with me, first and foremost. It is a most troublesome child, to be sure."

But that was also what made it so powerful in its own unique way. The more Anya had learned about Forges throughout history, the more convinced she'd become that their quirks and eccentricities were deeply connected to their strength.

In fact, she'd begun to believe that the stranger a Forge was, the more powerful it could become.

But only in the right hands, of course. Which was the real problem, wasn't it?

If she truly wanted to become the new mistress of the Pool of Trenoy, then she would have to play games.

And she would have to master them, too--to an extent that even Mistress Yaki had never been able to.

Which was why Anya was reassessing that illusory hand being extended toward her.

There was no mastery without risk. Not with any Forge. But especially not with the Pool.

Perhaps the true answer here was not to balk. Not to play it safe.

But to immerse herself in the illusions. Whatever madness the Pool intended to show her. Perhaps she just had to look at it directly and try to see through it from within.

She took a deep breath. The "Mistress" was simply waiting for her. Quiet and smiling. Warm and familiar.

Anya wasn't sure she'd ever felt so terrified as she did right now.

But she took the hand, and the world warped around her.

-+-+-+-+-

Fresh blood splattered across the far wall as the Blade of Perdition diced up another intruder. The third in as many weeks. Always trying to be stealthy, not realizing that his automated defense systems could detect them even through those invisibility powers they were so proud of.

When would they learn, these Andanatt fools? How many more minions must they lose?

Luann eyed the mess with exasperation. Human chunks all over the workshop. The head was preserved, though, so the adjustments he'd made to the Blade were working well. That was good.

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When the illusion spoke, it sounded like real words reaching her ears. "Hello, my dear," it said in Luughian.

But Anya was far from awed or pleased. Anger gripped her instead. "What are you trying to pull, you stupid puddle of water? Stop imitating Mistress Yaki this instant."

The illusion of the Mistress shook her head. "I am no imitation, Anya. I placed a piece myself within the Pool upon its creation. I may be flesh and blood no longer, but this is truly me, at least in part."

Anya's ire did not subside, but she didn't know how to respond, either. Could that really be true? Or was it just another of the Pool's lies? The endless trickery. Agh.

"You were there at the Pool's birth," said the illusion. "You may not have understood what you were seeing, but you saw it nonetheless. I was never quite the same afterwards, yes?"

She didn't want to acknowledge it, but Anya knew there was truth in that. The Pool had been the Mistress' first attempt to create a Fusion Forge, and it had been quite rough on her, looking back.

The Silent Serpent had gone much more smoothly by comparison.

"How is Kurata?" said the Mistress. No. The illusion said that. The Pool.

Anya merely remained quiet.

"You are not still quarreling with him, are you? After all this time? Even if you do not believe me to be real, you must know that I would want my successors to get along."

"Shut up," said Anya, albeit weakly. The Pool was so skilled in deceit. It could weave lies out of the truth. She had to keep a clear head. Not be taken in. Regain control of the conversation. "If you really are the Mistress, then why are you only appearing to me now? I have been struggling with the Pool for years."

"You were not ready, my dear."

She scoffed. "And now I am?"

"Perhaps. Shall we find out together?" And the Mistress extended her hand forward.

Anya stared at it, knowing that the illusion was probably so complete that she would even be able to feel the Mistress' touch, too.

But she held back. She would not be deceived again. That was the Pool's most dangerous quality. If she let it take the lead, she could very easily become lost to the rest of the world.

That was the main reason why the Mistress had made the Serpent in the first place: because the Pool had a habit of trying to manipulate even her.

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No, she had been biding her time. Researching as much as she could. Especially on the subject of Trenoyis, the ancient god of Reflection. There was also a town called Trenoy in Luugh, but Anya had visited it many times and found nothing of particular note there, other than a monument dedicated to Trenoyis.

It still made little sense to her why the Mistress had named it after Trenoyis. She'd asked several times before the woman's passing but never gotten a clear answer.

The Mistress had often been like that, unfortunately. Enigmatic in the extreme. Talking in riddles for seemingly no reason.

At first, Anya had thought that was just because the Mistress wanted her to use her brain and figure things out for herself. And perhaps that had been true, in part. But toward the end of her life, it had become increasingly clear that the Mistress, for all her brilliance, was simply unwell.

And even after all these years, Anya was still trying not to linger on those memories too much. There was nothing productive to be accomplished. And they were too painful, besides.

