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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. "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.

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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.

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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.

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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

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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.

Page 4170

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.

Page 4169

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."

Page 4166

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...'
Click to display entire chapter at once -- (mobile link)

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.

Page 4160

"It's alright," said Xander in his most soothing tone. "No need to get upset. You're doing just fine." It should've become aware enough now, so he finally decided to put his hand against its pristine glass. "Speed isn't--"

His senses were going wild.

What was this feeling?

Energy. Excitement. Enthusiasm. And so overwhelming, too. He had to retract his hand before it bombarded his mind any further.

He clutched his own wrist as he eyed the giant hourglass anew. It wasn't painful in the slightest, and yet he couldn't help feeling like a child who'd just touched a hot stove.

What in the world?

That wasn't a rejection, like he'd felt many times before. It wasn't the Hour being angrily surprised by his presence. If anything, it felt more welcoming than ever.

Slowly, he tried touching it again, bracing himself this time.

It was an avalanche of sensation. Pleased. Alert. Curious. Cool. Warm. Cold. Hot. Ready. Waiting. Come on. Bring more materials. Prove yourself, Magician.

What the--?

Xander paused, focusing through the storm. What does it mean 'more?' How could it--?

Inside the thick glass was a swirl of dust. The Hour's timeless miracle of weaving sand. The core tool of its workmanship. That sand had been busy for days now--and should've been for many more.

And yet Xander saw it calming down. Settling. Letting go of the object that it had been working on with its own suspended pocket of gravity and fine, subdimensional precision.

The item landed softly on a mound of dust, looking positively radiant.

Looking finished.

It was just a socket mount. Nothing too crazy on its own. Xander wouldn't have even bothered wasting the Hour's time on it if he didn't need it to be capable of withstanding particularly unreal atmospheric pressures and g-forces, but still.

It wasn't supposed to be done already.

Xander's green eyes widened a little as he absorbed the scene in front of him. He wasn't sure whether to be pleased or worried.

In his entire career with the Vanguard, never had he felt anything quite like this from the Golden Hour.

"...What's brought this on, all of a sudden?"

The Hour seemed all too eager to answer him.

The Fury is reborn. Reborn and thriving. For once, not lost to tragedy, confusion, or madness. Not crushed under the heel of jealous tyrants. Not hunted down by agents of Chaos.

Thriving. Keeping steady. Not even burning, this time.

Page 4159

Still, it was a concern for another day. The Magician remained focused on the enormous golden tower in front of him.

According to his estimations, the Hour's current project would not yet be ready to take its next step for another month of gestation. That was just how slow the Hour processed materials these days. It seemed to have gotten worse over years, which was making Xander increasingly concerned for its well-being, but no matter how many times he went over it with a fine-tooth comb, he could never find anything wrong with it.

No signs of physical degradation. No issues with the weaving of its ardor.

At this point, he could only imagine that it must have been some kind of psychological issue. But how in the world was one supposed to diagnose such a thing? Much less treat it?

Sadly, there was no such thing as a therapist for Fusion Forges.

And he'd checked.

Xander had spent considerable time visiting various archivers around the world, hoping for some kind of answer to this problem.

Hence why he was now at a point of exhausted resignation. Honestly, he felt more commiseratory for the Hour than frustrated by it. There was no doubt in his mind that it, too, was saddened by the current state of its creative process.

So what were these noises it was making now?

Low, slow reverberations. Making the whole chamber vibrate.

But not violently. Just... consistently. Repeatedly. Warmly?

Hmm. It was difficult to tell without touching it directly, but again, he had to be careful here. He had to ensure it was fully aware of his presence, first.

This ancient thing. It had been through so much. Seen so much. And despite its rather lackluster speed, it had indeed seen nearly constant usage for the last several hundred years.

In that way, it was unique among Forges. Historically speaking, they tended to die quite early, due to the attention they drew. Once they started truly pumping out great works at a good pace, the world at large tended to notice quickly. And then all hell would break loose until, one way or another, they were destroyed.

But not the Hour. No. It was a very old man still playing a young man's game.

And thinking about it like that did lend it an extra degree of reverence from Xander.

Perhaps speed wasn't everything.

Heh. And perhaps he should tell it that. See how it reacted.

Next page on the 12th

Thanks for reading, guys.

Page 4158

Still, he did not hate the Golden Hour. There'd certainly been a time when he did, but no longer.

