54 - Life Well (Patreon)

Yerin was more bruise than healthy flesh. Lacerations covered her body—but somehow not her robes—and her focus was beginning to waver.

The Sword Sage’s insights had finally been of use to her. Not enough to push her Endless Sword up a stage, but she sensed that she was getting closer and closer to it, to that last bit before she could push to Truegold. What sort of insights would an advancement give her, combined with the Dream Well water? It was that promise that had her fighting like a rabid dog.

The cultist was almost entirely unharmed. A single cut had scraped her arm. Her Blood Shadow was even sturdier, and seemed entirely unharmed.

“Everything I do is for the good of the people that your master sees fit to oppress!” The cultist hissed, drawing her bow and shooting out another arrow of crystalline blood. The Blood Shadow went on the attack again. Once upon a time, Yerin could have matched its strength. That was about a hundred exchanges ago, and now Yerin’s arms were running on dreams and well-wishes. 

She threw herself back into a roll, using her Goldsigns to throw herself away. She swung her sword, delivering a Rippling Sword at the pair.

“You are not on the side of justice! Anagi will sink, and all of Craghollow will celebrate! I will see you all buried under Hearthway!”

“Bleed Anagi! Bleed Craghollow and bleed you!” Yerin roared. “You’re Redmoon Hall! That’s all I care about!”

The cultist froze for a moment. Yerin seized the chance and ran in for the attack. “You think—” she said as her sword landed heavily on the Blood Shadow, “You get to yap about protecting? Your kind leaves messes—!” She charged up her Flowing Sword for an attack that would hopefully cleave right into a less protected spot in the Blood Shadow, “Everywhere you go!”

The cultist charged up more blood arrows. “You think I can control where the Bleeding Phoenix goes?”

“I don’t see you crying about the Remnants left behind it, do you? No, that’s because you eat them! You gain where others lose. That’s what it means to be a bleeding cultist!” Yerin could not take it anymore. The fact that this emissary had not only mistaken her for some kind of enemy agent, but also an enemy that she deemed was evil was almost too much for her to handle.

How dare she pretend to be on any side but the monsters? She took in the power of a Dreadgod on purpose. She was lower than scum.

The cultist snarled. “Sacred artists with wealthy backing are all the same! You judge me for taking the only Path of advancement available to me, but what do you do with your sacred arts? Do the hopes and dreams of an entire city lay on your shoulders?”

Yerin wanted to say more things, but in the end, she acknowledged that she was not Sky. He could do all the talking that he wanted. Yerin was a woman of action.

With renewed bloodlust and obsession, Yerin hacked and slashed at the pair the best that she could. For every slash she landed, the Blood Shadow’s fist added three new bruises to her collection of them.

A bone broke. Yerin ignored it with a roar. Finally, she landed another slash on the cultist. That achievement made her happy enough that it almost erased all the pain she was in.

This was fine. She could run completely on pure hatred, and it wouldn’t impede her any. If the Sword Sage’s obsession was of cutting and nothing else, then Yerin felt that her obsession was more purposeful, more emotional.

She would bleed and bury. Cutting trees, boulders and mountains was all fine for showing off, but in the end, only beings with blood ever posed a threat to someone.

Beings… with blood.

Yerin’s eyes were swimming. The cultist said some more self-righteous things, but Yerin could barely hear her over her din of exhaustion and pain and pure, bubbling hatred.

And in that unified state of malice, Yerin’s leash slipped. Her Blood Shadow hurtled itself out of her soul, sword ready to impale the cultist.

And to Yerin’s infinite shame, she didn’t hold it back.

That was how acute her hatred was.

Her Blood Shadow was seized by the cultist’s, and they started wrestling. Her Blood Shadow was sorely outmatched, strength wise. But she had opened the cultist up to Yerin.

“Hypocrite!” the cultist cried.

Yerin saw blood.

“You think I chose this?!” She swung her sword heavily, every strike intending on killing. She was done going for probing strikes, done being careful or staying within her means as a Highgold. Her madra was running low, but what did any of it matter? If she could kill this Truegold, perhaps that would finally push her into an advancement?

The Spirit Well water was still plying its magic in her core, too. If she waited around a few minutes, she would be back in fighting shape with a full core again.

The cultist took several more shallow slashes as she retreated, using her red bow as a staff to parry and block Yerin’s strikes. 

