Within the wastelands, a few hundred miles from the place known as black rock, the surge began to pick up speed. It came through the air that roiled, dark clouds raining literal Ethra drops that saturated the dry sandy ground of the wastelands that swallowed it eagerly. Rain was a rare phenomenon around that part of the continent and the ecology had all but shaped itself to take advantage of the sparse blessings afforded to it by the planet.
This time, however, there was something different, the rain affecting not just the ground itself but the wildlife that called the wastelands home. Large lizard reptiles known as Sandstalkers, low down the food chain, scavenging creatures that ate whatever sparse remains were left by the true monsters of the wastelands such as Sandshards and the ground worms. They pretty much stayed out of sight, instincts hones over centuries of evolution allowing them to somewhat merge with their surroundings during the day and slink around during the night.
When the rains began to fall and tiny rifts opened up, the stalkers found themselves besieged on all sides by unknown creatures, predators from beyond the rift who clashed not just with their practically defenseless selves but with the true predators of the wastelands. As the rule of nature dictated, survival of the fittest commenced, creatures tearing at each other for supremacy, struggling to kill or be killed. As for the sandstalkers though, they suddenly found their main habitat exposed and these creatures slugging it out within their midst.
Scrambling in mind-numbing terror, their alpha, the relatively strongest of their midst reacted with instincts honed by nature for survival to protect their young ones, little mottled brown and squeaking things without even claws for scratching. It found itself watching hopelessly as they were either squashed, torn apart, or consumed by the larger predators within their midst. It was unclear to future researchers what caused the rapid evolution that came next, centuries down the line, it would still be attributed to a bizarre fluke of nature.
The alpha, perhaps in a moment of madness, lunged at one of these predators, amidst the rain that poured down on them, scratching ineffectively at the gelatinous creature that swallowed it whole, a slime being from the tier 4 rift that had appeared within their habitat. It suddenly found itself in agonizing pain as the digestive fluids within the body of the creature began to break it down, still, it fought on. Struggling ineffectually as it died a slow but painful death, a bolt of Ethra-forged lightning from the surge above struck at just the moment when all that remained were its revealed bones and bloodied gore form.
Some would say it was the planet fighting back, or the benevolent gaze of a hegemon glancing down at the battle, whatever it was, it was the birth of something terrible. The lightning tore through the tier 3 creature as it shrieked in death throes, its viscous acidic body merging with the sandstalker, twisting the creature into another creature as the healing biology of the slime creature began to heal the stalker.
As if it wasn’t enough, another bolt of lightning struck it, whether a crude joke of the surge, or the planet attempting to kill off the abomination it had mistakenly created, it was unsure, but all it did was glance off the already mutating stalker to strike at another creature, the glancing death, a creature called that due to its superior camouflage ability that superseded those of the sandstalkers and the sharp bone-like protrusions that it hunted with.
It fused both again, this time, the sandstalker shrieking in absolute pain infused madness as its body warped and expanded, doubling in size till it towered above the ground, muscles rippling as sharp bone protrusions shot out of both forelimbs, jagged and sharp, glistening with the venom that the sandstalker was known for. All these could have been manageable, nature on Adamath was filled with bizarre abominations like such, but it gained one thing that no wild creature honed by the deadly wilderness of the wastelands should, it gained sentience.
It started as a bout of madness, the certain urge to kill everything in its surroundings, the loss of the young ones and its entire colony enough to do that to it. Body springing with a grace never seen before, it spat venom, the go-to instincts the stalkers used for countless centuries. It would permeate the body of whatever creature it touched, killing it and slowing it down drastically, buying time for the sandstalker to either escape or fight back.
The viscous liquid began to rapidly eat through the skin of the Sandshard in its front, carapace, and all as the creature shrieked in agony. The Sandshard was on it, sharp bone protrusions wreathed in glowing green venom stabbing through the exposed flesh of the creature, even sharper hardened claws ripping through it in a frenzy of black blood and gore. When it stopped, or rather, when its head finally became clear enough, exhausted from the battle, it stared around it at the blood-soaked ground, wailing in anguish at the sight of its dead members.