The Hour was the way it was. He'd come to terms with it. And he'd still managed to create some wondrous things with it, albeit very slowly.

Mostly in the aid of Sermung's campaign. That man deserved all the assistance in the world, whether he accepted it or not.

Unfortunately, that man also had a habit of obliterating everything Xander ever gave him.

Truly, the Magician of Light's greatest struggle had been creating an item that could withstand not only the perilous journey beyond the Veil but also the incredible power of the Crystal Titan himself.

Sermung kept assuring him that his attempts had indeed proved useful before being rent to dust, but Xander always had to wonder how true that was.

Time would tell if his last effort had succeeded. He'd come up with a new type of soul compass for Sermung. Typically, such compasses could not withstand breaching the Veil, no matter how much Sermung tried to shield them. They would always go dormant or even shatter.

Xander came to the conclusion that it must have been a matter of foundational physical stability. If the laws of physical reality were sufficiently distorted by these foreign realms, then objects that were especially attuned to such laws might become unusable.

The answer, therefore, was to create the new compass within the new realm that Sermung wished to search. So rather than simply handing Sermung a new compass, he'd instead given the man the means to create his own.

It was a kind of mini-Forge. A 3D printer, of sorts. Fully automated, of course. Sermung could not be relied upon at all when it came to technology.

All he'd needed to do was press two buttons. One to transform the printer so that it could acclimate to the new laws, and one to actually begin the printing process.

Xander had tested it plenty of times. Unfortunately, due to the required transformation process, he couldn't reduce it down to a single button press, but surely, Sermung could handle that much.

Surely. It was two buttons. And the High Commander was a brilliant man in his own right.

Yes, yes, if it did fail, it would be his own fault. The transformation process was quite sophisticated, after all. Plenty of opportunities for something to break there.

Xander chose to ignore the many counterexamples coming to mind in the form of sweat-inducing flashbacks.

Page 4157

He sometimes wondered if the Hour simply hated him. He'd heard about such cases historically, but at this point, he'd been struggling with this Forge for so long that he was long past any desire to prostrate himself before it and curry its favor.

Instead, he was hoping to soon begin work on a Forge of his very own creation. He'd been studying for decades toward that end, but according to his research, he still wasn't quite old enough for that feat to be feasible.

Not without some kind of immense sacrifice, at least.

Supposedly, it was possible to give up a part of one's very soul, impairing both the reaper and servant indefinitely, in order to reach that final plateau, but Xander's need was not so great as that.

The marshals wouldn't even humor the notion, either. They always just told him to focus on mastering the Golden Hour. It was the heart of Vanguardian innovation for nearly a thousand years, after all.

Which might explain why there hadn't actually been much movement on that front, comparatively.

Despite all their age and experience, it seemed difficult for them to understand the true nature of the Golden Hour.

They seemed to think that all Fusion Forges were basically the same. All just grand engines of incredible creative power.

Which was true enough, of course. Especially when looking at history, which was what all the marshals did.

But there was a secondary truth there that could not always be ignored.

There was a reason why no two Forges were alike. They were living, thinking entities. They all had different capabilities. Different specialties. Different likes and dislikes.

Therefore, it would be foolish to assume that they were all equal, too. The sheer degree of variance among them rendered that a statistical impossibility.

But of course, it was also true that the Golden Hour had a storied history of grand creation. It was the child of one of the most famous integrators ever, after all.

Hamenszoon, the Undaunted Mind.

It was hard not to feel inadequate by comparison, but Xander knew that he was in good company. No other Vanguardian integrator had been able to wield the Hour as impressively as Hamenszoon. It was nothing to be ashamed of.

In fact, perhaps the Hour simply could not work as well for anyone else. Perhaps it ached for its creator, even now.

Page 4156

Rarely had Jackson seen him take such a tone and disposition with him, but it always meant that he was in no mood for japes, despite all previous evidence to the contrary.

For his part, however, Jackson remained quietly suspicious, even as he acquiesced to the High Commander's order.

-+-+-+-+-

The Golden Hour hummed lowly, growing briefly strong enough to send a shock wave through the polished floor.

The Magician of Light looked up from his broad desk, having just sat down after returning from a long and frustrating trip. He hadn't even attempted to communicate with the Fusion Forge in several days, much less actually use it.

So what was this now? Why was it acting up?

The monolithic thing certainly lived up to its name. It was a gigantic golden hourglass, stretching up the full height of the chamber and connecting with the domed ceiling at its central point.