Then she felt the cloth wrapped around her torso unravelling, Dross’ burden on her back disappearing. She skipped back and looked around to see the Blood Shadow running away with Dross.

The cultist’s Blood Shadow grabbed Yerin in both her arms and slammed her face down on the ground. She swung her Goldsign ineffectually, but the Blood Shadow had planted itself all over her back, not giving her any leverage.

Yerin almost cried there and then. She never should have trusted her Blood Shadow.

“You’re not my enemy,” the cultist whispered, like it was some kind of grand revelation for her.

“Yeah?” Yerin spat, “Well you’re mine.”

“Are you a secret disciple of the Blood Sage?”

“I’ll cut that rotten tongue out of your mouth for saying that!” Yerin screamed.

“You have a Blood Shadow,” the cultist said, “You used the Blood Sage’s method.”

Yerin strained against her binds. The good thing about this lull in battle was that the Spirit Well elixir was actually slowly refilling her spent core, healing her sore channels. Soon, she would be back to peak stability. Spiritually, at least. Bodily, she was still almost just a bag of blood.

If she couldn’t fight with her body, she would at least try something else to hurt her enemy: her words. “How do you stand to look at yourself in the mirror, knowing you took a Dreadgod’s power on purpose? You feed off disaster, and you call yourself some kind of hero? Stop pulling my chain. You’re just another monster.”

“I’m not responsible for all that my sect does, or the Bleeding Phoenix’s actions,” the cultist said, “And I don’t participate in such slaughters or scavenging. You have no reason to fight me. I’ve hurt no one that hasn’t deserved it. I know right from wrong.”

“You look like you’ve crawled out a Death Remnant’s nightmares,” Yerin spat. “You’re in the bleeding cult’s colors! I’ll believe that when I’m a mindless Remnant.”

“Why do you think I haven’t killed you yet?” the cultist asked, “After you—”

Yerin felt an impression in her spirit. An impression of protection.

Then the Blood Shadow that was pinning her down flew off her back. Yerin quickly clambered to her feet, pumping her body with newly restocked madra to see her Blood Shadow savaging the cultist’s with its… no, her… bare hands…

What Yerin was seeing right now was so alarming that it gave her pause even through her fury.

The impressions her spirit was receiving right now from the blood shadow were of boundless strength and vitality, but that was hardly as notable as the physical changes.

The Blood Shadow had skin now. It was now a she, recognizably almost a person. Red, glistening skin, red hair, and detailed red robes. Her hairs were distinct strands of red as well. Everything about her had sharpened somehow. How—

She looked to the side, and saw that a door had opened. The same door that the cultist had struggled with. Within, it revealed a room with more cylindrical glass tanks containing sacred beasts. And in the middle was a well that shone with green light.

Her Blood Shadow had gotten to the Life Well.

Horrifying implications aside, this was her chance. She launched towards the cultist, who now looked at her with panicked eyes. She blocked with her bow, but that didn’t matter to Yerin. Her body was Steelborn, and her madra had been refilled. 

The strike sent the Truegold flying into the room with the Life Well. Yerin gave chase.

Mid-flight, the cultist still managed to draw her bow and shoot a trio of arrows at Yerin. She deflected them with her Endless Sword, feeling something fall exactly into place mentally. A feeling. A Path towards condensing the Ruler technique from Storm to Wind. Less was more. That was the Sword Sage’s motto. She had heard that more times than she had spent days on this world. Putting that saying into practice had constituted the bulk of all her difficulties on this Path.

But she was starting to sense the thread.

It was…

The battle resumed before she could seize it. Yerin and the cultist traded techniques while her Blood Shadow was dismantling the other one. 

Angered by the loss of her insight, she put more power behind her strike, blowing the cultist back once more. She swung her head towards the direction of the Life Well and dashed over to it. Getting a fresh start now would make all the difference.

Yerin didn’t stop even as an arrow of Blood madra dug clean through her thigh. The Life Well would fix it all.

She scooped a handful from the bathtub-like well—it could probably fill two barrels at best, perhaps less—and immediately felt her body flaring with life.

The madra arrow extruded from her leg as her flesh knitted itself back together. Life energy dominated her body, healed everything that was in need of healing, and the rest passed into her lifeline, thickening it by the second.

Her arms smoothed out. Every nick, cut and gash, long scarred over, disappeared in seconds. She would bet that the ones on her face had disappeared too.

