Cyril leaned close to the strange door, resting the tips of his fingers against the metal. A small jolt startled him and he jerked his hand back. The sensation was more startling than painful. A warning? A test? A harmless electrical charge that had randomly built up over millennia?

Eyeing the door with suspicion, he crouched and inspected its base. It appeared to have fused with the cavern, rusted metal blending seamlessly into the stone.

Cyril’s jaw worked side to side as he considered his options. If he wanted to follow the marble of smoke’s guidance, he would have to either go through the door or the wall itself.

Outside of its inherent mystery, the door didn’t look particularly interesting. No trace of spirituality flickered in its depths. The dappling of rust looked natural, as far as Cyril could tell. The desert contained little iron for him to compare it to, but he was not completely unfamiliar with the material; his grandmother’s spear was proudly displayed in his family’s home, and its head looked near-identical to the door.

There was an easy method to investigate the material without much risk. It had the additional benefit of allowing him to experiment with his new Cantrip, Transmute.

He examined the imprint it left on his soul once more, making sure he had properly memorized the handsigns and channeling method to draw out its full potential. Satisfied, he roused his core, earth qi blooming throughout his body and gathering in his hands.

Touching the door had fulfilled the requirements for the material to be added into his list of possible transmutation options.

Transmute (I):

Dirt (base)

Stone (base)

Rusted Iron (?)

He had to suppress his disappointment that the Cantrip didn’t work retroactively. At some point or another he had touched many of the legendary weapons that passed through his tribe. He smiled at the thought of creating a fountain of lovely gemstones. Diamond in particular seemed useful, capable of slicing through some of the toughest monster hides with ease. More importantly, most of his family adored ostentatious jewelry, particularly his mother.

Depending on the scope of the ability, it may be able to replicate anything from ancient spiritual herbs to pure mercury. The Dominion of Earth could technically encompass almost any resource that naturally occurred within a landmass.

Cyril indulged in another brief daydream about conjuring an endless hoard of riches before returning his focus to the wall.

The energy in his channels felt sluggish as he strained to follow the proper rhythm for the Transmute Cantrip. He had to split his attention, allowing his qi to flow in contradictory rhythms until they settled into the perfect confluence. After a minute of failure, miniscule cracks began to form along the delicate pathways in his hands.

He cursed to himself. Behemoth’s presence solidified his soul and had doubtless reforged his body into a more suitable vessel, but like the Half-Ascended Wyrm, he too had his limits. No one else he had heard of was capable of handling so much raw energy at Early Condensation without permanently damaging their core and pathways.

You’re not invincible, he reminded himself.

While his circulation of the Cantrip was not perfect, it was good enough. Even if it wasn’t, he couldn’t allow his qi to strain his channels for too long. He released Transmute into the wall, willing a patch of the stone to convert into Rusted Iron (?).

Nothing happened. A small vortex of energy flooded out of his hands, and the wall greedily absorbed all of it. The stone remained completely inert as more and more drained out of his near-empty core, feeding the insatiable beast of the wall. While Cyril didn’t want to fully deplete his energy in this unknown place, he was transfixed by the sheer inefficiency of the transmutation.

Finally, just before his core ran dry, the faintest gleam of metal appeared beneath his finger. A single speck of the iron.

Laughing at the absurdity of it, Cyril caressed the spot of metal with his thumb. He applied a little pressure. The feeble iron refused to budge. He increased the force behind his thumb until his full strength was behind it. Cracks appeared in the surrounding stone, but the fleck of iron held fast. Cyril stopped exerting pressure, concerned he might somehow collapse the tunnel around himself if he kept it up.

After the initial disappointment, he had to admit he was satisfied. Low-quality iron would have crumbled to powder under the amount of stress he had exerted.

He settled back into the lotus position to meditate. While he loathed delaying his pursuit of the Wyrm, he needed to replenish his core before exploring uncharted territory. For the next thirty minutes he forced himself to remain in place, resisting the urge to continue along before his energy had been completely restored.