Xander's green eyes narrowed at the sight of it there, and he stood up, shaking the malaise from his mind and the fatigue from his limbs.

To say that the Hour was a fickle entity was certainly an understatement. Xander had been privileged enough to work with multiple different Fusion Forges over the course of his life, but the Hour was the most mercurial by far.

Oh, how he missed the Silent Serpent. Not a day went by that he didn't envy Kurata for inheriting such a cooperative Forge.

Instead, he'd become the steward of this moody bastard.

He approached the Golden Hour but didn't yet deign to touch it. That was a mistake he'd made too many times before. He needed to give it ample time to prepare itself before making direct contact. He needed to speak to it, too. Help alert it to his presence.

"What's the matter?" he asked in a soothing tone.

This was key to its operation, he'd learned. He suspected it was because the Golden Hour was often lost in thought and so its ability to sense its immediate surroundings was greatly diminished--possibly even non-existent.

So he had to lure it back into reality, first.

This was especially important when the Hour had a project already running inside it, like it did now. Slow as it was, its projects could often take weeks to complete even just a single step; and worse still, if Xander approached it carelessly, the brewing project could be instantly ruined.

Months of work, lost in an instant.

Another mistake he'd made far too many times.

Page 4155

"I want you to stop drowning yourself," said Hector.

"Oh, is that what I'm doing? How silly of me. Yeah, I'll just go ahead and cut that out. Thanks."

What the hell are you two on about?

Then, however, there was silence. Both of them shut up at once, leaving Jackson to wonder what in the world could have ended their bickering so abruptly.

Is there something you need to tell me?

Jackson stared at Sermung first, then Hector. They weren't saying anything aloud, but there was an exchange going on. A silent one. They were trying to have a private conversation right in front of him.

The Radiant Sentinel found that intensely obnoxious.

He released a small puff of flame between the two of them.

Hey. Don't ignore me.

They glared at each other for a moment longer before Hector finally spoke up.

"...Your boss needs a vacation," he said.

Hah. So do I. But sadly, this isn't that kind of job.

And the two of them fell quiet again, though they didn't seem to be having a silent discussion this time.

Jackson felt compelled to press further. What's the matter?

"It's not important," said Sermung. "I'll tell you some other time. Tell us more about the situation here in Andeyal."

Jackson was not prepared to drop it, however. Drowning himself, Hector had said? He decided to press the kid further. What did you mean by Sermung drowning himself?

Sermung answered, instead. "He's worried that I am taking on too much responsibility."

Hmm. And are you?

"Of course I am. That, too, is the job."

Well, he wasn't wrong, Jackson knew. But still. His burning gaze lingered on Hector for a moment.

This was hardly the first time that such concerns had arisen over the centuries. Loose talk of that exact type was common enough for any servant who reached even the rank of general.

But Sermung had always been something of a special case in that regard. In Jackson's youth, his mentor here had always been utterly unflappable. A rock. Both literally and metaphorically.

And Jackson knew that Sermung disliked wasting time on such discussions. 'Aimless pondering' he often called it.

But was that the case, still? It was admittedly a bit difficult for Jackson to see the man as ever struggling in such a way, but--

"Your report, Marshal." The relaxed air that had surrounded the High Commander was gone.

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Page 4154

"Listen, Hector," said Sermung. "Jackson means well. He's a swell guy. But he's very controlling. Don't ever sign anything he gives you."

It's not 'controlling.' It's simply 'organized.' Something you have never and obviously WILL never understand.

"Yeah, yeah, just relax, would you? Hector's fine. You're worried you can't speak freely in front of him, I assume? I'll vouch for him."

Unbelievable. You'll 'vouch' for him? You are the most powerful man on the planet controlling the most powerful organization on the planet. Operational security isn't something you 'vouch' for.

"Why not?"

Even all the way back in the archive room, Jackson had to pause, blink, and sigh.

How long have you known this guy, exactly?

Sermung gave an armored shrug. "Twenty minutes or so?"

Suddenly, Jackson found himself wanting these two to resume fighting, if only so he could join in on Hector's side.

Hector chimed in now. "It'--uh... I would actually be very interested in meeting with you in person, Mr. Sentinel."

Oh?

"Hector, please. You're encouraging him, and that's not a good thing."

"Yeah, but I mean, if it pisses you off, then it can't be all bad, right?"