The mother she'd never had. Calculating but never cruel. Eccentric but never careless.

Such brilliance gone to waste. Cut short by her own hand.

Afterwards, Anya had researched the subject of suicide among geniuses throughout history. It was a topic she'd already heard plenty about in passing--even from the Mistress' very own lips--so she knew that it was a point of academic interest, but she hadn't realized until then just how pernicious the issue truly was.

Apparently, brilliance was as much a curse as it was a blessing.

And in some ways, perhaps that knowledge was making Anya more hesitant. Supposing she truly did achieve her objectives with the Pool, might she then end up just like the Mistress and so many others? Or worse, even? There were plenty of examples to choose from.

Here and now, though, such worries were the furthest thing from her mind, because all she could focus on was what was in front of her eyes.

The elaborate illusion cast by the Pool.

The Mistress was standing there. Radiant and shining in white. As if she herself were emanating light. And younger than she'd looked before her death, too. Younger, even, than Anya currently looked.

Anya's mouth hung open as she stared, thoughts racing. What was the Pool doing, showing her something like this?

Page 4168

Move on, the Serpent was telling him. Pursue ambition. Achieve beyond thyself.

Kurata frowned. "Easier said than done, my friend. I've been in a bit of a slump, as I'm sure you've noticed..."

Seek guidance, then.

"Guidance? Your entire existence has to remain a secret so that someone doesn't come along and destroy you."

Excuses. Discard them.

"Agh. I can't go around just sharing details of your operation with whoever I please. There's a chain of command. Sai-hee might be missing, but the Kubi won't just stand by and let me--"

Seek guidance.

"I heard you the first time. And I'm telling you--"

No. You are being told. Seek. Guidance.

The Serpent's glow heightened again, this time with a reddish hue, and the room trembled.

Kurata's eyes widened, and his next protest died in his throat. He waited for the glow to diminish and the vibrations to die down. "...Guidance, huh? Alright. Um. Who should I seek it from? Any recommendations?"

From the Fury.

-+-+-+-+-

The Pool stirred.

Without even turning around, she felt it. The feeling was too strong and familiar to ignore. How many years had it been since she'd last experienced such a thing?

Anya spun around in her chair in order to look, but she was not prepared for what she saw.

The Pool of Trenoy was a deceptive entity. It always had been, from the moment she'd observed its creation at the hands of her late Mistress. She remembered in those early days--before the Mistress' passing--how powerful the illusions cast by the Pool were. They were so strong, in fact, that Anya herself had become lost in them for days, unable to find her way back to reality until the Mistress rescued her.

Looking back on that time, Anya sometimes found herself wondering if those had even been illusions. They were so different from what the Pool had shown her later on. Perhaps, instead of mere illusions, those had actually been true distortions in reality--portals into subdimensions of the Pool's own making.

She'd never been able to recreate that level of intensity. And with the Mistress gone, so too had hope departed with her.

Anya had tried to harness the Pool herself. Many times. But the results were always middling, at best. Deadly, at worst.

She hadn't made a serious attempt at using it again in years now. She still intended to, of course. Hence why she had not simply abandoned it or handed it over to someone else.

Next page on the 25th

Thanks for reading, as always.

Page 4167

True to its moniker, the Silent Serpent never made any noise, other than the subtlest sounds of its snaking form brushing against itself. The central chamber was an adjustable 'room' of ten tall pillars, but its walls were all composed of the Serpent's coiling body. Those shifting walls and movable pillars were what allowed the room to shrink or grow as needed, depending on what manner of precision Kurata was looking for.

So he had to be extra mindful of other sensory cues. If something was wrong, the Serpent would never give him any sound-based warnings whatsoever.

Which was why that ethereal glow was so important. It had a rare hue. Just distinct enough for Kurata to be suspicious.

And good thing, too, because not long after he stepped out of it, the chamber converged in on itself completely. The coiling bulk of the Serpent slowly came together and squeezed the center pedestal with such force that, when the Serpent receded, only a pile of dust remained behind.

Kurata sighed.

So much for that project, he supposed.

Granted, it hadn't been going very well, and a part of him had even been thinking about either starting over from scratch or scrapping it entirely, but still.

The Serpent had apparently had enough of his faffing about.

"I know it was bad," he said in Luughian, "but it was a work-in-progress."

The Serpent glowed again, more brightly this time.