His immediate thoughts turned toward the rusted iron door. It was definitely something beyond his current senses. He wasn’t qualified to grade materials, but he would have bet it was well up there. Outside of the small shock it had given him, it didn’t seem too threatening. The greater concern was what it led to.

Without much information to build off of, his mind wandered over to his recent battles. He analyzed his actions as best as possible, pondering how to make his fighting style more efficient. Much of it was brute force through overwhelming displays of qi. Satisfying, but he would suffer in longer engagements. To patch up this weakness, he needed to either advance his core to improve its overall quality and capacity, or develop greater mastery over his combat skills. Preferably both.

Once his core was once more overflowing, Cyril exhaled deeply and stood up, facing the door.

No more stalling, he thought.

He grabbed its simple handle with as much respect and friendliness as anyone could reasonably imbue into the gesture. It was warm and coarse with rust. The door slid open at the faintest touch, its hinges creaking.

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Cyril sent his Flicker inside and amplified its light output. Beyond was a room that looked as if it had once been used as a long-term campsite. It was spacious enough for one person to live comfortably, provided they didn’t go insane from the solitude.

A small broken shrine had been erected in the center of the room; over time it had collapsed in on itself and the effigy of its god had shattered into an unrecognizable mess. Off to the side, a pile of tattered cloth and rotten wood was most likely a former cot. About thirty paces away, on the opposite side of the wall, an identical door led to the only other exit.

He had to admit his curiosity had been sparked. Had the Wyrm actually traveled this way? He glanced at the marble of smoke, eyes narrowing, curious if the woman-ifrit had snuck a sliver of consciousness into the tracking spell. Was she misleading him? What would be the point? She could have killed him back at the temple.

Though he disliked it, the thought spawned a seed of doubt in his heart.

Frowning, he walked into the ascetic campsite and looked around. Up close, he could confirm that the walls and ceiling of the room were made of the same iron as the door. Less rust marred the surface, though splotches appeared here and there.

Impressive. How far had the creator of this area ascended, to fashion a temporary hideout out of such a costly material? It was possible the person had been deeply attuned to the specific metal, but even if that was the case, they must have been a near-mythical practitioner of the Dominion of Earth, renowned throughout the desert in their time.

Cyril circled around the room. In one corner he found a few bronze scales scattered near a charred ring on the floor. The spot where the prior occupant had cooked and eaten his meals, undoubtedly including roasted sandwyrm. Cyril’s stomach grumbled, and he became acutely aware of how close to starving he was. The magical power suffusing his body masked most of the symptoms, but now that he was aware of it, it was impossible to ignore the pit of hunger in his gut. After having charred a few of the monsters himself and finding the scent disturbingly appetizing, he found it difficult to judge the stranger.

He was not that desperate. At least, not yet.

The rest of the room was barren. It reminded him of a basic cultivation cave, stripped of most of its treasures and foci. Easy to imagine the prior occupant hunting down wyrms or other monsters all day, then retreating to this area to rest and meditate for the night.

They had definitely been another Earth-attuned person who had come down here long after Beljeza had fallen into the depths. It was impossible to tell what other affinities the person had cultivated, the evidence long ago dissipated under the grinding pressure of the earth. Darkness was the only other major element present this far underground. Earth/Dark was not the most typical synergy, but it was no more bizarre than the innate combination of Sun/Knowledge.

Maybe they had been an opportunistic explorer, plundering the lost city. For relic hunters, the desert was almost lucrative as the ocean, as long as one was able to withstand the harsh environments.

Cyril shook his head. The mystery was somewhat interesting, but irrelevant. He made a mental note to look into whoever this person may have been. Though the room looked like it had been abandoned for hundreds, if not thousands, of years, they may very well still be around if they had advanced to the Latent Soul stage.