So this was the power of the Life Well.

More arrows flew at her.

Her body moved before she was even ready, all of her physical exhaustion having disappeared in an instant. Between what remained of the Dream Well water in her system, her healed and replenished spirit, and her newly reforged body, she was in the best shape of her life. She blocked every arrow, even the ones that would have hit the basin of Well water, and dug into all of her reserves of energy to take down this cultist once and for all.

A stream of blood madra slithered through the ground, hopping into the cultist’s spirit before Yerin could reach her—had the cultist’s Blood Shadow beaten her own, and then returned to its master’s spirit?

The cultist still fired off arrows of blood madra at Yerin, and her own Blood Shadow was nowhere in sight. 

Yerin savored the terror in the cultist’s eyes as they traded blows. She had gotten slower. Way slower. Even though she had the spirit and techniques of a peak Truegold, that still didn’t mean anything before Yerin’s unrelenting assault. 

This would wrap up in a couple more seconds, Yerin was sure with a bone-deep certainty. The cultist was truly outmatched now.

Yerin managed to spare some of her attention to look to the side, where her Blood Shadow stood, holding Dross’ physical shell with both hands, looking at the scene, looking at her.

There was disapproval in her features. Features that now looked distinctly human.

The Blood Shadow had beaten its counterpart in battle, and was now just staring. 

At Yerin.

Doing nothing.

Just… frowning.

Bleed her, Yerin thought. She could do this on her own. She never should have let it slip its leash anyway. She’d contend that it would become her next opponent, after she had taken care of the cultist–

“Orthos.”

The Blood Shadow, with a single name, interrupted not only her thoughts, but every bone in her body.

Its voice was a sort of demon’s rasp, liquid and horrific and chilling and full of anger all at once. The fact that it had even spoken was terrifying to Yerin, but the contents of that single word gave her a pause deeper than fear, even in the middle of battle.

She swung at the cultist one last time with a Rippling Sword, pumping her body with madra in the meanwhile. The Striker technique, as always, didn’t harm the cultist much (possibly on account of some defensive equipment, or maybe her Iron body), but the force of her strike knocked her back one last time, out of the Life Well room. She rolled on the ground, a bleeding mess.

Yerin… didn’t follow up on her attack.

She was here for Orthos. And this hateful thing, this emissary, this bleeding Redmoon cultist—didn’t think they were enemies.

Her reason to fight wasn’t as important as Orthos’ continued survival. Yerin felt a stab of guilt at having prioritized this fleeting enmity to such an extent.

No use wasting any more time, though. She opened Sky’s void key and came out with two barrels.

They were filled with… stuff. Changes of clothes, cooking equipment, pouches of powders of different kinds. She set them all aside gently and retrieved the water Ruler construct from the mess of barrels and equipment in the void key.

Once she exited the void key, she came face to face with her Blood Shadow, still holding Dross.

Still looking disapproving.

Yerin immediately seized her with her spirit to pull her inside. The Blood Shadow resisted with a harsh frown. Easily. Terror almost caused Yerin to lose the battle of wills, but that was always a common thing. She remembered what to do in these instances. 

She dug into her hatred. Her pain. And she used it to smother the Blood Shadow entirely. It turned spiritual in moments, flowing back into Yerin’s core, frowning at Yerin the entire time. 

At the end, it dropped Dross. She almost didn’t catch him in time.

“I didn’t know you had an almost exact copy of you hiding in your spirit!” Dross said. “What is that about? And why does it look like you hate her, too?”

Yerin ignored him and started working on draining the Life Well one globule of liquid at a time. 

It was this water, she was sure of it. The parasite had gotten into this water, and it had given her more definition. More… ability to slip her leash at will. Yerin could feel it even now. It could escape whenever it wanted to.

Her nerves got the better of her. Rather than continuing to drain the well with the construct, she went to see if she could try and dislodge its legs from the floor.

With some effort, it turned out she could. She wrenched the old black iron from the ground with a loud squeal. Apparently, whatever generated the Life Well water was the nozzle attached to the ceiling above, where the water probably fell. The tub was just made of ordinary metal, and was probably not even scripted in place. 

“Ah, that should not have been possible,” Dross said from where he sat on the ground, “I am guessing the decay of the pocket world has disconnected the scripts meant to preserve some of this facility’s interior.”

