Cyril opened his eyes groggily. The impact must have knocked him unconscious, he realized, though he had remained on his knees. Most of his body was covered in a layer of sand; grit filled his mouth and had managed to somehow sneak into his tunic despite its enchantments. It didn’t bother him like it may have, once. His old persona as a fickle prince had been enjoyable, but he was in the process of becoming more. The Earth God.

He reflected on the fragments of understanding that remained within him. Hints of various divine secrets had flitted through his consciousness before and during the summoning of Behemoth’s hand of judgment. The manifestation had required throwing off some of the limitations of his soul, and peeking behind the barrier between him and the entirety of his spirit to glimpse a few fundamental truths. Now, he remembered only the shadows, and they filled him with a sense of..unease.

There were aspects to the cosmos that scarred the minds of Foundation Stage cultivators just to glimpse upon. His spirit had been resilient enough to absorb the damage due to his unique circumstances. Well, that didn’t seem to quite be the truth. Most of his body, spirit, and perhaps even his mind had taken catastrophic damage while manifesting Behemoth’s hand, only to repair it almost immediately. He had shattered and reformed, stronger than before.

Though he felt completely drained, Cyril felt more or less intact. His alloy hand felt like a phantom limb, reminding him of when it had first been dismembered. It was an eerie sensation, to know that part of him was missing, especially when he could look down at it and see that it was still there.

In fact, the lower arm appeared to have undergone another stage of refinement; it was shot through with thin, prismatic lines like quartz veins, mostly in earthen hues, with the rare purple or blue or red. Perhaps it was that it looked less human than ever, and so his mind had difficulty reconciling it as part of his organic form.

Most likely the effect of it acting as a conduit for Behemoth’s true hand, and all of the various Dominions contained within its irresistible grasp. Whatever change it had wrought on him warranted experimentation, as did the general tempering that his soul seemed to have undergone from the experience.

It didn’t seem like a drastic leap in strength, though a glimpse at the passive resistances granted from his Constitution displayed a slew of new entries, such as Force at 6%, Mental at 5%, and several others. His resistances to his own innate Dominions--Sun, Knowledge, Earth, Gravity, and Mass had also increased across the board.

Enough time had passed for his core to refill only a trickle, so he couldn't have been unconscious for long He couldn’t quite tell how fast his qi regeneration was. It had certainly progressed compared to before, but felt more sluggish than it had at the height of combat. Most of the elixirs and pills must have started to wear off as well.

It all warranted additional experimentation, but he had other concerns that needed addressing. He doubted any of the surviving enemies would be in the mood to put up much of a fight after this, leading to a decisive victory for his people. But with Elys teleported elsewhere and Tyrin and Loras nowhere to be seen, it felt like a hollow triumph.

Cyril stood up and looked around. A light sandstorm drifted about, obscuring much of his vision. He had half-expected to see Behemoth’s hand still planted into the ground, like some colossal meteor that had burrowed into the world. The scale of destruction was less than he expected--no fractured earth, no giant crater.

The devastation was almost solely localized to the location where the Cerulean Scales had once been standing. With Behemoth’s effortless ability to manipulate its own size, it was likely that the hand, after its dramatic entrance, had crystallized all of its force into a direct blow. Widespread annihilation would have likely killed Cyril himself, as well as anyone who hadn’t fled the area.

The impact site had completely flattened out, and the surrounding earth had all transmuted into a thin crust of divine stone. No trace of the Cerulean Guards remained. Not even a wisp of foreign qi. It had either been obliterated from existence, or perhaps their remnants had been transmuted from organic material and armor to stone. An absent part of his mind realized that this killing field was most likely a priceless natural treasure--a flat stretch of land no larger than an arena, more valuable than entire countries.

He approached the killing field, his senses spread wide in order to detect any sign of his brother or Loras. The sandstorm swirled in distracting eddies around him, resonating with his rotational comprehension of Gravity. A spiritual sandstorm, he thought with dim amusement. Just the aftershock of Behemoth’s presence contained universal truths.

The stretch of divine stone was smooth, flawless. Cyril knelt at the border between mundane sand and divine stone and touched the ground with an alloy finger. To his slight surprise, the material appeared on his Transmute list as [ Divine Stone (Grade-?) ]. He hadn’t expected it to actually be available to him. Still, it probably required far more qi than Cyril was capable of putting out in a regular situation.

He doubted he would be able to repeat the manifestation of Behemoth’s body at will, either. The phantom sensation of his hand made him wonder if the spirit had sacrificed part of itself to surpass the Vessel’s limitations. Had Behemoth, too, lost a hand?