Was that irritation? It sure felt like it, but Kurata wasn't about to risk touching the Forge in order to find out.

The Serpent didn't usually have bad moods like this, but when it did...

He still had to hold his ground, though. Letting oneself get pushed around by a Forge was not a recipe for long-term success, even when that Forge had a temperament as favorable as the Serpent. "How am I supposed to learn from my failure when you dust it pre-emptively like that?"

More glowing. Faintly yellow this time. And the body shifted abruptly, too. Fast movement. Very abnormal, Kurata noted.

Yeah, that was definitely irritation. He didn't even have to touch it to be sure now. The Forge was calling him a liar.

You would've been stuck for several more weeks before finally admitting that it was indeed a failure. Stubborn, posturing, time-wasting fool.

Damn. That was actually... quite hurtful. "H-hey. You're supposed to be the nice Forge."

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Agh, there was so much to do.

That was always the case for him, of course, but it typically didn't annoy him like this, because that to-do list was always on his terms. Things to be invented. Long-simmering ideas just waiting for him to pursue them.

Fun stuff, in other words.

But here and now, he was truly on the backfoot again. Never a good feeling. If another attack arrived right now, it would only result in further losses.

Damn Vannies. They'd actually struck a solid blow against him for the first time in a long time. He didn't even want to talk to Jercash again, despite knowing that he should.

In all this chaos, that sly boy was most certainly in a favorable position, right now. Morgunov greatly disliked this feeling of vulnerability in comparison to him.

Perhaps this was finally when Jercash would decide to betray him. After all these years and the claims of loyalty, Morgunov had never fully put his trust in him. Nor would he, even if Jercash decided not to make his move now.

Affection was for pets and toys.

In that regard, at least, Morgunov and Dozer had been of one mind.

Oh goodness. He wasn't actually going to start missing that old jerk, now was he? That was the last thing that he wanted to--

One of his Roberts inside the workshop picked up a strange reading. Vibrations? And electricity? Stemming from where?

He got his answer when the Clown Pit reached out to him directly.

Howling. Clawing. A wordless frenzy, scratching at the walls that guarded Morgunov's mind.

What the--?

The Obsidian Shell shook beneath his feet, making him hold onto the railing even more tightly.

Then the horizon came alive with a light so bright that it would have surely blinded him without his passive souls defense that allowed him to keep looking right into the heart of it.

A great pillar of fire. Shooting up straight out of the workshop. An eruption from a volcano that didn't exist there.

An attack? It couldn't be. The Pit was still communicating with him. It wasn't scared or dying. Not weak or even wounded.

It was angry.

-+-+-+-+-

The Silent Serpent glowed with an ethereal light. Its curving, scaly body moved up and down, coiling uncomfortably close around him before giving him room to breathe again.

Kurata paused his work, feeling at once that something was amiss, and decided to step out of the central chamber, just to be safe.

Next page tomorrow

Thanks for reading, everybody.

Page 4165

Those needed to be recovered. As many as possible. He didn't wish to give those Vannie bastards any more help recreating his technology. It was almost certainly inevitable in the long term, but that didn't mean he had to make it easy for them.

When he finally arrived atop the Obsidian Shell and stepped out onto the small deck, he had to lean against the black railing for support. Ugh. So sore, even after all that rest. Somehow, he could still feel the bite marks all over his body, too. Was that real pain? Or just psychosomatic? He truly was not sure, but he sure hoped it was the former.

And to think, he and that damn dog had actually ended up on the same side. He could only imagine how much worse this would've been if they'd remained enemies.

Gohvis was almost certainly going to be a problem, though. Morgunov had been looking forward to having a conversation with that surly lizard, but the jerk hadn't shown himself this whole time, either. He must've been licking his wounds, too, after that encounter. Sure, he might not have fought Koh for as long as Morgunov did, but he HAD faced the beast after its remarkable transformation.

Which was another thing that Morgunov had been trying to puzzle out during all this downtime. What exactly had happened back there? The dog had merged with the feldeath, apparently, but how? What in the world had prompted it? In his long study of feldeaths, he'd never even imagined such a possibility.

But now that he knew about it, he was actually excited to start--

Ah. There it was in the distance. Finally. His favorite workshop.