She poured the water directly from the well into her two waiting barrels. Like she suspected, she got two full barrels from it. There was some left inside, and she would try and scoop it up with one of the jugs—

“Ah, hey, Yerin? Not to alarm you or anything, but that thing I said about the pocket world’s decay disconnecting the scripts meant to preserve some of this facility’s interior, it’s—well, if you look over at where you fired your Striker technique, you will—”

Dross hadn’t been able to finish blabbering out all he wanted to say before a crushing pressure almost drove her to her knees. It lasted only a moment. She turned around to where she had sent the cultist. She was standing shakily, facing away from Yerin, towards the cage wall.

One of the countless cages built into the wall had been damaged by her Rippling Sword, scripted glass shattered and steel cut in twain. A great flood of amniotic fluid poured out, and as the stream began to taper off, the broken cage failed entirely with a screech of bending steel. Out from the wreckage rolled a titanic creature, lying on its stomach amidst loosely scattered limbs. 

It looked like a Deepwalker Ape, a creature she had seen in her travels with the Sword Sage, only a hundred feet long. Its fur had a similar coloration: light blue and black. And it had the general look of an ape as well, but this specimen was… it was just bigger in every way one could imagine. It looked to be more muscle than anything else, arms and legs just covered in thick ropes of muscle. Each fiber was visible even underneath the skin and fur.

And yet it looked somewhat… shriveled as well. As if it had been drained of fluid and fat, turned into a thin shadow of itself that knew only fur and muscle and bone. Distantly, Yerin noticed two entire lines of needle-like drainage lines arrayed up and down either side of its spine, a tangle of broken catheter tubes around its nether regions, and the remnants of a thicker, broken feeding tube that must have been affixed over its mouth.

Each breath it took shook the floor. Each time it stirred, things crashed on the ground from their perch. Just the existence of this monster was enough to destroy everything in its surroundings.

Yerin quickly moved the barrels into the void key and prepared to leave.

Once she exited the void key again, she saw the monster’s hand lash out, striking the floor.

The building shook furiously. The fact that it even remained standing was a shock to her. Perhaps that was the work of those reinforcing scripts that Dross had talked about?

The cultist, who had been standing nearby, had been blown back into the Life Well room. She looked utterly insensate.

The ape rumbled, still lying on the floor.

No. Not lying. Sleeping.

It was sleeping. 

The cultist clambered up to her feet, eyeing the monster. “Overlord,” she whispered. 

Yerin swung her head back at the monster.

With every second she stood in its presence, she could feel the weight of its spirit growing. 

She needed to go.

The cultist looked at Yerin pleadingly. “If we don’t stop it now, while it’s still possible, it will destroy this pocket world!”

“Are you chipped?” Yerin growled. “You said it yourself, that’s an Overlord. I’m going!”

The cultist growled at her. “You run away then, but don’t stop me from doing the right thing!”

Then she hobbled over to the Life Well, reached into its depths for some of the water, drank it in with her hands, and straightened her back with a brief shriek as all her injuries healed.

She summoned her Blood Shadow right after, and it put its hand in the Well, becoming visibly stronger as it did. More detailed as well.

Then… they threw themselves at the monster. Truegolds contending against an Overlord. Why?

“Ah yes, the mutated Deepwalker Ape,” Dross said, “This one’s spirit has mutated to focus solely on physical strength, hence its great size! The Monarch liked to collect specimens like this, since they could be perpetually harvested for their blood and life essence and higher spiritual properties. And the woman you hate is right. If this creature is allowed to regain its power after escaping the suppression script in that cage, it will pose a threat to all of Ghostwater.”

What did that matter? They already had samples of all the Wells. They could leave now and still have come out rich as kings.

The cultist and her Blood Shadow both attacked the neck of the Deepwalker Ape. All it seemed to do was… scratch it.

“We can’t kill it,” Yerin said distantly. Disbelieving.

The Truegold threw herself at the task desperately.

“You can if you cut open its jugular vein while it’s still in a dormant state,” Dross said, “Which I assume is this cultist lady’s whole plan. Ingenious, I would say. Why don’t you always aim for the throat anyway? Seems like that would cut every fight short.”

“Talk to me when you have arms and legs,” Yerin rolled her eyes, considering whether or not to escape.

Whether or not to leave this… cultist to her fate.

There was an exit to the outside in the Life Well room itself. An elevator shaft that larger goods–like this ape–must have been transported through. She could take that, leave the facility, take that three-minute swim through the sea, and be home to save Orthos.

