Whiiiiirlll!

Beep.

//Overseer signal lost…//

//Analyzing last connection memory block…//

//Analysis complete… Troubleshooting scenario…//

//… Scenario found: Captured_by_Unknown_Enemy.//

//Beginning Self-Destruct Protocol.//

//Alert! Automatic Overseer override ‘Alpha_says_thats_stupid’.exe activated.//

//Redirecting to alternate route… Redirection successful.//

//Activating subroutine packet “Fly_on_the_wall”.rar… //

//Beginning Audio/Video recording… //

—————————————————————

“Why….”

DOOOOOONG!

“Won’t…”

CHIIIINNNNGGGG!

“You…”

HUUUUUMMMM!

“Break!”

//Warning! Attempting to damage Expeditionary Force properties is a Class-X Federal offense. Your actions have been recorded, and the proper authorities have been notified. Please put down your weapon and surrender peacefully.//

“AND WHY THE HELL DOES IT KEEP REPEATING THE SAME DAMN THING?!”

Lunar King Namgil threw down his massive war hammer with a heavy bang, leaving a small crater in the Divinity-rated floor. He’d always bragged that he could level any mountain with a single swing, but this abominable thing had refused to yield to his might in over a week of unrelenting assault. They’d barely scratched it, even with four Divinities attacking at once, only for it to mysteriously ‘heal’ shortly after.

He turned to Lunar King Chickenhe—ahem, Lunar King Lian Peng — with a snarl.

“And YOU! Scholar boy! Have you made any headway toward translating it at all? Or are we just wasting our time here?!”

Lian Peng put down the notepad and turned away from the slime construct on the table. When it reactivated, Lian Peng’s instinct had been to destroy it. He’d seen what these things could do and knew what kind of havoc they could wreak in such a confined space as the containment lab. It was only at the request of Array Master Igor that he’d stayed his hand.

Lian Peng narrowed his eyes and answered the large man.

“Not any more than when you asked an hour ago, Namgil. As I mentioned then, the scholars are having difficulty discerning the roots of the language. It shares traits with many languages found all over the mortal worlds, but not with Celesti.”

Namgil threw his arms into the air, yelling over his shoulder as he stormed off,

“Bah! What good are the lot of ya, then?! I’m taking a break! Have someone send word if you learn anything that will help pry these cowards out of their box.”

Lian Peng let out a sigh and turned back to the slime construct. Lunar King Namgil wasn’t a… bad man; no one could say those elevated to Lunar King were overly temperamental or prone to needless cruelty and hubris. After all, when your job was to acclimate people who were used to being in charge to an environment where they no longer had that authority, things could get… tense.

Despite that, Namgil was not someone Lian Peng ever expected to get to know on a personal basis. Lian Peng preferred the quiet of a study and the peace of a well-maintained garden. Namgil was in his element in a rowdy bar, clinking glasses and singing along with anyone who could match his volume — though the man’s affinity for sound was legendary, even among the Void Whales, so few could compete.

If it wasn’t for their teacher, Lian Peng, the ‘Moonlit Sage’ and Namgil, the ‘Void Hunter’ would likely have never met. Sometimes, Lian Peng wondered if that was a good thing or not…

Thinking of his teacher, Lian Peng’s forehead creased, and he stared at the young girl while she dozed on the squishy surface of a nearby slime construct, snoring loudly. He doubted even she knew how she’d gotten the thing to go soft. Many would claim that the ‘girl’ named Sarah Deathstealer didn’t deserve the title of ‘Grand Magus of Regeneration,’ that all of her accomplishments were based on blind luck, and that she couldn’t explain how she did any of the miraculous things she did.

And if Lian Peng was honest… they weren’t wrong, in a way. Teacher was a genius on many accounts: arrays, alchemy, artifact creation, spellwork, and countless other disciplines. But getting her to explain how any of what she did worked was like pulling teeth. She wasn’t a terrible teacher; the ways her mind worked just sometimes felt like a mystery wrapped in an enigma… while other times, it felt like trying to clean up a jug of spilled milk with a fork. Okay, so Lian Peng wasn’t the best at metaphors…

Still, Lian Peng could honestly say he’d never have made it to Lunar King without her help. He’d have likely never made it to High Celestial as quickly as he had, either.

As though she sensed his thoughts — knowing her, she probably did — the girl jolted awake, wiped away her sleep, and faced him with a question.

“Any luck? I could hear Namgil’s banging in my dreams. I swear, that boy’s got too much energy for his own good. He can’t even let an old woman sleep! I wish he’d settle down and find a miss already. Maybe then she could deal with all the noise instead of us!”

