Cyril sighed as the vision in his mind’s eye dissolved into vague swirls of imagination.

As always, he could see no further than this initial meeting with Behemoth. It was some progress, at least, that he now recalled the circumstances leading up to his bond with the Titan of Earth. What revelations lay beyond that remained a mystery, perhaps locked behind his cultivation level. His first glimpse of this event had come during a breakthrough. No doubt the rest of it was restricted by the current level of his spirit. The truth was too much for his soul to bear, for now.

Silence reigned in his immediate area, though he could feel faint tremors throughout the half-ruins of Beljeza. Reconstruction had progressed quickly in the two weeks since he had returned to the subterranean city, accompanied by the survivors of the Wandering Phoenix Tribe and the drows that had attached themselves to his retinue.

Seeing how the Sect of Sacred Tears and the Runewardens had worked together to undermine his tribe’s hegemony in the desert, he had ultimately decided most of their pilgrimage should take place in the Underdark. The drows had proven invaluable for their dark journey below the world.

They had achieved a crushing victory against their enemies and their ultimate benefactor, the Cult of Leviathan. It had required a tremendous effort, and the ripples from the conflict would have spread throughout much of the world. Too much attention from external forces posed a major risk, especially without Elys’ presence. Not to mention that the Cult of Leviathan would redouble their efforts now that the Vessel of Behemoth had revealed himself. Their next assault would dwarf their attempt to dominate the Wandering Phoenix Tribe.

Cyril was all too aware that he was not powerful enough to take up Elys’ mantle and serve as the tribe’s Protector in her absence. Though he was also the Vessel of a Titan, the Phoenix was far more compatible with most of the cultivators from their tribe. As desert nomads, many of them had powerful affinities to Earth and relevant sub-Dominions, but the core of their power had always revolved around the Sun; Elys’ empowering aura had only led to a greater disparity between the strength of those affinities and the rest.

There was, of course, the reality that even at Peak Foundation, Cyril lacked the spiritual fortitude to compete with true monsters. His bond with Behemoth offered unlimited potential and access to a breathtaking array of powers, but those required an investment of time and resources to fully take advantage of.

A childish part of him wished his mother would wake up and take charge once more, but her intervention in the previous conflict had forced her back into secluded meditation. Without an immediate risk to the tribe, she would cripple her cultivation even more if she woke prematurely.

Cyril stood up, banishing these many doubts that had been plaguing through his thoughts the whole time. All around him, almost a hundred cultivators were still locked in their deep meditation atop the large slab of divine stone. It had been created by the Manifestation of Behemoth's Hand striking the earth, and its very presence helped impart earthly truths. Before departing their former territory, Cyril's first priority had been to retrieve the slab so they could transplant it into their temporary new home, the underground ruins of Beljeza.

It had not been a particularly easy feat to accomplish. The divine stone had collapsed all attempts at placing it into spiritual storage. In the end, they had to actually widen many of the narrow underground tunnels enough for them to physically carry it, like a legion of ants bearing a treasure back to their hive. Such a feat had taken up the bulk of their transport time, and led to quite a bit of mumbling from the drows regarding the desecration of their ancient tunnels.

It had proved more than worth the effort. Such a priceless artifact couldn’t fall into enemy hands, and even if most of his people focused on different Dominions, the transmuted platform served as a divine-tier meditation locus. As a subterranean species, the drows in particular had many Earth-centric cultivators; at least a quarter of those present were the white-haired cultivators in their tenebrous silk raiments.

While some of his tribesmen objected to a close alliance with such a mysterious and inscrutable people, Cyril had the final say on the matter. Not that their inclusion was a matter of pure benevolence on his part. They were paying handsomely for the privilege, on top of permitting his people to remain within their territory.

Princess Aleytha stirred from her position near him in the center of the divine platform. Her sharp eyes fluttered open, taking on their usual wicked light as they refocused. “Have you discovered anything new, Earth God?”

Most of the drows continued to refer to him with the epithet despite his insistence they use his proper name. To be honest, it was beginning to grow on him. He had asked her, as well as some of her people he had met in passing, the true meaning of the title. They insisted it was merely their way of referring to Behemoth, but there was a frustrating gleam in their eyes when they did so, as if they were playing a prank on him. Though they used the term with a sort of religious significance, there was an almost blasphemous amusement behind it that they refused to expand upon.

“No,” he said, his voice cold.

Aleytha’s face lit up at his terse response, a sort of bliss settling over it, as if she had just inhaled the fragrance of some beatific dark rose. Cyril had come to the vaguely uncomfortable realization that she took pleasure from his absent dismissal, just as much as she did when he flattered her. A truly deranged woman.

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He shot the alluring lunatic a second glance, but her eyes had already closed once again.

Cyril muttered something under his breath as he walked away, carefully navigating through the rows of meditating cultivators so as to not disturb their contemplations. Hands in the pockets of his enchanted trousers, he stepped down the upraised platform onto the level courtyard.

It had seemed appropriate at the time to place the divine stone in front of the palace, which had been designated as the new center of their territory.