Yeah, it wasn't looking so hot, at the moment. This was his first time being back here personally after the ambush, and he could see a few pillars of smoke rising out of the aboveground buildings. Felled trees. Missing hilltops. And that mountain in the back had been turned into two mountains. Who the heck did that? Probably some angry dork who'd been fighting his Roberts. Talk about ruining the view.

But at least the whole workshop wasn't a crater. The Clown Pit was at the very bottom of a deep, underground labyrinth, and he could see--and also sense--his Roberts patrolling the area both around and inside the workshop. Everything seemed to be mostly intact. The Vannies had, unfortunately, been able to free all of his hostages, but oh well. A trivial loss in comparison to what could have happened.

Page 4164

He got out of bed and made his way to the top deck. The Shell had a nice little lookout spot up there, but he hadn't been able to enjoy it much, what with all these damn stairs.

Still, he needed to move. His body didn't want to, but his brain did. And hell, he could probably use the exercise, too.

Morgunov had always wanted to take this massive mobile fortress out for a spin, but the old sourpuss would never let him, of course.

So what better time than now to indulge?

Morgunov didn't rightly know if the guy was truly gone for good. He sincerely doubted it, but either way, this was certainly a golden opportunity for him.

If only he was in better condition to capitalize. He should've been out poaching Dozy's forces left and right, bringing them to heel or otherwise taking charge of things.

But he could hardly risk showing himself in this state. Sure, he was still strong enough to storm in here and take over the Shell, but even that had proved more of a challenge than he'd anticipated.

The state of his Roberts was an especially sore point, right now. They'd been culled by such an enormous amount. It was going to take forever to rebuild them. Several months, in theory, but probably a few years, in practice. He knew himself well enough by now. He was absolutely going to get carried away with upgrading them again. Whenever he got lost in any "repairing" spree, how could he possibly resist?

What few Roberts remained had to be tasked with protecting either the Clown Pit or himself while he recuperated.

Strangely, the Vannies hadn't attacked his Fusion Forge yet. Perhaps they hadn't even realized that they'd stumbled onto its location during that last ambush, but that was probably just wishful thinking on his part. He couldn't risk leaving it unguarded, regardless. If Asad Najir still lived, then that attack was only a matter of time.

Which was part of the reason why he'd commandeered the Shell here. It was a slow, lumbering beast, but after weeks of travel, it was finally approaching his workshop. It would provide a good supplement to the Roberts already stationed there, and then maybe he could reassign them elsewhere.

The real issue was all the scattered remains of his Roberts that were currently strewn across the Ardoran continent--and worse, the Luthic Ocean.

Doubtless, there were now countless precious implements washing up on beaches all over the world.

Page 4163 -- CCCXXIX.

Chapter Three Hundred Twenty-Nine: 'Behold, thy long-muted Fury...'
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The Anvil buzzed with an electric pulse.

Daro Bright, the Black Artisan of Vantalay, awoke with a start.

Agh. He'd fallen asleep on the floor again. Too many hours on his feet, rushing about. He must've collapsed from exhaustion.

And Marlizia hadn't even bothered to wake him this time, either. That was her way of telling him that she was done helping him put off sleep so that he could keep working.

Eh, she was probably right, as usual. He wondered where she she'd gone off to. She didn't much care to hang around in his subdimensional workshops, even though she often did exactly that. They seemed to make her uneasy.

Or perhaps that was the Anvil's doing.

It pulsed again as he looked groggily toward it.

A massive, hulking thing. In truth, it was more like ten anvils combined into one, but each anvil could serve a different function, and they could even morph into different shapes for the all-important purposes of containment and precision work.

At the moment, those anvils were all united in the shape of a giant metal orb, crackling with electric energy.

Which gave Daro pause.

That wasn't how he'd left it. He was still a little groggy, sure, but not that much.

Moreover, he could see the great orb rippling like water along its polished surface. And the electricity arcing around it was growing in intensity, too. Leaping out toward him.

He stood up just as a bolt of lightning snapped across his face.

It didn't hurt, but it didn't exactly tickle, either.

"Hey," he said in Valgan, a little annoyed. "What's the matter with you?"

And to his further surprise, he didn't even have to touch it in order to receive an answer.

You sleep too long, Father.

Daro just stared at it with wide eyes.

-+-+-+-+-

Morgunov groaned as he rolled over. He hadn't had it this bad in a long time. Exhaustion and pain all over. Even Bool was still too weak to provide much help. The reaper needed rest, and so did he.