They could take their treasures with them and leave Ghostwater altogether.

She glared at the back of the nightmarish Redmoon emissary.

At the back of the sacred artist that followed her blood-dyed path for the good of a whole city.

The sacred artist that had refused to kill her, even when she had the chance.

“Bleed and bury me,” Yerin growled at herself as her feet were moving forwards without her say-so.

Her Blood Shadow projected to her an impression of approval, and that almost made her turn around entirely and leave.

Almost.

She gathered sword aura, intent on pushing her Endless Sword to the Wind.

000

When Ekerinatoth woke up in the familiar surroundings of her opulent cloud manor to see her ancestral broodmother Xorrusanatoth’s disapproving glare, she knew she was in deep, deep trouble.

“What happened?” Xorrus asked, without preamble. Around them in the expansive ballroom were a whole host of dragons, dozens of them ranging from Highgold to Overlord. Even two of Xorrus’ own Archladies. Only around half of them had human forms.

And Sophara was there too. Ekeri’s sister. She stood beside the Herald, several steps behind. Glaring, not at her, but at Xorrus’ back.

“I…” Ekeri desperately wanted to tell something, anything other than the truth. No, what she wanted was to curl up and hide.

But Xorrus was a Herald.

There was no choice, no chance, no hope but to tell anything other than the truth, clear and bitter.

So she answered.

It wasn’t a long tale. But somewhere in the midst of her own recollection, Ekerinatoth realized just how stupid she had been.

The leader of that gaggle of Golds, that bald, dark-skinned human with the spear, had knowledge about the pocket world that should have been beyond that of some ordinary peasant intruder. He had a map of a place that most of the world outside the leading factions scarcely even knew existed. Of course he would have been prepared to deal with one outnumbered, overconfident Truegold. And his allies had all been remarkably competent for their advancement level. That Highgold swordswoman, especially, could have earned a place in the Truegold trial all on her own–who had raised that monster of a human?

“She was the disciple of the Sage of the Endless Sword,” Xorrus answered dangerously, after Ekeri’s story was done telling. “Malice’s own daughter was the archer. The rest were associated with Ashwind’s branch of House Aurelius. That is the fight you threw yourself into, alone, like some guileless hatchling.”

Even as one great name of the world after another hammered into Ekeri’s heart, she felt a wave of anger, hot and pure, rising forth from deep amidst the ocean of shame that was her spirit. They were intruders! They wouldn’t have even been there at all if you hadn’t– 

Ekeri cut off that thought instantly; it was dangerous to even think in a way that hinted of anger or rebellion in front of a Herald’s eyes. So Ekeri sank down in shame, even as her Xorrus’ eyes narrowed dangerously, even as her spiritual senses told her that Sophara’s own anger at their grandmother was escalating by the moment.

At least she had one supporter here, not that it did her much good.

“Do you realize what you’ve done wrong, Ekerinatoth?” Xorrus asked.

“Yes,” Ekeri whispered miserably. “I lost.”

“That too,” Xorrus’ glare deepened. “But your true crime was to cause your brood to lose face. You were beaten to within an inch of your life, stripped of your void key like some common bandit’s victim, and expelled from the pocket world with your own gatestone. The indignity,” Xorrus hissed in a way no human throat ever could have managed, even as Ekeri clutched at her chest–where her necklaces should have been–with open-mouthed horror and fear.

“You were expelled from an opportunity we only get every ten years, in less than an hour. An hour! A Copper peasant could have done better. At least they might have tried conversing with the intruders before being summarily beaten and embarrassed. A Copper peasant. Let alone a princess of my brood, an heir of mine own blood and name. Do you realize what that looks like to the other factions? Do you understand the responsibilities that your name bears? That you bear? You’ve made a joke of the gold dragons to the other factions, to our own vassals. A joke of me, Xorrusanatoth, whose name you bear. So. What do you have to say for yourself, Ekerinatoth?”

Ekeri felt herself wilting throughout her ancestral Herald’s entire diatribe. She hadn’t yet advanced her human form enough to cry, but if she could have…

She saw her elder sister, Sophara, continuing to radiate naked anger–not at her, but at their grandmother.

At any other time, any other place, Ekeri would have loved Sophara all the more for it. But now…

“I’m sorry,” Ekeri said miserably, clutching her own tail in her lap like some newborn hatchling. “What happens now?”

