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.

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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."

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.

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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

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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.

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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.

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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?"

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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?