"Oh, you little brat. Still keen to fight, are you?"

"I sure am. And I know you are, too."

Okay, this kid was growing on him, Jackson thought. His file was an interesting read, too. Updated most recently by Xander, of all people. Apparently, they'd met in a foundational realm.

Also, 'Mr. Sentinel?' That was a new one. Taken from Radiant Sentinel, of course. A moniker that Jackson had never particularly loved, considering how overly grandiose it sounded--but he'd also not had a true last name in centuries, and frankly, when used like that, he didn't hate it.

Still, there was a time and place for indulgence, and this was not it. Jackson needed to rein these two in, not exacerbate whatever silliness they were getting up to.

Abolish has infiltrated the city, Jackson told them.

Neither of them seemed surprised.

"At this point, it'd be stranger if they hadn't," said Sermung.

"How bad is it, though?" said Hector. "Enough to worry you?"

"He's always worrying. It's one of his favorite pasttimes."

"It's one of yours, too."

"Oh, kiddo, you could at least act nicer to me in front of others."

"I could. But why, though?"

"You really just want me to punch you, don't you?"

Page 4153

But oh well. Jackson supposed there were more pressing matters to discuss than whatever nonsense these two had been indulging in.

Are you aware of the current situation in Intar, Sermung?

"A bit," said the High Commander. "I did some intel-gathering on the way here. Wasn't expecting a sudden invasion of Yigorosks, though. That was a surprise. I'm sure you've got plenty more to tell me, hmm?"

He did. But first, Jackson's burning gaze fell upon Hector again. Back in his office, he'd stopped writing altogether and had started walking toward the archive room. It was a short trip, but the room itself was no modest thing. Thankfully, his meticulous filing system would prevent that from becoming an issue.

Soon, he would see all that Vanguard knew about this youngster from Atreya.

Which was perhaps a bit presumptuous of him to assume that he was indeed a youngster, but Jackson had long since gotten into the habit of treating everyone--in his head, at least--like they were a kid until proven otherwise. Especially servants. Oddly enough, non-servants got a bit of a pass from him. That was a different kind of living. Higher stakes, one might say.

But servants? No. Even if this kid was already a hundred and fifty years old, he was still a kid to Jackson.

He just had to be careful not to actually say so explicitly here. Jackson knew from copious experience that people tended to get offended when he did that.

In the meantime, however, he was far from comfortable having a full conversation with the High Commander in front of this stranger.

Perhaps you would like to come to my office so that we can discuss this in greater detail?

"Oh, no, no, no," said Sermung, backing up a little in the air. "We're not doing this. I just got back. You're not tricking me into doing paperwork, right now."

That's not what I'm trying--

"And you're not getting Hector to do some, either."

Jackson paused.

"Yeah, I knew it," said Sermung. "I know this is a strange situation, but that doesn't mean you can just get him signing all sorts of weird NDAs and whatever new crap you've probably come up with lately."

"What?" said Hector, eyeing the avatar anew. "You want me to sign stuff?"

Jackson, for his part, merely remained silent. Damn. He hadn't gotten caught red-handed like this in a long time.

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Page 4152

His burning avatar floated closer with more uncertainty than urgency. To his surprise, however, the armored stranger managed to wriggle free of Sermung's grip somehow, and there was yet more confusion to arrive.

The opponent zipped away across the aerial battlefield, peppering Sermung with a cloud of buzzing flakes. Like bugs? Jackson wasn't sure what to make of it.

Then Sermung finally seemed to notice him waiting there. The buzzing swarm around his head did not cease, even as the man raised a hand and waved. "Jackson! How long have you been there?"

Long enough to wonder what the hell you're doing.

Making the avatar actually speak would've required even more concentration; and it wasn't necessary in this case, because Sermung did not need to hear a voice in order to understand him.

"Oh, I'm just... ah... it doesn't matter. Tell me how you've been, my boy! It's been so long for you, hasn't it?"

It has. But not for you, yes? If you keep this up, I'll be older than you soon.

"Hah! Not likely, youngster!"

Back in his office, Jackson was shaking his head. This was the only man in the world who could say that to him.

The buzzing swarm around Sermung's head came to an abrupt stop, and Jackson noticed the armored stranger approach the two of them.

"Uh... you guys need a minute to talk?" said the stranger.

"Oh, no, you can keep attacking," said Sermung. "I can multitask."

"I'm... not gonna do that."