Searching for even at least one member of its clutch still left alive, it hopelessly began to devour at the bodies of the Sandshards to regain its energy, its mind, and senses taking in the new feeling of sentience, not understanding what it was feeling or even seeing. The sands looked damper, the rain felt cool and its smell was assaulted by more potent stenches than it had ever smelt in its entire existence. Like all primal beasts, it realized that this particular clutch was done for, and he would have to procreate, to create more clutches, the urge to spread its gene a driving factor.
Of course, it would have to fight whatever alpha of the clutch he would take on, probably kill the young ones as well to assert dominance, but that was the way of the wild. As it stood up, staring at the rift that remained open in its front, it cocked its head in the curiosity of a young being new to sentience, considering going through to find whatever was inside of the shiny tear that glowed at it. Staring at the protrusions that snapped back into its skin with a clicking sound, the sandstalker felt stronger as it began to move, making its way towards the rift.
******************************
Tunde sought the elder out the next day, spending the remainder of the night just meditating as he went through the entire tale Borus had told him. Rage, bitterness, and confusion had warred within him, but with the discipline of a cultivator that he had honed all the way to the point he had gotten. Swallowing it all and grinding it to dust within himself. He spent the night in that position, eyes closed, feeling the Ethra in the air that had grown more potent than he could remember.
When the first rays of sunshine hit his room, he was on his feet, cleaning up and on his current mission of finding the elder. He came out of the stronghold, watching a large merchant ship land as Isolde and a bunch of people he hadn’t seen before offloading large wooden crates from the ship the moment it landed and opened up. Watching for a few seconds, he left them to their work, making his way to the guard post at the base of the walls where a few disciples were on duty. They stood straight the moment they saw him, bowing their heads to him as he nodded.
“Elder Joran?” he asked.
“The venerable elder is atop the walls” the head disciple, known due to the black ribbon tied to his left hand replied.
Tunde nodded, staring at the steps built onto the wall itself before leaving them behind, making his way up towards the top. A few minutes later of calmly walking and he was there, staring at the elder in the distance who watched the wastelands with concentration. The only sign he got of the elder noticing his present was the slight cocking of his head he got before the elder faced the wastelands again completely, his voice ringing out.
“The air is getting stifling,” he said softly, the air carrying his voice.
“The surge I presume” Tunde replied as Joran nodded.
“Soon these very walls would be assaulted by hordes of both wasteland creatures and rift creatures,” Joran said.
“And we’re sorely lacking in weapons and personnel” Tunde replied.
“We will get quality over quantity with this surge,” Joran said.
“Initiates getting to disciples, maybe even a few adepts among their numbers as well,” Joran said.
Tunde looked the elder over.
“You haven’t advanced yet” It wasn’t a question, Ethra sight revealed it to him.
The elder gave no reply for a few seconds, the winds blowing at his clothes before he spoke.
“Taking my time,” he said softly.
Tunde felt and heard the indecisions in those words but didn’t question them, whatever his reasons were, he would leave it for him to deal with alone.
“No news from the clan?” he asked, switching the topic.
“An Ethra duplicator has been built right in the middle of the city, through the hands of both artificer Iphan and Borus” Joran replied.
“Ethra duplicator?” Tunde asked
“a nifty yet dangerous device used to accumulate the Ethra in the air and attempt to open controlled rifts around its surrounds to farm them” Joran explained.
“Except in this case, the patriarch intends to use it and the power of the growing surge to open tier 4 and 5 rifts” Joran finished.
Tunde was left speechless, for a few seconds, eyes wide at the elder’s words.
“Is that safe?” he asked.
Joran chuckled.
“Is anything safe in the world of cultivators?” he replied.