Technically, it wasn’t possible. Despite having material forms, the Titans were still spirits in the end. They formed physical constructs to interact with the world, but they were not fully bound to them. If that had been the case, he would have never been able to cram all of Behemoth into his soul.

Still, perhaps it had lost its constructed hand, the one it had worn for countless eons. As if it was mirroring the loss of his own limb. If so, he pledged to rebuild it, stronger than before. The promise, like the rest of him, felt a bit hollow.

Cyril sighed and cast Flicker, focusing on providing light more than heat. His shadow stretched behind him, long and hazy under the sandstorm veil. “Come on out, Princess Aleytha.”

After a moment’s pause, the drow princess and her Spirit Guardian stepped out of his shadow. Accompanying the motion was an interesting blur against his senses, as if space had distorted around them in a way his mind wasn’t quite able to perceive. Like a man who had lost most of his vision, and could only make out smeared shapes.

He had never seen anything like it before, and suspected it was a new aspect of his spiritual sense that had developed. The subtle hints of Celestial or Space qi, perhaps? Most likely the latter, since he doubted the drows had much of a connection to the heavenly planes. As far as he knew, the Dominions of Earth were the diametric opposite of the Heavens as well.

That meant he was most likely glimpsing the most basic aspects of Space, a physical force said to exist within all the planes. Gravity and Mass could be considered lesser subsets of this higher-tier Dominion. He suspected witnessing Behemoth’s hand manifesting from some ethereal realm had imparted the seed of knowledge onto him. Possibly onto everyone who had witnessed the event--those that hadn’t been transmuted into a field of priceless stone, at least.

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Interesting. Cyril almost bothered to ask them if they were using Space and Shadow qi, then he shook his head and stood up. His mind, heightened by the elixirs and adrenaline, was still caught in a constant, deep analysis beyond what he should have been able to handle. He was so exhausted he could barely stand, but he remained on his feet anyways. It would have been even more of a struggle if he had to get back up after falling down.

“You look like you had a bit of a revelation there,” said the Spirit Guardian, Soren. Most of the slightly sinister cheer had left him. Cyril didn’t respond, so he changed the subject. “You really are the Earth God, aren’t you? Crushed that entire army like swatting a bug.”

Cyril still remained silent, unable to stop the constant churning of thoughts in his mind. He couldn’t stop thinking of the mistakes he had made along the way. What could he have done better?

“I’m sorry for your loss,” said Aleytha, with a note of sincerity in her voice.

Cyril took a moment to consider her words. “My brother is dead, then?”

She nodded somberly, then tilted her head to the southeast. She and her Spirit Guardian turned and ran in that direction; after a moment’s hesitation, Cyril followed them. He cast a few additional Flickers, sending them about into the depths of the sandstorm to hunt for signs of any other survivors in the area.

Soren glanced back at Cyril over his shoulder, noting that he was able to keep up with their brutal pace. “You have exceeded all expectations. As far as I can tell, that entire army was wiped from existence. No death energy remained. No spirits emerged. You still seem to have leapt up to another realm. What are you now?”

Cyril knew without glancing at his soul. “Peak Foundation Stage.”

He didn’t bother to add that he suspected he could break through at any point. At the moment, he saw no point to brute forcing his way to the next realm. Behemoth offered about as solid a foundation as possible, but Cyril was not exactly the same entity. Those differences, the results and consequences of his actions, would shape the development of his Destiny. His path warranted more consideration than forging ahead blindly.

While witnessing Behemoth’s Hand was responsible for some of his sudden ascension from Early Foundation to Peak, he knew that was only part of it. Behemoth must have gathered up all of the spiritual energy within the area and absorbed it back into itself, likely to replenish some of the loss from Manifesting. Cyril had once again acted as a conduit, this time with two hundred spirits worth of energy rushing through his body. No wonder he had fallen unconscious.

The profits of war. It seemed morbid, but that was the path that cultivators walked. They bonded with spirits and defied natural law and the heavens, seeking to ascend beyond their mundane destinies. Many of them sought to do so at any cost, and countless innocents died to pave the road to eternity.

After another minute, Soren and Aleytha came to a halt. Cyril fell in beside them, and immediately noticed why he had been led here. A dragon spirit wrought from solar intensity hovered in the dark sky, about twenty paces off the ground. It bore no resemblance to the overgrown wyrms sometimes associated with dragons. This was a noble, regal creature, radiating the strength of a celestial ifrit.

