As soon as they left the bathhouses, signs of revelry began to sound from every corner. In the distance, drums and harps and lyres combined into a frenzied symphony. Loud voices spoke of bravado and excitement for the festivities to come, as it was well known within the Wandering Phoenix tribe that when Uncle Asher threw a feast, the situation always ended up a touch rowdy.

Though Cyril found the spiritual wines he’d been gifted delightful, they weren’t strong enough to overcome his body naturally breaking down the toxins that would allow him to become properly inebriated. Perhaps it was for the best, especially since the swill within his tribe seemed intentionally brewed to be as offensive as possible. He’d never understood those who delighted in making their drink taste like more of a witch’s brew than a proper delight.

He wondered absently how Behemoth was enjoying the sensation of being pleasantly tipsy. His mind felt divided, both clear and partially obscured by a warm haze at the same time. Perhaps it wasn’t particularly interested in the novel sensation, but he wasn’t sure about that. While he had often thought of Behemoth as slow and ponderous, in reality, it was an unfathomably vast mind. Attempting to understand it in his current state was like an insect attempting to understand a human’s speech--too loud and complex to be understood as communication.

Despite his conflicted mind, the music and the excited voices of those around them elevated his Heart in an excited tempo, pouring qi into his spirit. Now that he had further refined his core, the flow of energy felt different through his channels. Less fluid, and more like a sandstorm flowing through his body. It was a strange sensation that he was still adjusting to after his recent breakthrough.

As far as he understood it, one’s perception of their spirit shifted and became more personalized the further they advanced. Much of it was a visualization process to aid his mind, based on spiritual connections between his inner meridians. His channels and qi circulation were real, as much as such a thing could be defined, but his mental perception of them greatly filtered his understanding.

Also, the more he interacted with the world, the more certain he was that he had grown several inches taller. He had never felt so robust, as if he radiated an aura of physicality. Fortunately, the clothing he wore had a limited ability to adjust its dimensions, but he had definitely grown a few sizes compared to his former self. The seams were stretching a bit thin, though the superior craftsmanship held it together. Lanazael had told him that he would begin to reflect Behemoth’s true nature more and more as he advanced, though fortunately he could still squeeze himself through doorways. The world of cultivators had more than a few giants roaming about.

As they entered the central courtyards, Cyril found his attention pulled back to the world around them.

The air blazed with all manner of elaborate techniques: whirling firestorms, a menagerie of flame elementals of all shapes and sizes, an overabundance of swooping phoenixes, and the like. Fortunately, the only people authorized to create such lightshows were capable of nullifying their intensity, but as festivities raged on, inevitably some people would lose control. The healers always lamented feasts.

Professionals and amateurs alike wailed away on various musical instruments like their lives depended on it. As they walked, Loras played a little tune that harmonized with the fervor of the crowd. Despite its melancholic undertones, it was strangely uplifting. Random passers-by cheered and hollered their appreciation, though their voices were understandably a bit muted.

Unsurprisingly, they gathered quite a bit of attention for themselves from the hundreds of folk out and about. Night was beginning to fall in earnest, battling against his tribe’s best efforts to keep the heavens illuminated; knowing his people, rumors had already circulated throughout the entire encampment. Fortunately, bizarre sights and odd cultivators had always been normal among the Wandering Phoenix Tribe, so most people limited their stares and gossip until they were long past.

Despite his misgivings regarding Loras’ rather cavalier assessment of human life, Cyril had to admit he had some appreciation for him. He wanted to like the suit of armor, and perhaps that was clouding his judgment.

Getting into the spirit of things, Cyril offered a flagon of wine to Loras. “Try some. It’s tiresome trying to drink through a mask.”

The metallic cultivator sniffed, an extremely intentional expression. “No, thank you. I would leak out of my sabatons all night.”

Cyril halted in place for a moment, stunned. That must have been a joke, right?

Shaking his head, he continued on.

They found Elys and Uncle Asher in a makeshift dining area that had been set up outside of the Celestial Hall, a platoon of guards maintaining a strict perimeter around them.

Nostalgia hit him for a moment, and he remembered simpler times, when they would dine without such restrictions, mingling with other folk.

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As good as the food was, some of the outer parts of the territory served even better fare. He still dreamed about one particular meat stew sometimes. The old man who made it was probably in his usual spot at that very moment. Paying him a visit sounded alarmingly tempting. Though the Wandering Phoenix Tribe uprooted itself on a regular basis, they usually stuck to the same layout.

After seeing the zealous looks on the faces of some of the folk lingering around the perimeter, desperate for a glimpse of the Phoenix, Cyril couldn’t blame his sister for keeping the gathering isolated. Elys had never known how to take a compliment gracefully. Being idolized as a deity must have been a nightmare for her.