They had also managed to erect the glass buildings that made up the old central compound of their operations. Like Loras’ Pagoda, they could be compressed and transported in accordance with the tribe’s nomadic nature. In normal circumstances, if the buildings weren’t deployed, his mother would wear them as her prized jewelry collection. With her permission, there hadn’t been much of an issue relocating the buildings.

Of course, they had to demolish some of the surrounding ruins to make room. And the academy where he had absorbed Behemoth’s Fragment was still missing large chunks, despite his efforts to repair it in the rare times he had time and energy to spare. The prismatic array of glass towers looked sorely out of place, even though most of the immediate surroundings had already been rebuilt as part of their efforts.

Most prominent of them was the Obsidian Prison, now fused with Loras’ Pagoda to allow for the influx of new prisoners in the aftermath of the conflict. Loras, unsurprisingly, had recommended executing all of the useless captives and ransoming some of the others. More than a few people, especially those that had lost loved ones in the battle, agreed with his assessment.

Cyril knew they saw it as weakness on his part to harbor these enemy cultivators during a time of war. Especially after seeing all the corpses, after all the funerals, he felt no real mercy toward any of them, even if the majority were fellow natives of the desert. So far, they had been interrogating the captives in order to divine information regarding the Cult of Leviathan, but sooner or later, he would have to make a choice.

Damn, I hate politics. Cyril sighed again as he looked upwards.

Tyrin’s dragon spirit, the celestial ifrit known as Ragnus, dangled from the ceiling of the cavern like some radiant batgod. It was cocooned within its majestic wings, scaled head poking out and blazing with pure Sun qi. Ragnus’ presence illuminated most of the cavern like a false sun, bathing the world in mystical light and shadow.

Since the death of its former partner, it had mostly remained there, emitting an aura of mourning and distress. It had only shifted during the official funeral they had held in Tyrin’s honor, the proceedings mirrored and warped within the depths of its gemstone eyes.

Cyril cracked his neck and steeled his resolve. He had already expended his daily allowance of angst. Now that his morning meditation session was over, there was more work to be done.

He snapped his fingers and a flagon of Agaveglow Elixir appeared in his hand, retrieved from the stock of the drows' favorite concoction he had stored within his jade spatial ring. A sip of the potent draught set his mouth ablaze, the intentional toxins that supposedly strengthened one’s constitution attempting to penetrate through his mucus membranes. He swished it about, ignoring the vile taste, before swallowing.

It was possible the toxic properties of the elixir did help, and also equally possible that it was some weird prank from the drows. Either way, his Self-Forming Paragon Body had quickly built up a resistance to the brew. Some of the toxins settled around his stomach, only to be burned away with a flex of Purification qi.

As Cyril walked towards the exit of the palace courtyard, a row of guards bowed at him. He lifted the flagon in cheery acknowledgement and took another sip. Once the foul properties had been extinguished, the effect was quite electrifying. As it digested, the energy within was redirected to his mental channels, and brought with it a cleansing sharpness on his thoughts. The artificial stimulation was actually detrimental toward settling himself for his morning meditation session, but optimal for dealing with the busy day ahead.

At the gate, the head guard on duty, a middle-aged Nascent Soul Cultivator named Elyrian, saluted Cyril. Despite his perfect martial posture and crisp gesture, his tone was casual. He’d known the prince since Cyril was a feisty little whelp. “Would you like some company?”

“No, thank you,” Cyril responded with genuine warmth. He offered the flagon toward Elyrian, who waved it away with a distressed grimace. “We have to make some preparations for the incoming drow delegation from the Queen. The city is still in shambles. Going to help repair some of the storage buildings. I think I’ll go to the Library beforehand. Actually, you want to come with?”

Elyrian squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. “Please, no. I can’t stand Barnabas and his weird little harem of imps. They just stare at me the whole time whenever I try to read anything there.”

“They grow on you,” Cyril said in a tone that indicated he knew how unconvincing such a reassurance could be.

Elyrian laughed and waved him along. With another tip of the flagon, Cyril departed, taking to the streets. In the immediate vicinity, the flagstones had been repaired and swept, though the illusion of a proper city soon vanished if one started heading down the side streets and alleyways.

As he headed toward the library, Cyril took in the people--his people--lining the streets. Not enough homes had been fully restored to house all of them. Men gambled and drank in the streets with blank expressions on their face, scarred from the war, while others worked on repairing the dilapidated buildings around them. Women cooked at communal pots, knitted clothing, gossiped, or joined in the construction efforts--a few even shamelessly gambled with the roughnecks, forcing Cyril to smile. Children fought with wooden swords or attempted to conjure more sparks of flame than their peers, shouting in delight or dismay. Despite the dreary, foreign atmosphere, it was life. Their people knew how to prosper anywhere, like flowers growing out of the cobblestone cracks.

Lost in observing people, Cyril hardly noticed when Elyrian ran up behind him. He turned to regard the man once the seismic tremors of his footsteps became too obvious to ignore.

“Yes?” he asked.

“Lord Asher has returned!” Elyrian said, arms spread wide. “He’s at the gates of the city, with news of your sister!”