“Now? Your role in this is done. You will return to the City of Eternal Sands, for your training is… clearly lacking. Six months of closed-door cultivation in the Vault of Flowing Flame should do it, I think. That will be all you have to look forward to until the tournament.” Her eyes slid to the side, meeting Sophara’s ire with her Herald’s will. “You should say your goodbyes to your sister.”

Ekeri’s mouth opened in horror, but Xorrus only went on, disappointment writ deep into her perfected human features. “Only when you’ve reached Underlady and I’ve personally tested you will you be even allowed to flap a single wing outside of–”

“No.”

At once, Xorrus–and every other dragon in the tent–fell to the ground, deliberately. Prostrating. Stomachs splayed on the sand, prostrating their necks at the figure of glory incarnate that had emerged amongst them; a sandy projection of a hooded human boy whose ancient, slitted golden eyes had witnessed the rise and fall of empires beyond count.

It didn’t matter if you were a Herald or a Copper. It didn’t matter if you were a dragon with a beautiful, fully transformed form, or a dragon in a natural body.

Mere respects were not enough. Before the King of Dragons, all dragons of all forms knew to offer their worship. 

And so they did.

Because, before Seshethkunaaz’s ancient eyes, all dragons knew they could dream of glory. Because he was Seshethkunaaz, their Monarch, their protector of ages, and even more importantly for Ekeri…

He was the father, the creator, the origin point of all dragonkind’s heroes.

It was that thin thread of hope that made Ekeri’s heart pound, even before the King began speaking, his projection floating above the sands. And then his glowing eyes met hers, and Ekeri knew a Monarch’s gaze was upon her.

“You must wash away this disgrace, Ekerinatoth. Return to Ghostwater and retrieve treasures worthy of a Lord. Go, and bring glory to your brood, or don’t come back at all.”

Ekeri wiggled on the ground on her stomach. The Monarch of Dragons had spoken her name! He was giving her a second chance! 

“Your will is my law, Monarch! Gratitude for this opportunity for redemption.”

“It will be your last,” the Desert Monarch said, before his projection finally disappeared.

Xorrus eyed Ekeri critically, but she said nothing. Nothing needed to be said at all now that their Monarch had spoken.

This was his way. This was their Monarch’s nature. Cruelty without compare, but only for the weak. Kindness unending, but only for the glorious. He wasn’t a dragon, nor even a man; he was a force of nature that took sides, without bias for blood or birth or even species. The myths surrounding Seshethkunaaz were countless, but they all agreed on that core trait of his nature; for millennia, the Monarch of Dragons had long been the first friend to heroes and champions, and the last arbiter of cowards. 

This was his way. The way of the greatest, oldest Monarch of all.

What awaited her now was only success or death.

It was all she could have ever asked for.

000

At some point, Yerin’s fight against the Deepwalker Ape stopped feeling like a fight, and began to feel more like some sadistic mining operation on a living mountain. Occasionally, the mountain would stir and swat at the miners—Yerin and the cultist—but those instances had become predictable. The two moved without trading words, focusing on the exact same spot of vein on the creature’s neck, slowly chipping away at its steel-like fur and inching into its hide which was many times stronger than Iron.

The longer they cut, the harder it was to stand or breathe as the spiritual pressure of the Ape compounded. Yerin had already retracted every bit of her spiritual perception—even a glancing scan on this monster would cause her to lose control over her madra. That was alright. She didn’t need her spiritual perception right now. Only her eyes. And her Copper sight.

She looked at the vital aura around the slowly growing wound on the creature’s neck, looked directly at the wound itself, and contemplated the material, the texture, the pliability—every physical characteristic she could think of that mattered in the exercise of cutting through it.

The battle had lasted so long that her blood had even stilled. She no longer felt like she was fighting an enemy. As such, her anger and malice had died down. All that replaced it was focus.

The Sword Sage’s focus. He would have preferred this kind of mental state. She had sharpened it further by taking another drink of the Dream Well water. 

She recognized that she would soon reach a state of maximum focus. All that existed now was her sword and the deepening wound.

Only a few more inches and they would cut past the skin and hit muscle. That would be a challenge on a whole other level, but she could feel that it was still possible to—

Her Blood Shadow slipped out and spoiled all her focus. Immediately, Yerin fell on the monster with her sword, forcing the creature to defend itself.