Lian Peng ignored his teacher’s waking ramblings — those almost made sense this time! — and picked up his notepad, flipping through a few pages before speaking.

“No, still no luck. However, Igor is obsessed with studying the ‘adaptive arrays’ found within the constructs. He insists they’re the key to understanding how this new ‘Path’ works. I’m not sure, but he’s the expert.”

Sarah nodded and hopped down from her ‘bed,’ yawning as she approached.

“That makes sense. Arrays, as we know them, are… fragile… rigid. Arrays are instructions to the Celestial Energy. Once an array is built, it does that one thing and that one thing only. They can no more be changed once set than the words in a letter be changed after the ink has dried. You can give many instructions to an array, but you can’t change them. Half of being an Array Master is learning to predict every possibility and how to cram every scenario into your array.”

Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

She leaned over the table and tapped the active construct before continuing:

“But these? These can learn. They can be taught. They can think. That… is terrifying, in a way that’s hard to put into words. Can you imagine what could be done with such a construct?”

Lian Peng sighed. He could indeed. More than Lain Peng wished he had; his head still hurt after the several-hours-long rant Array Master Igor had subjected him to. Even as a scholar, arrays had always eluded Lian Peng. They were as much an art form as they were a discipline. That didn’t mean he couldn’t see the possibilities, though.

Arrays — and to a lesser extent, spellwork — had always suffered from the flaw of rigidity. Many Cultivators learned just enough about them to identify characteristics like type, triggers, or size, as that was often all you needed to name many common arrays. Once you could name an array, that was often all you needed to know everything about it. True Masters could hide the intent and nature of their arrays like a scribe encoding his work, but they were still the same at their core.

If he understood correctly, these new arrays — if they could even be called that, for they matched nothing any of them had ever seen — had the potential to be improved on. They could take in new information and new instructions, incorporating them into what was already there. It could potentially revolutionize array work by… well, they couldn’t say yet. ‘A lot’ was the consensus.

At least, that was what Lian Peng had been told. How Igor had come to his theory simply by watching the strange slimes and the cube for a few hours, he didn’t know. Though his teacher seemed to agree, he didn’t remember ever seeing her stay this focused on one topic for this long.

Lian Peng nodded to the girl, rubbed his tired eyes, and spoke.

“Array Master Igor made sure I was thoroughly informed. But we still don’t know how they work or how to ‘talk’ to them. The array language used, if that’s even what it is, is unlike anything we’ve ever seen. We’re working from almost zero, and—”

Lian Peng blinked as the notepad in his hand vanished. Said notepad smacked him on the head as he stared at the space it had once occupied. His teacher pushed him away from the table, her voice firm as she spoke.

“And nothing. You’ll only find the answers we need if you take a break and recharge. You’ve not stopped moving since we returned. Go, rest; Igor and the other scholars will be fine alone for a few hours.”

Lian Peng furrowed his brow and protested.

“But—”

Only for Sarah to cut him off.

“Butts are for smacking. Don’t think I’ve not noticed the damage to your [Divine Soul]. Ascension is stressful, let alone an ascension in the middle of combat. If you don’t take the time to rest, you’ll damage your Foundation.”

Lian Peng’s teacher poked him in his chest, her hand glowing a soft orange as an infinitely complex magic circle appeared in the air over her hand. Lian Peng’s body went limp, and a soothing warmth infused every cell of his body. Muscles he hadn’t even realized he’d been clenching suddenly turned to pudding. If the control of his [Divine Force] hadn’t taken a quantifiable leap with his ascension, he might have melted into a puddle then and there.

As it was, he stayed upright, if barely, as a bone-deep weariness overtook him. Teacher was right, of course; if he kept this up, he’d make a mistake, and they couldn’t afford mistakes—not now. Yet, there was still so much to do! He needed to—

Another poke from his teacher nearly threw him off his feet. With a deep sigh, Lian Peng gave in. He turned around and headed for the lab door, calling out to Sarah as he did.

“Fine! Fine… I’ll rest. But make sure Igor has an updated report for me when I wake!”

The Grand Magus just laughed and waved him on.

“Yes, yes, now go. Or do you want me to ask Xiàshuō if she’ll sing you to sleep?”

Lian Peng dashed out the door, chased all the way to his room by the echoing laughter of his teacher.

—————————————————————

Yaaaawwwnnn!!

Lian Peng awoke several days later. He was certain his teacher had something to do with that… He couldn’t deny the rest had done him good, though; his [Divine Soul] was mostly healed, thanks to his teacher’s spell, in part. Much of the tension and stress of the last few days had also left him, though he never forgot how important their work was.