“But no, particularly this, it was a practice banned by the Heralds specifically for the destruction it wrought, and the patriarch is only taking advantage of the eyes of both the empire and cult facing something else” Joran completed.
The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
Tunde nodded, clenching his fists together.
“The rift we left behind, what would happen to it?” he asked.
“You and I both know it is now under the firm control of the revenants,” Joran said.
“I imagine the clan would do its best to keep them in check till the empire decides to deal with it or as most cases, let the Heralds deal with it seeing as it’s cult business,” Joran said.
“Ironical isn’t it?” he continued.
“Us assaulted by whatever horrors the wastelands would throw at us, and the clan assaulted by forces of undeath, fate does have a sense of humor” he completed.
“Will it be an issue?, the duplicator I mean?” Tunde asked.
Joran shrugged, stretching his hands out as if caressing the very air itself before speaking.
“I choose to believe that the presence of an artificer at the city itself should be enough to keep things in check,” he said.
“Then again, Borus left for a reason, and I don’t think it’s a good one” he completed.
Tunde swallowed nervously.
“I went to see him yesterday, the artificer I mean,” he said.
“I know,” Joran said.
Tunde paused at that statement for a second.
“You knew?” he asked.
Joran nodded.
“Draven came back all smiles, talking about how he had just forged his first imbued sword and how you were there to see it, figured the rest from there” he replied.
Tunde sighed.
“I apologize, I- “he started as Joran raised one hand.
“It is evident that whatever he wanted you to know was for your ears only,” Joran said, cutting him off.
“I simply want to warn you about the artificer,” he said.
Tunde stared at the elder.
“Warn me?” he echoed.
“Yes, if my memories serve me well, he’s an artificer of the archivist faction,” Joran said.
“what’s that?” Tunde asked.
Joran paused; eyebrows scrunched together as he replied softly.
“Not sure, something about him just tells me I’m right,” Joran said, shaking his head as he had a look on his face.
“Whatever the case may be, they are known to twist things to their own benefit, the truth, just their version of the truth, I’d be careful if I were you,” he said.
Tunde nodded quietly, facing the wastelands as he stared at the incoming dark clouds in the distance, the telltale signs of a storm already in the air.
“Can we survive?” Tunde asked.
The question had no concrete thing it was referring to, it referred to everything going on around them right now. From the inevitable clash with the clan, to the surge and finally the distant threat of the cult of undeath, Joran gave no response at first as he took a deep breath.
“We have no choice but to” he responded.
Tunde nodded, it was more than enough for him, he had followed the elder this far, no harm in continuing to do so till their parts separated.
“The storm is getting closer,” a disciple said as he ran up to them, winds blowing at his brown hair.
“It won’t reach here until tomorrow” Joran replied calmly.
“What should we do venerable elder?” the disciple asked.
Joran looked affronted, turning to the disciple.
“don’t ask me, ask your adept,” he said, pointing one finger at Tunde.
Caught off-guard, he stared between the elder and the disciple who looked at him expectantly.
“what’s your name?” he asked the disciple calmly.
“Kievan venerable adept” the disciple replied with a bow.
“Kievan, are you in charge of the walls?” he asked.
The disciple bowed with a nod.
“By the orders lady Ryka, I have maintained a coordinated watch with the rest of the disciples aboard the walls, disciples Harun and Giselle sometimes taking over as well” Kievan replied.
Tunde nodded, glancing down at the throngs that moved around the growing but sparse mini-city.
“For now continue to watch, should even the smallest signs of any changes appear on the horizon, inform anyone and get it to me as quickly as possible” Tunde ordered.
The disciple bowed again.
“Begging your forgiveness, but couldn’t I just inform you through the Ark?” he asked.
Tunde blinked like it had just occurred to him, Joran chuckling.
“of course,” he said, as if obvious.
The disciple moved away, leaving the both of them on their section of the wall, the grating sound of the Ethra cannon as it turned in its swivel accompanying him. Tunde faced the clouds.