“Tyrin’s spirit,” Cyril muttered to himself.

He had retained some hope that his brother had survived under Loras’ protection, but the sight of his bonded partner made the reality sink in.

“He died bravely,” said Aleytha.

That seemed like the wrong thing to say. It had been a pointless death. He couldn’t blame Tyrin, who had been rushing blindly to try and save their sister. Well, he probably didn’t believe he could save Elys, but he wanted to be by her side and face whatever was coming with her. It wasn’t too surprising.

When they were little, Cyril and Tyrin had escaped their attendants to explore the edge of their tribe’s territory. An ambitious wyrmling sensed easy prey and attacked them. Not stupid enough to face the monster on their own, they had chosen to flee. Tyrin, several years older than him, had outpaced Cyril significantly. Realizing he had left his brother behind, Tyrin had turned around and headed back into danger.

In the end, the defensive arrays had alarmed the tribe about the monster’s presence and a warrior had made short work of the wyrm. Both of them had received an awful scolding from their parents. At the time, Cyril had been so confused about why Tyrin would turn around and risk himself, but it had made him love his older brother even more.

Cyril sniffed and rubbed his nose at the memory. The celestial dragon turned to face him, its face flickering with the same deep, quiet grief that he felt. Under its watchful gaze, Cyril stepped forward, curious why it remained hovering in place. At least it wasn’t lashing out after its partner's death, like Lanazael had with Anadei.

Directly beneath the dragon, Cyril found a black-and-white helmet buried beneath the sand. Loras’ head, his band-like hair clamped down around it in protection. Frost and force had left marks and dents in the reinforced metal, but it was mostly intact. An ember of spiritual ember burned within it still. It was weak, but it was there.

Abandoning most of his humanity had allowed Loras to survive in the end. Such was the way of cultivation.

Cyril understood that his brother’s spirit partner had remained here so that someone could locate Loras. The man had attempted to save his brother and had almost lost his own life. Cyril thought that it seemed like a bit of an unusual action for Loras, then he smiled softly and shook his head.

Fondness for his mentor flooded through him, fighting against his angst and grief. Loras was a sharp and brutal figure, but there was a harsh nobility to him. Cyril was glad to see he had survived.

The celestial dragon looked away, apparently satisfied now that Loras’ head had been discovered. Before it could fly away, Cyril called out to it:

“Will you continue Tyrin’s legacy?” he asked. “Will you continue to protect the people of the Wandering Phoenix Tribe? Help me take revenge against the true culprits behind this assault, and those who stole my sister away."

The dragon paused its wings midbeat and turned back to him. Its voice gleamed, at once soft and potent. “If you seek Phoenix, then I shall join in your efforts. Revenge means nothing, only more death. Tyrin is gone. His soul passes through the Cycle of Samsara.”

There was no guilt implied, or even a sense of anger. The spirit considered such things beneath it, apparently. Cyril wished he could be the same.

Cyril remained there in silence for some time, holding Loras’ inert head between his hands. He trickled a bit of Earth qi into the head. It absorbed just a wisp before rejecting the rest, but it was enough to strengthen the glow of the ember within.

While he was standing there, a wisp of foreign Knowledge qi slipped into his mind. Recognizing a trace of Phoenix’s qi signature, he accepted the message, and his sister’s voice began to speak to him:

As I’m sure you know at this point, their intention was to teleport me into their territory. They didn’t realize that this will be a very bad idea for them. However, I’m a bit embarrassed to admit that it’s going to be pretty annoying to be stuck two thousand miles away from all my allies, probably much weaker than I am now.

Don’t worry about me too much, little brother. Undying immortal and all that. What can they do, really? I’ll probably make my own way back, but it’ll be nice to see a friendly face or two in the meantime. Take a while to grow stronger before you come rampaging halfway across the word. But not too long. We have an empire to burn down.

His sister’s arrogance somehow managed to cheer him up. The message dissipated from hs mind’s eyes, but he memorized the contents.

She was right that he couldn’t just walk into Oceanhold in his current condition. In the meantime, he doubted that the Wandering Phoenix Tribe could continue to occupy these lands. A secondary force may be sent out, and such a terrible conflict would draw a great deal of unwanted attention.

It was time for them to return to their nomadic roots.

“You’re an Underdark Princess, right?” Cyril said to Aleytha, a bit of his usual warmth back in his voice.

Her eyes narrowed. She nodded.

“Mind if I ask for another gift?” Cyril crossed his arms. “There’s a perfect abandoned city some distance from here…”