But his mind didn't want to hear that. It wanted to think and plan. It wanted to do stuff. It was tired of being cooped up. All the luxury in the world wasn't worth a damn when he felt this frustrated.

Dozer sure did know how to live, though. This Obsidian Shell of his was quite the vessel.

Page 4162

These noises, though.

Now that Xander had this new context in mind, the humming and thrumming of the Golden Hour suddenly seemed very different to him. So this was how it sounded when it was excited?

Heh. Wow.

He slid his hand across the curved glass. With a clear intent in mind, that motion was actually a request for the Hour to open up the bottom chamber for him.

And the Hour did so immediately. No sluggishness. No fuss. Just instant acceptance as the thick glass morphed into itself, creating a seamless hole that was large enough for him to climb through.

He only reached in to grab the socket mount, however, then prompted the Hour to shut itself up again.

But this time, it did not listen to him.

More, it was telling him. More materials. More creation. The Fury is thriving.

And we must compete.

Xander felt the whole chamber reverberate around him, this time with a bit more oomph.

"Alright, relax," he said, not so worried about sounding soothing, anymore. "You're kinda blindsiding me here, y'know that?" He took his hand off the glass.

And it apparently didn't like that, because the chamber truly shook this time, making the shelves rattle in the corner of the room and dust trickle down from the ceiling.

Okay. Well.

He had to admit: that was a little scary.

Even with how slow, reluctant, or otherwise difficult the Golden Hour had always been, Xander had never had special cause to fear it. Sure, it could still be dangerous if he ever got sloppy, but that was how all Forges were. On the whole, this one felt much safer to use.

But perhaps not anymore.

He was abruptly recalling that Hamenszoon had died while crafting his last masterpiece.

Died while using this very Forge, in other words.

Of course, the exact reason for his death had been lost to history, so there was obviously a chance that it wasn't the Golden Hour's fault at all--or that it was even Hamenszoon's own doing. He certainly wasn't the only great mind to have perished in such a way.

Still.

Xander felt like maybe he should stop and reevaluate things for a moment. This was good news overall, of course, but maybe--

The room shook again, even stronger now.

Okay, message received. Xander was scrambling around the room. Not a problem. Definitely not a problem. He had plenty of projects lined up from over the years.

Plenty of pacifiers for this ancient baby.

Maybe it wasn't that much like an old man, after all.

Taking a day

New page tomorrow at noon. Thanks for reading, everybody.

Page 4161

The Fury?

Xander had heard the term before, but only rarely. He had to stop and think back. He closed his eyes to help him concentrate. The information was there. He could feel it. But it was buried deep in the recesses of his mental storage.

He needed a couple minutes. Thankfully, the Hour was not prodding him further, despite him maintaining contact with it. He could still sense its enthusiasm, though. Waiting on him, but not patiently.

Ah.

Yes, there it was.

An ancient name for brilliant inventors. Invoked in certain texts pondering the accomplishments of famed but mysterious integrators throughout history. "The Groundworks of Skapa" by Hamish Harundel. "The Agrian Paradoxes" by Dina Crondite. "The Spaghetti that was Karugetti" by Daniella del Otoya.

There were others, too, but that last one made him pause. He kinda wanted to scrub it from his memory just because the title was so obnoxious.

But as he recalled, the information within it was actually quite solid. Daniella and her brother, Roberto, had been quite famous in their own right, despite their eccentricities.

Still, the subject at hand. The Fury.

It actually referred to more than just a brilliant person, didn't it? It was used in specific regard to a hypothetical 'leading source of inspiration' around the world. Someone whose existence and great works spurred on other, like-minded creators.

A rising tide that lifted all ships.

Hmm.

And such a person had been reborn? According to the Hour, at least. Given the very tangible results that he was already witnessing, Xander found it difficult to doubt the Forge's credibility.

And it was furthermore known to him that Forges were sometimes able to communicate with one another. He'd researched the subject quite a bit in the past, but he'd never been able to uncover any conclusive answers. Only theories.

Some believed that all Forges were able to tap into some kind of grand, hidden network. Or that they might even be, in truth, one interconnected entity.

For his part, Xander doubted it was as simple as that, especially after spending so much time studying the Golden Hour. He was fairly confident that the Hour not only knew about other Forges but actively disliked some of them. Or maybe all of them.

Which was perhaps another aspect of the "old man" in it. The Hour didn't much care for all these youngsters trying to communicate with it.