Who is this, Jackson wondered? And why are you fighting him in the middle of downtown Andeyal?

Rather than answering, however, Sermung merely turned to his former opponent.

"Oh, sorry," said the stranger. "I'm Hector Goffe of Atreya."

The fact that this young fellow could also understand him was enough to catch Jackson's attention.

"I'd, er... offer you a handshake, but... you're literally on fire, so..."

The avatar turned to Sermung again, who merely looked at him, still not saying anything.

Jackson felt Avar stir again, though strangely, he didn't say anything. Which nearly prompted Jackson to ask why before he caught himself. Memories were bubbling up. Ancient knowledge.

He ignored them and focused on Hector.

What is your quarrel with Sermung?

"Oh, that was, ah..." The kid raised his gauntleted hand as if to scratch his helmeted head. "We were just... sparring."

"Yes, that's it," added Sermung. "Sparring."

Why did that sound like bullshit?

Page 4151

Doubling back was such a brazen move. It might've been indicating something about Jercash's mindset. Confidence? Or perhaps he'd just been expecting Jackson to get sloppy due to the attempted invasion of the capital. Taking a gamble. Trying to create an opening for Abolish to operate more discretely again.

Even if Sermung hadn't pacified it so quickly, it wouldn't have made a difference. Jackson had been anticipating such a move for several days. Granted, it still would've made quite the mess of the city, if Sermung hadn't shown up like that. Jackson could certainly appreciate the man's presence.

Jercash must have been shitting bricks now, though. Ah, unless Sermung was managing to conceal his presence from the man. From what he understood, the High Commander had gotten quite good at that in recent decades.

It still amazed Jackson whenever his mentor continued to grow.

Was there any limit to the strength that servants could theoretically achieve? Or was Sermung just an unparalleled entity in his own right?

Worrisome questions, in their own distinct ways.

And endless in their asking, added Avar. No answers have yet been found, even in the realms beyond this one.

Does that scare you, Jackson? Or excite you, perhaps?

Hmph. Shouldn't you already know? If we are truly one, as you claim?

Perhaps I do already know and merely wish for you to acknowledge it.

Jackson scoffed internally.

Thankfully, another distraction gave him reason to discard this conversation.

The wisp was very close to Sermung now. Within direct sensory range.

Jackson's pen stopped moving.

Was Sermung... fighting someone?

No, there was no damage anywhere. And the atmosphere was so... oddly warm. Relaxed--and even pleased.

What in the world was going on over there?

Jackson focused on the wisp's senses more strongly, giving it the fullness of his consciousness. It made for a nigh complete projection of himself on the other side of the city. A fiery likeness that Sermung would be able to easily recognize.

Or at least, the man should've been able to.

Apparently, he seemed to be enjoying himself too much, at the moment. Jackson could feel the waves of amusement emanating from him.

As he was pinning someone down on a crystal platform and rubbing a slimy creature on the poor, struggling bastard.

Jackson didn't know what he was witnessing, but he felt as if he should probably intervene.

Whoops, sorry. Next page tomorrow

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Page 4150

It was an easy task for him, this kind of scribbling. A thoughtful task that hardly required thought, anymore. Countless years of paperwork had turned this type of thing into a mindless habit for him, even when the subject matter was this important.

Wars were always like this for him. Writing up letters, orders, reports, invoices, filling out forms, creating entirely new forms for others to fill out.

He enjoyed it all, of course, though for different reasons than he used to.

In his youth, he loved it for the meticulous precision that it afforded. The detail-oriented approach to problem solving. Much could be revealed with a bit of attentive bookkeeping.

But these days, he instead found it peaceful. Having done it so much for so long, attention wasn't particularly necessary, anymore. Even when using it for problem solving, incredibly enough.

Problems during war were rhythmic. Patterned. Familiar and recognizable. Jackson knew what to look for. And even in the rare instances when some new issue appeared, the numbers often made for quite the trail of breadcrumbs to follow. Always simple enough.

And that was the greatest headache for schemers like Jercash. Not an insurmountable problem, of course, but still quite the burden, nonetheless. Jercash knew how Jackson operated. He knew that Jackson would see right through his plans unless he offered up all sorts of feints and misleading numbers.

But Jackson, in turn, knew how Jercash operated, too. Old tricks wouldn't work. Strange shipping manifests? A curious weather report? A mysterious sighting? Odd rumors?

All bogus.