The guards waved Cyril and Loras through without hassle. Cyril took another swig of his half-empty spirit wine as soon as he saw the other guests at the table. Most of them were unfamiliar faces, likely because anyone too familiar with him may have picked up on his mannerisms and voice despite the alterations to his appearance. However, one among them, seated next to the two most-honored guests, was his elder brother, Tyrin.

Out of his seven siblings, Cyril was one of the youngest. Most of the others had moved on elsewhere or had taken to adventuring about the world, returning every so often whenever homesickness struck.

Tyrin had been closest to him in age, along with Elys, but they had ended up having little in common in life. His brother had taken after their mother more, prone to brooding and introversion. Too serious, Cyril had always thought. But now, he was glad to see him, even though he still had his misgivings. Qualities that made for a distant sibling could also make someone a reliable ally.

His spirit appeared to be in Middle Nascent Soul now, and his sharp face had turned fox-like, granting him a bit of a scheming appearance. Beneath his ornate ceremonial robes, his physique was lean, networks of veins ridging his forearms and the backs of his hands. Sitting in the midst of the revelry, he looked like he would rather be anywhere else. It didn’t help that Uncle Asher was in the middle of drunkenly recounting some grandiose adventure, sloshing wine all over his already-soaked tunic.

The calculating look in Tyrin’s eyes made him wonder if Elys had informed him about their true identities. He did tend to look at everyone like that, after all.

Loras and Cyril settled into a pair of empty seats beside Tyrin--a position for honored guests, close to the highest-ranking members of the present family, but not prominent enough to raise many eyebrows. After a moment of hesitation, Cyril took the seat closest to his brother, almost jostling elbows with him.

Steaming food had been piled high upon the table, more than rivaling the questionable origin of the what the gardener-djinn had provided him in the Beljezan palace. Slabs of heavily spiced meat, charred to perfection and marbled with rich fats; bread slathered in honey and fig jam; piles of roasted vegetables. A huge pot in the center held enough rice to feed a small family for a month, even after it had been dug into.

Uncle Asher finally noticed their appearance. He offered an unsteady bow before taking his seat. The awkward wink he shot Cyril couldn’t have been missed by anyone at the table.

“Glad you were able to join us,” said Tyrin in his low voice, raising his goblet of spiritual wine in greeting.

The acknowledgement essentially guaranteed that his brother knew who Cyril was. He doubted Tyrin would have offered the first word of a conversation to anyone else even if a new Titan Vessel had shown up.

“The hospitality of the Wandering Phoenix Tribe is legendary,” said Cyril. Once the scattered cheers throughout the table died down, he continued, “It’s an honor to be here among everyone. Now, let’s eat.”

More cheers followed, along with Uncle Asher roaring. Cyril needed to figure out what the giant had been drinking to overcome his resistances. He could only imagine what a foul concoction it must have been. He was feeling desperately in need of a night of relaxation, enough that it was possible to persuade him to join Asher in the fuzzy world of the helplessly intoxicated.

Cyril heaped his plate with food, taking more than his share of meat. Down in Beljeza, he had mostly subsisted off fruits and dried nuts, avoiding the monster flesh on display. Eating with a mask was even more annoying than drinking. Tyrin stared at him as if a goat had wandered into their gathering.

“Have you noticed,” said Tyrin, eyeing Cyril sidelong, “that the unnatural Darkness on the horizon is gone? I believe it disappeared a few hours ago. Many curious events have been occurring in the region recently.”

“That’s poor dinner talk,” said Cyril. After a few bites of food, he found his mood considerably improved, and the topic was interesting enough to force him to respond. “Hopefully whoever it was isn’t in a bad mood. You can probably hear Asher laughing for a hundred miles in every direction. They might get curious.”

His comment elicited a few laughs from nearby listeners, though he noted a few of them were staring at him intently. Cultivators who had lived long lives were hard to fool. He had been away for a long time, but all of the dozen or so people at the table were on the level of a sect elder. Some of them would have had their suspicions even if it had been almost a century since they had last met.

Tyrin lapsed back into his usual silence. Cyril was happy enough to shovel food into his mouth, even heaping up a second plate with choice morsels from the nearby platters. He washed it down with an elixir from his storage ring; it had a pleasant fruity flavor, and he vaguely remembered it was supposed to improve one’s mind-spirit connection.

To his surprise, Loras was engaging in a conversation with his neighbor--a slender woman whose white hair floated about her head like a fire. She appeared to be discussing body cultivation, since she was one of the few people within the tribe who focused on that path. The ethereal nature of Fire and its related concepts made it difficult to embody them in a physical manner.

All too soon, a commotion broke out nearby. Several guards rushed over, and at the sight of them, the nearby musicians stopped their playing. Conversations died off as one of them began to whisper into Elys’ ear.

Once the communication was finished, Elys nodded and stood up. “I’m informed that we have some visitors from the Sect of Sacred Tears. They are upset over recent matters related to their elder, Lady Firouza, and a related assault on one of their main outposts. Come, then--let’s show them a desert greeting.”