Then the cultist slipped between them. Yerin almost didn’t let that stop her from continuing the assault, running the cultist through as well as the Blood Shadow in one thrust.

Almost.

They both stopped. The Blood Shadow looked irritated and angry. The cultist glared at Yerin. “What are you doing?” She hissed. 

“I don’t care what you do with your parasite,” Yerin said, “But don’t tell me how I need to treat mine. It disobeyed me. It needs to go back inside.”

“Your Blood Shadow has exactly the right madra needed for this task,” the cultist whispered. “We need to use her!”

No matter how much she wanted to argue, the cultist was… right. This Ape needed to die before it caused them all problems.

Yerin shoved the cultist out of her way and walked up to her Blood Shadow. “Try to hurt me or my friends and I will burn my soul to get rid of you. Understood? You do what I say. I say frog? You jump. I say fish? You swim. Dog?”

“Woof,” the Blood Shadow said, like it had scraped the word up from her nightmares. She smiled, revealing rows of bloody teeth.

She refused to let her horror show, no matter how potent it was. That would only cause it to win. Instead, she gave it a nod of understanding. 

Yerin gathered her sword aura and turned back to the Deepwalker Ape. “Cut where I cut,” she commanded as she meditated fiercely on the Endless Sword, manipulating the sword aura in preparation for an attempt at Sword like the Wind.

She needed to know the material. An Overlord’s flesh, twice-reborn with soulfire. Know the enemy. A Deepwalker Ape, a creature of earth and force and blood.

She needed to use less effort for more effect.

She needed to know sword aura, more than she ever had before. All her life, she had manipulated it. Yet she never knew just how many layers there were to the act of cutting, not just how long but how deep that path was. 

This was a humble first step. But it was an opportunity to prove to herself that she was worthy of her master’s legacy.

If she failed here, then she would never be a Sword Sage.

She cycled the Endless Sword nearly to the point of aura resonance, and then she glared literal daggers at the spot she wanted to cut, pouring her entire soul into the act.

“Now!” She shouted. The Endless Sword rang like a bell that had been struck once, and only once. It opened a line on the Deepwalker Ape’s neck, sharp, clean, long and deep.

Deep enough to draw blood. Only a trickle.

The madra in her core collapsed in on itself so suddenly that it terrified her for a moment. Pain didn’t follow, and she soon realized from the way that all the madra in her channels retreated into her core, into that collapsed madra that had reached another tier of density and purity, that she had just advanced.

And in that instant, the broken-down remains of her master’s Remnant stirred, louder and clearer than ever.

The Sword Sage glared at the boar known as the mountain king. From afar, his neighbors and acquaintances from the village watched him. They thought he was throwing his life away.

Little did they fathom that this was just the natural progression of things.

He had cut everything in his path. He had left his home to go to a city, received an Iron body from a powerful Lord, and now owed that Lord service as a mercenary. He had ensured a steady stream of opponents in the future, and to prepare for them, he had tested his blade against anything and everything he could find: boulders, trees, houses, birds, deer, wolves.

The only challenge that was left for him in his home was the mountain king.

The only thing he had failed to cut as of yet.

The mountain king stomped the ground, digging a furrow into the earth with its back leg, before bolting forward.

Timaias Adama stood still, gathering sword aura. He stared death in the face and smiled. This would be it. Right here, right now, he either raised the power of his Ruler technique, or he died.

Fear filled him, but it was mixed with certainty as well. Certainty that this was his path.

His sword rang like a bell.

The boar’s head flew off its neck, and it fell on the ground, rolling several times until it came to a stop at the feet of the Sword Sage.

His spirit whirled, and for the first time in his life, extended past his skin and into the world, giving him sight. Jade.

The beginning of the Path of the Endless Sword.

The vision dissipated, replacing itself with the Deepwalker Ape’s neck wound, slowly welling up with blood that positively gushed with aura.

The Blood Shadow’s Endless Sword followed, auras of blood and swords cutting further into flesh than she ever could with just sword madra. 

The trickle of blood turned into a geyser at once. Yerin jumped away from the splash zone.

The cultist’s Blood Shadow, unformed and bulbous, latched onto the Ape’s neck like the world’s most hideous leech.

It pulsed as it fed on the Deepwalker Ape’s neck wound. 

The sight was enough to make her sick.

She doubled over and threw up multi-colored water.