The greater trends were the key. The movement of people, for example. Or the lack thereof, even.

A sudden influx of rural townsfolk into the big city. A sudden absence of movement across state lines. A border guard's report could tell quite a story.

Which was what he was working on. He'd already sent out orders to alter the hourly check-ins with new details. The guards were not going to be happy with the extra nuisance, but the ones who didn't comply would earn themselves a visit from an inspection team.

Or more, if there were other red flags.

Such as in the eastern Intarian states of Lino, Brent, and Cairil. Jackson had already routed Jercash's forces from that little tri-state region once before, so there should've been no more red flags, but apparently, Jercash was under the impression that Jackson wouldn't think to check there a second time.

Page 4149

Avar's apparent eagerness was only making Jackson even more reluctant to go meet Sermung.

Even though a part of him was already en route. Technically.

He had a wisp nearby. A burning shadow--a primitive aspect of his own consciousness. It was moving closer to observe, and Jackson was not telling it to stop.

There wasn't much point, he supposed. Even if he didn't make contact at all, Sermung would seek him out soon enough. Avar was going to get the meeting he wanted, one way or another.

Better to remain focused on the task at hand. The many tasks, actually.

The situation here in Intar was a mess, of course, thanks to Jercash. Playing constant mind games. Trying to sow seeds of madness all over the country.

It had been a back-and-forth with him, these past few weeks. Jackson may not have been at his best recently, but that still hadn't stopped him from being able to thwart the Knife's incessant attempts at psychological warfare.

Hyozen, Jackson's reaper, had even remarked on multiple occasions that taking a reduced role on the frontline was actually the ideal way to fight Jercash. It made it easier to look at the bigger picture, rather than getting caught up in individual battles.

As if Jackson actually needed such a reminder. The reaper was just trying to find any excuse to comfort him, no doubt.

In truth, Jackson knew that he had his subordinates to thank. When he told them to do something, they sure as hell got it done. In fact, they seemed even more motivated than usual, which was a bit odd. Wasn't seeing their leader in such a sorry state supposed to be demoralizing?

Not for Reeves, Bohann, or Judith, apparently.

Perhaps their concern for him made them feel like they needed to step up. They did all have good hearts, didn't they? Good heads on their shoulders, too. If nothing else, he could at least take solace in the pride of watching them flourish.

Heh. Or perhaps they can tell that nothing is truly wrong with you. Perhaps they can tell that you are, in fact, more powerful than ever before.

Jackson ignored the argument. He was in the middle of an important missive. Thankfully, the many distractions on his mind were not slowing down the movement of his pen at all.

Page 4148 -- CCCXXVIII.

There was something quite hostile behind those words, Hector sensed. The other man's aura was all but announcing that he wanted to use the Ceese against him.

To slime him back, almost certainly.

Hector could think of worse fates, though. He was more concerned with trying to achieve his objective here. Even if everything Garovel had said was true, he still didn't want to just give up.

That man over there needed help. And even if Hector didn't know how to provide it, he intended to keep trying until he figured it out.


Chapter Three Hundred Twenty-Eight: 'The burdens of Stars...'
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He could hardly believe his senses. There'd been so many threads to follow. So many things to juggle. But now, he was thoroughly distracted. That was no good thing. He kept having to resist the impulse to drop everything he was doing and go meet up with the High Commander for the first time in years.

Or was it decades? Surely not. The older he got, the more difficult it became to gauge how quickly time was passing. He'd already lost track of his own age, and he was only in the mid-three hundred range.

Jackson felt like he was finally beginning to understand what it must have been like for Sermung all this time.

Carrying so much weight. Feeling stretched across the horizon of time. Wondering how much of himself was still... himself.

And more than ever, he wondered if Sermung had ever dealt with a problem like Avar.

These so-called "Primordials." Jackson had heard about them plenty of times over the centuries, of course, but it was occurring to him now that Sermung had never discussed them with him. Despite having so many opportunities to.

And despite the fact that--as Avar's memories were now informing him--these Primordials had certainly tried to parley with Sermung over the years.

But he is unapproachable, don't you see? Quite literally, if he so desires.

All who make contact with him either forget him... or die. Their vision, blocked. Their wills, suppressed.

Jackson bristled internally. He disliked carrying an actual conversation with Avar, but now he was simply too curious not to ask. If all of that was true, then why do you remember him, Avar?

Only because you do. We are already as one, despite your endless protestations.