Before he left, he decided to touch everything in the room to see if the Transmute Cantrip could learn any new materials. The rotting cloth from the cot provided nothing, but Cyril’s eyes lit up when Rotten Wood (?) appeared on the list. He shifted through the remnants of the bed and found nothing new.

The old scales near the scorch mark offered nothing, as expected. He did end up depositing them into his coinpurse after discovering they resisted his attempts to bend or scratch them. They were at least on the level of the constructed Earth materials, meaning the person had harvested them from an sandwyrm stronger than his own nemesis. And the prior occupant had apparently eaten that one for dinner.

A disturbing thought, on multiple levels. This wyrmhorde must have once been far more troublesome back then. It had been culled down near to nothing, and the current infestation had sprouted from one of the survivors. The other disturbing part was the violation of taboo, though sensibilities may have been very different back then. To his people, the idea of consuming an Ascended, sapient creature was akin to cannibalism. Killing them was fine under some circumstances; eating them was not.

The final task in the room was sifting through the collapsed shrine. Hands clasped together, he offered a silent prayer, asking for forgiveness for desecrating the site. Then he carefully deconstructed the pile, trying his best not to break it any further. The pieces looked like they were made from marble, but nothing new popped up along his Transmute list as he handled them.

Cyril muttered a much longer prayer this time, offering his justifications and assuring the unknown deity his intentions were pure. Then, he took the tiniest shard he could find and deposited it into his coinpurse.

Like the prior occupant, the spirit the shrine was dedicated to had properly left the material plane long ago. If not, it probably wasn’t overly concerned about this particular site. Better safe than sorry, though. Some of the ancients were rather fickle.

Certain he was wasting his time, Cyril continued his methodical rearrangement of the shrine. To his surprise, once he had cleared the detritus off the side, he discovered a few conjoined markings on the floor where the shrine had stood. He brushed aside the light coating of dust and marble powder to better appraise the symbol.

His soul shuddered as he beheld the entirety of the uncovered rune. He recognized nothing about it, but its power transcended the need for comprehension. Cyril found himself disconnected from his body, his consciousness trapped in an immobile block of stone and flesh. Unable to move or close his eyes, he was forced to stare at the mesmerizing symbol.

It seemed to grow until it consumed the entirety of his vision, the entirety of his focus. Nothing existed beyond the rune. It looked simple, as if a child might accidentally stumble upon its form while drawing random lines, but a hidden complexity revealed itself the longer he looked.

Nothing about the rune resonated with his nature. While it felt like he was caught in a divine trance, the truth began to seep through. The rune was more of a curse than a blessing. It intended to take the malleable prince and reshape him in its image. His path would be supplanted, his Dominions corrupted. He could do nothing but watch.

Cyril had always considered himself the most sensible of his family, able to control his nature better than the others. The contrarian, the questioner, prone to logic instead of emotion. In truth, it simply took longer for him to get fired up, and when it happened, he exploded.

Pure rage overwhelmed all else. His panic, his helplessness, his sense of violation, all of it was washed away beneath the intensity of his burning soul.

Within him, Behemoth shifted, awakening from whatever trance it had been lost in. Its attention was like the weight of the world pressing down on his soul, but it was almost pleasant, like the affection of a domineering parent. The Titan didn’t seem particularly upset over the rune. More disappointed than anything. It radiated strength and certainty, stabilizing Cyril's soul with its mere presence.

Its lofty nature blended with his all-consuming anger, and Cyril's rage became transcendent.

Sensing the tides had turned against it, the rune shuddered and shrank in his vision, retreating until it was no more than a few markings etched into the iron floor. Cyril smashed his fist into it, his righteous anger barely appeased by the rune surrendering. Again again, he punched the ground, the room trembling from each impact.

He only stopped when the offending section of the floor was reduced to a small pit, no sign remaining of the rune. Blood trickled down his hand, knuckles red and raw.

He breathed hard, rationality slowly reasserting itself. Half-enraged, half-enlightened, he swore an oath to himself: no matter how long it took, he would figure out who had constructed this room.