“What do you think will come with it?” he asked.
“Our test for the surge” Joran replied.
“Now come, we cannot dally with your training and mine as well, the training room awaits!” he said.
Tunde took one more glance at the clouds in the far distance, and then the billowing sands of the wastelands before making his way down the walls.
*************************************
Deep within the dungeons of clan Verdan, Thorne stirred as he felt the latches of the reinforced Ethra gates unlock. Cracking open his eyes from where he sat, legs folded, he watched as a figure was dragged down the stairs in chains, the door to the opposite cell opening before the figure was pushed inside, the door locked, and the adept who had brought the chained adept that now graced the cell leaving without a single word.
“Well, isn’t this a strange sight?” Thorne said from the darkness of his cell.
He could see better now in the darkness, whatever mutations the affinity of undeath had given him, this was one of the ones he could claim was useful the most. It painted the entire darkness in an almost black and white view with splashes of colors here and there, still, he knew that face from the frequent visits in which the adept had stared at him from the other side of the bars a free man.
“Whatever did you do to piss off your patriarch, Thalas Verdan?” he asked.
Thalas Verdan looking dirty and tired, his hands wrapped in heavy looking aura suppression chains stared at the darkness from where he sat, squinting to pick out the form of Thorne who could see him clearly.
“Must I be hounded by your types?” Thalas growled.
Thorne scoffed.
“My types?” he asked.
“First, it was the wastelander, then it was the girl, and now you” Thalas continued.
“You do realize he’s not even from the wastelands, right?” Thorne asked.
“Does it matter?” Thalas bit back harshly.
“Ever since your arrival, things have gone upside down” he continued.
“Typically privileged brat, always whining and blaming others for their own failures” Thorne responded nodding.
“Complaining?” Thalas said with a growl.
“I could have cared less about him, I had a goal, why did he have to interfere?!” he raged, breathing heavily.
“Might want to reduce exerting pressure on those chains you know” Thorne advised with a sigh, closing his eyes.
“They drain your aura faster, Ethra even worse” he replied.
“I had him,” Thalas said.
“And he beat you to submission, get over it,” Thorne said irritably.
“Oh no, after that, after he caused the death of my father, in a rift, I was this close to ending him” Thalas continued.
Thorne snapped open his eyes, saying nothing as he could see the smile on Thalas’s face. He thought he was making him angry, that he was getting to him, well, maybe a little, but he let the child playing at a ranker continue.
“When the forces of undeath invaded the rift” he continued.
“The revenant cult?” Thorne asked, mind snapping to full alertness.
“Yes, your people,” Thalas said.
Thorne didn’t rise to the bait; his issue was with the cult and not with him.
“What happened?” he asked slowly.
“They won, all thanks to you wastelanders” Thalas bit out before seemingly calming himself.
“But all will be well soon enough, the surge is almost upon us,” he said.
Thorne said nothing, closing his eyes as he stilled himself, opening them before speaking, the squeaking sound of a rat that ran across the walls of his cell distracting him.
“And Tunde?” he asked.
“What about him?” Thalas asked lazily, reclining on the walls of his cell.
“Did you harm him?” he asked.
“No, but I wish I did” Thalas replied.
Thorne said nothing, nodding before a short snap and a squeak later, he was cycling his Ethra, preparing himself for what was to come.
**********************************
Elyria sat within the compound of the argent rose house, eyes closed as she attempted to cycle her Ethra, attempted, seeing as she could feel the presences surrounding her. Adept stage had unlocked something fundamental within her affinity, something she wasn’t too clear on just yet, but to put it simply, she could feel, sense it even, the presence of active metals around her. Active in the sense that she could feel when metals imbued with Ethra were primed close to her, mostly intent on being used against her.
Making a sound in her throat of irritation as she clamped down on the unnerving feeling, she allowed the meditation to take her mind off certain issues, such as the towering construct they had finished building hastily. It sat close to the spire of the Ark construct itself, both humming with power, Elyria marveling at the speed with which the clan had used to complete it. Elder Celia had called it an Ethra duplicator, saying no more about it, yet something about it sat uncomfortably in her with its presence.