When she looked up once again, it was to see the cultist bowing deeply at her over two pressed fists. “Thank you. Without your help, this would have turned into a disaster.”

Yerin eyed the soon-to-be-corpse of the Deepwalker Ape. Its spiritual pressure was diminishing. “What about the Remnant?” she asked, grimacing.

“We will leave it only barely alive,” the cultist said, “After I’ve extracted its blood essence. That should render it practically as good as dead.”

“This is how you feed your Shadow?” Yerin asked, staring at the oversized leech of a Blood Shadow in disgust.

“Would you rather it feed on innocent people?” the cultist asked. “I cultivate mine according to the beast method. It only uses beast blood, and takes the aspect of the beasts it has consumed. Beasts that were enemies to me. I don’t kill for advancement. I advance to protect myself and others.”

“It’s disgusting,” Yerin said flatly.

The cultist just shrugged. “It’s not evil. It just is. Like your Blood Shadow. Whether or not you bonded to her by choice, now isn’t the time to make an enemy out of her.” She looked at her Blood Shadow, lying on the ground on its back, arms spread as though it was exhausted by its use of the Endless Sword. From her bond with it, she detected that it should still have a fair bit more of energy left. “She’s taken on an aspect of your personality. According to the Blood Sage, she should now share your priorities and loyalties. To antagonize her now would be like making an enemy out of someone on your side.”

“She tried to kill people while she still looked like that,” Yerin scoffed. “What makes now any different?”

“It’s too much to ask you to forget your history with it, and instead look forward to a better future,” the cultist sighed. “I can’t blame you for your distrust. You did not receive the support of Redmoon Hall, and yet you’ve come this far. Entirely on your own. But take my advice, at least. As a cultist that isn’t interested in massacring villages.”

Yerin looked at the floor in consternation. “You’re right, it is too much to ask. I’m going now.” She seized the Blood Shadow with her spirit in order to pull it in.

Her Blood Shadow resisted. “No,” it rasped. “I… stay… out.”

“Let her stay outside,” the cultist said, “As an apology for working against her when she tried to help.”

Yerin would rather stab herself in her favorite foot. 

It was fine. For now. But as soon as they were back with the others, she would shove the Blood Shadow down into the depths of her spirit by force if she had to.

But she would accept it for now. She just… didn’t want to feel like she was the villain now, which was becoming increasingly obvious to her.

She had really let her anger and hatred spiral out of her own control. She felt more shame than she ever wanted to admit.

“Also…” the cultist said, “Congratulations on your advancement. I would also like to thank you for helping me take down the Ape by—”

“No need,” Yerin shook her head forcefully. She didn’t want to take anything from this cultist. Not after what she had already taken. “I… shouldn’t have fought you. I just can’t stand your cult and what it stands for. How can you? You clearly aren’t as chipped as your friends, so how do you go two seconds in that sect without throwing up?”

The cultist ducked her head. “My path to power isn’t pretty. But it works. That’s a sacrifice I must live with.”

“Bleed that,” Yerin said, “You got your power. Just… leave. Advance on your own, now.”

“I fully intend to,” the cultist said. “The Blood Sage only sees me as an avenue for research. He doesn’t care about me, and I don’t care about him. Once I have everything I need, I will be powerful enough to vanquish my enemy on my own. Then I won’t ever leave Craghollow again.”

Yerin looked the cultist up and down before deciding with a nod that she wasn’t all that bad. “You can have what’s left of the Life Well. There should be a jug’s worth or two.”

“That’s all I can carry in my void key anyway,” the cultist whispered. “Thank you. I’m… glad we don’t have to fight. What is your name?”

“Yerin,” she said, giving the cultist a bow of her head. “You?”

“Yan Shoumei,” she returned the bow. 

“Until next time,” Yerin nodded, opening up Sky’s void key to take Dross out. Her Blood Shadow stood straight, so she decided to give Dross to her to hold. The Blood Shadow stared back flatly.

“What?” Yerin asked, “If you’re going to be out, at least be useful.”

Before the Blood Shadow could return any of the sass, Yerin was already walking up to the exit, past Yan Shoumei.

“Goodbye,” the cultist, Yan Shoumei, whispered as she passed.

Bleed me. “Word of advice,” Yerin muttered. “Go find a barber worth half a chipped scale.”

As the cultist blinked in confusion, Yerin faced the path outside, and filled her Iron Body with madra once more. “Take us home, Dross.”