Lian Peng turned a corner and stopped dead mid-yawn. Fairy Xiàshuō stood in the observation hallway, staring past the thin, corridor-long pane of Celestial glass into the dark void and lifeless moon surface beyond. The moonlight illuminating her flowing, floor-length silver hair and jade-like features stole the breath from his chest. She was art personified, beauty incarnate. She… was headed this way?!

Lost in her beauty, Lian Peng had failed to notice when she turned towards him. She was already halfway up the hallway when he snapped back to reality. He panicked, his mind flashing to the scene from the novel he’d recently started. No! He was a mess! He wasn’t ready for this! What did he do?!

Lian Peng hastily smoothed out his wrinkled robes, straightened his back, puffed out his chest, and tried to appear as regal as possible before walking in her direction. He stopped a few paces away and spoke, his head held high.

“Good morning, Lunar Queen Xiàshuō. I’m sorry I haven’t had the chance to attend to you. Things have been… hectic. How goes the defense?”

Xiàshuō looked up at him, a hand over her mouth to cover a giggle. The sound sent shivers up Lian Peng’s spine. When she reached up and smoothed down an errant hair that stuck from the side of his head like an unruly feather, his face flushed crimson red.

She paid Lian Peng’s embarrassment no mind and answered him. “It goes well, Lunar King Lian Peng. Despite the commotion your ‘guests’ have made, most of the inquiries have been polite enough. Those who were not have been… dealt with appropriately,” her voice ringing like a crystal bell in Lian Peng’s ears.

Lian Peng nodded, relieved. The Lunar Scouts might have been the strongest fish in the pond, but they were far from the biggest. As the only truly neutral force under the Grand Firmament, the Lunar Scouts had to show they weren’t ones to be pushed around by anyone, or they would quickly lose their authority.

If that ever happened, the Grand Firmament would likely erupt into chaos and war, as the various clans and sects all fought to fill the power vacuum.

Lian Peng looked out the observation window and nodded.

“Good. That’s good. I was worried they would push the issue, given we’ve yet to collect all the wreckage. No doubt some pieces have already fallen into other hands. Keep me informed if you would.”

Xiàshuō nodded as she answered him.

“I will, Lian Peng. If you keep me updated on any discoveries you make. Some of the artifacts my scouts have sent me are… strange, but fascinating.”

Xiàshuō pulled a small object from the sleeve of her robe. Lian Peng had no name for the material the object was made of, but when Xiàshuō gently squeezed it, it gave off a quiet ‘quack.’

They’d found an entire crate of the objects, and no one could figure out their purpose. One scholar had noted their vague, if childish, resemblance to a duck and proposed they might be a type of beast-taming charm. No one had an answer for why they were yellow or why each seemed to wear a completely unique hat. They were strangely popular among the female staff, though, and he’d noticed more than one desk with a fresh addition to their decorations. After all, there had been hundreds of the objects inside of the recovered crate.

Lian Peng nodded.

“Certainly. I will be off now. There is still much to be done.”

Lian Peng gathered his nerve and cleared his throat before continuing.

“Ahem. And Xiàshuō, I… I — hmmm. I was w-wondering if you’d like to join me for tea during our next break? I-its been too long…”

Xiàshuō leaned in and smiled, igniting fireworks in Lian Peng’s brain. She laughed as she spoke.

“Why, that would be lovely, Lian Peng. It has been a while since our last talk over tea. Have your people contact mine, and we’ll schedule a time. Oh! Though one more question, before I forget…”

Lian Peng grinned ear to ear, feeling 1,000 years younger and as light as if he floated in the Void. He answered without hesitation.

“Yes! Anything, Xiàshuō, what can I help you—GAUEK!”

Lian Peng was thrown against the hallway wall as a large, black dragon claw lifted him off his feet by his throat. The jade-faced woman to whom the claw belonged never dropped her bright smile, though as she spoke, all the warmth in her voice had vanished into the Void.

“Would you kindly explain to me why you have one of Great-Grandmother’s fragments swirling around your [Divine Soul]?”

Lian Peng pried at the scaled claw, desperately trying to suck in enough breath to speak.

“Wa—wait!”

HEEEEH!

“I—I can explain!”

Hrrrk!

Xiàshuō stared up at the man, the smile slipping from her face as she continued, no longer asking but commanding.

“Go on…”

It was then that Lian Peng remembered Xiàshuō hated the title of ‘Fairy’ that others put on her. She much preferred her moniker as Lunar Queen, Xiàshuō, the Final Eclipse.

Because if the Lunar Scout Martial Taskforce Director’s shadow of displeasure fell over your world, it would be the last thing you ever saw.