She sighed again, beginning to draw metal Ethra from her surroundings and even the weapons that she sensed could be unleashed against her in a moment.
“They should know better than to think they could remotely stand up to an adept such as you,” the voice of lady Celia said as Elyria opened her eyes.
Something about the lady seemed different, like she had grown leaner, as if sad. Her once glowing personality had been reduced to an echo of itself, her gaze had lost its light and she seemed to walk around with a weight on her shoulder, perhaps she too mourned the death of Jashed. Elyria stretched one hand out, pulling the metal she sensed a few meters away from her as a blade flew into her hand.
Its holder jumped out, caught unawares as both adepts turned their gaze to the figure who hastily bowed.
“This unworthy disciple greets the adepts,” he said.
Dressed in a brown and black robe, elder Celia spoke softly.
“You don’t belong to my house,” she said.
It was a declaration of intent, one Elyria knew would be followed by swift action, the disciple knew that too, and he also knew that nothing would happen should he die. She was an elder of the clan, they had other things to bother about than the death of a single unknown disciple.
“We were asked to protect the new adept lady Celia,” he said, bowing his head.
Elyria raised an eyebrow at that statement, glancing at Celia who shook her head.
“you’re one more lie away from your blood staining my beautiful floors,” she said.
The disciple glanced up in alarm, Celia continuing.
“And that goes for the rest of you as well,” she said.
Elyria released her aura, the power expanding to cover the entire garden as figures began to reveal themselves, straining under the pressure of her aura. She got to her feet, as a presence unsensed revealed itself, unraveling in her senses, Elyria drawing out her silver liquid metals that danced around her, elder Celia raising one hand to calm her.
“This is beneath you Moros,” Celia said.
Elder Moros, clad in his customary blue and green robes, arms folded behind him as he glanced at Elyria
“I’ve been an adept long before you became a disciple, you’d do best to keep your weapons away,” he said.
“That explains why you’re irritated by almost everything” she replied.
This was a bad match up for her and she knew it, lightning to metal, still Elyria stood her ground, already calculating the options she had. Would Lady Celia stand up to her, she couldn’t forget that while the lady was nice to her, she was technically now in enemy territory. Cursing quietly, she began to plan her escape, aware of the odds against her.
Three adept presences dropped close to her side as she observed warily, aura and Ethra already burning within her with the urge to unleash.
“What is the meaning of this?” adept Rhyn Verdan said.
Sorin and Shiro stood next to him, their new adept ranked aura on full display as they kept their hands on their weapons calmly, staring down the elder.
“Simply ensuring no more accidents to the core clan members happen again,” Moros said with irritation.
“We were there, we saw all that happened” Shiro replied.
Moros shot him a withering glare.
“You saw all, did you?” he asked.
“Then perhaps you know of the events that happened in the rift before your arrival?, why would Jashed simply- “
“I believe this is a matter to be discussed within the family, is it not, elder Moros?” lady Celia cut in with a deadly voice.
Moros chewed on his words a bit before speaking.
“I move with the authority of the patriarch,” he said silently.
Elyria formed one of the liquid balls into a spear, staring down the elder.
“We were instructed to ensure no harm comes to her, not the other way around,” Rhyn said, stepping forward, one hand on his sword.
Elyria noted the fact that he could have gotten faster with his advancement, elder Moros snorting.
“We cannot afford any more mishaps right now; the clan needs to come together,” he said.
“And you somehow interpreted that as killing off one of the stronger adepts we have?” Celia asked curiously.
The elder turned to her wordlessly, locking eyes with Elyria as he spoke.
“I’d be careful if I were you,” he said as he turned, the subdued disciples slinking off with him.
“The patience of the patriarch is limited” he finished, disappearing from sight.