Jackson clenched his jaw, not appreciating that answer very much.

Through you, we might finally be able to open a direct dialogue with him. Don't you see?

Shut up.

Next page on the 27th

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Page 4147

Hector had successfully acquired a moment to breathe and think, if only because Sermung was too annoyed to keep following him. He probably wanted to see what Hector would do next. There was a whiff of curiosity in the man's aura again.

There was so much to think about. He'd lost track of the Ceese in the confusion of that little dimension hop, and while this fight was certainly important to him, it was equally important that he didn't accidentally let that thing loose in the middle of downtown Andeyal.

Despite the relative chaos of this whole situation, Hector was fully aware of their environment. And he knew Sermung was, too. They'd both been making painstaking efforts to not cause even the smallest amount of property damage to any of the buildings around here, always ensuring that all of their materializations were properly annihilated before they made contact with anything in the environment.

In many ways, it complicated the fight, because they had to hold back, but Sermung probably didn't mind, since he was already holding back. And Hector had a distinct feeling that Sermung was waiting to see if he would slip up and break a window or something.

Then he'd really be able to scold Hector. Couldn't let that happen. Somehow, that felt like it would be a much worse defeat than just getting the shit kicked out of him.

So where was that damn iron box with the Ceese in it? He concentrated. This aerial battlefield was so large in volume that the Scarf had trouble pinpointing something that small. It didn't seem to have fallen all the way to the ground, which was a good sign, but still--

He sensed it. Not through the Scarf, though. The iron box itself was clear in his mind, relative to his own location. A gleam in the space of his mind.

Okay, that was definitely not normal. He'd kinda felt this before and hadn't had time to dwell on it, but what in the world was happening here?

Unfortunately, he still didn't have much time to dwell on it, because the box's location was quite distracting.

It was in a little crystal cradle, floating leisurely over to Sermung while the Titan hovered there, still observing Hector expectantly.

"It seems I've acquired a hostage," said Sermung with a chortle. "How will you rescue him?"

Hector bobbed his head. "I mean, you can keep him if you want. I wasn't sure what to do with him, honestly."

"Is that so? Hmm. I can think of a few uses for him."

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Next page on the 24th

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Page 4146

Hector couldn't feel Sermung's presence yet, but he knew it was probably just a matter of time. He decided to consult the Living Core.

Thankfully, it didn't seem upset at him. Maybe it hadn't realized yet that he'd tricked it.

Any other hidden functions around here?

No, it told him.

Fuck.

But this space could be imprinted for storage.

What?

Hector didn't get an answer to that, because the quaking spiked in intensity, and then Sermung's aura was all around him. And it was already speaking to him, too.

Neat trick, Sermung was saying. But not enough to escape from me.

Hector didn't even get the chance to respond before he felt himself being pulled somewhere.

Then it was like being ripped through an invisible cloth, and he was suddenly back in the normal world again. In the exact same position as before.

His senses needed a moment to acclimate, but yep. Sermung was right there on the other side of the crystal cage. Staring at him. Tilting his head at him. Judging him.

Hector's mind was racing, though. Storage. Storage? Storage...

Surely, it wouldn't be that easy, right? Because if he could just put stuff in the shield's pocket dimension, then...

He tucked the Core away in his armor and touched the wall of the cage with his newly freed hand.

This unbreakable crystal. It should've been hot after all the temperature manipulation he'd been doing, but between his shot nerve endings and the gauntlet over his hand, there was no way to tell. Hector just concentrated on his aim.

Intention in mind. Combined with soul power pressing into the shield.

A circular chunk of the crystal wall disappeared.

Hector's eyes bulged inside his helmet.

Holy shit, Abbas. You absolute genius.

"Hey," came Sermung's voice from Hector's peripheral view. "That's not allowed. How'd you do that?"

Rather than answering, Hector just launched himself through the hole and out into freedom.

His armored ankle caught on something.

Sermung's gauntleted hand.

Hector reacted instantly, dematerializing the iron there and freeing his foot.

Sermung was still right behind him, though, even as he flew away. "I asked you a question, young man."

"And I respectfully decline to answer," said Hector, bounding away with a sudden iron platform.

He didn't get very far.

The Crystal Titan caught him by the neck this time.

But Hector just resorted to the same trick again. He blinked his own armor out of existence, remaking it the instant he was free again.

"You're a slippery one--I'll give you that."