An hour later, Cyril found himself relaxing in one of the private bathhouses within the pink glass recreational building. The scalding heat would have melted a mundane into a grisly puddle, making it the perfect temperature to penetrate his innate resistance and build up a sweat. His muscles immediately relaxed after he sank into the boiling waters. A groan escaped from his lips as he luxuriated in his first bath in over a decade.

Of course, he had been pushed out of view after the fiasco at the Scholarium. No doubt his sister and father were attempting to placate other members of the tribe after what appeared to them like an attack on the central compound. He was glad enough to escape the scrutiny and awkward questions for now. Since no one besides their parents would dare question Matriarch Elys, he figured he was in the clear. Hopefully. He doubted certain members of his family would be so easily calmed. He grimaced again, remembering the look on his father's face.

Cyril lowered himself into the bath until his mouth was submerged, trying to distract himself from the thought of the scolding he would receive in private later. Exhaling into the water agitated up a swarm of bubbles. To distract himself, he delved into his own soul.

Despite the rather public nature of his breakthrough, he was quite pleased with his progress.

Prince Cyril, Vessel of Behemoth

Late Condensation Stage

Dominions:

Sun, Third Sphere 41/10000

Knowledge, Third Sphere 106/10000

Earth, Third Sphere 912/10000

Gravity, Third Sphere 724/10000

Mass, Second Sphere 991/1000

Cantrips:

Flicker

Mind Scroll

Pressure

Reinforce

Transmute

Translate

Purify

World Map

Blessings:

Seed of Knowledge

A Beacon Home

Magmatic Heart

Cursed Blessing:

Scion of the Underdark (partially suppressed)

Absorbing the fragment had significantly boosted his Dominions of Earth and Gravity, though the distance to the Fourth Sphere remained somewhat daunting. His recent proximity to Elys appeared to have naturally improved Sun as well, though he'd have to pay closer attention to how her presence interacted with his soul. He'd spent less than an hour in total next to her so far; 41 free, passive points wasn't a bad haul, all things considered.

The disharmony of Mass remaining in the Second Sphere annoyed him, but it was a simple enough matter to correct. One of the reasons he hadn’t bothered yet was the likelihood that it wouldn’t lead to much of a benefit compared to the possible time lost to a breakthrough vision. Once matters settled down, he planned to address it as a priority.

Still, there was a reason that even the most gluttonous cultivators took time to consolidate their gains. Access to a hundred different Cantrips and other benefits would allow for greater flexibility, but his mastery over his Third Sphere boons was laughable. Adding another Cantrip to his arsenal would offer little more than another distraction, another way to divide his attention. Best to resist the urge to fling himself to the pinnacle as soon as possible. It was possible that Leviathan had managed to avoid the pitfalls of such an endeavor, having used his own innate Dominions since the beginning of time, but Cyril wasn't so lucky.

Lost in thought, he swam through the large, private pool, superheated water sloshing across his body. Just being able to flex and control his right lower arm felt like a miracle. On top of his newfound mental connection to the prosthetic, the resilience of new channels in the limb eclipsed the rest of his spirit; the splinters of Behemoth’s fragment had melted and fused with them, forming a reinforcing layer of divine earth. On a physical level, the refinement had also altered the appearance of the darkalloy prosthetic, adding rings of pale stone in regular intervals.

He supposed that prosthetic was no longer an apt word to describe the earthen limb. It had merged with his flesh, becoming a continuous extension of his body. To his mind, it felt much the same as its natural counterpart. While he had intended to use Behemoth's fragment as the foundation for his evolving core, regaining proper use of his arm--and then some--had been quite worth it. Though, of course, Cyril hadn’t been the one to pay the price.

He floated along the top of the water, his fingers dancing and tapping against one another as he formed one complex handsign after another. Without consciously circulating his qi, none of them released an actual technique, but he could sense a vague tension within his hands, confirming they would activate with a proper investment. While it was best to limit any sort of mudra or verbal incantation in battle in order not to alert an opponent to one’s intentions, it was nice to have the possibility available to him, especially while experimenting by himself.

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“How long will you be floating about?” said Loras. After a brief pause, it added, “Young master.”

The suit of ivory armor stood next to its own prepared pool, staring straight ahead.

Cyril flipped over and swam toward the edge of the steaming bath. He summoned a flagon of expensive spiritual wine from his spatial ring and took a deep swig. The rich ambrosia tasted of exotic spices, with just enough heat to register on his tongue. With a thought, he distributed the lingering spirituality into his Dominion of Earth, bringing it up a few points. “Why not relax a bit? Scared of rusting?”

Loras did not bother looking his way. “There is no point. When I cultivated my body, I made the conscious decision to eliminate all physical sensations unnecessary for combat. My mind senses the idea of heat and water, but I do not truly feel it.”

“So you turned yourself into a weapon of war.” Cyril let his arms dangle over the lip of the bath. “You chose to abandon your humanity completely.”

Loras remained silent for a while. “I abandoned it long ago, before I ever made this decision. I thought my actions were for the greater good of Fissure. In the end, the city I sought to protect discarded me, just as I discarded my old self.”

Cyril decided to address the unspoken tension. “What is it that you did, exactly, to be exiled?”

Loras turned its perfectly sculpted face his way for the first time. “Believe it or not, I was much like you when I was young. Even more strange, I found myself deeply in love with the most perfect woman I had ever met. We had a daughter, Velia. In Fissure, when children come of age at thirteen, they venture out into the rest of the world for a year with a guardian before returning. It is meant to curb their wanderlust and martial spirit after spending their whole lives within the city. Velia went to one of the western cities, Valenport, along with my wife. Somehow, the Cult of Leviathan discovered their identities. They sent me their heads in separate metal boxes. One ivory, one ebony.”

Cyril’s good mood vanished. He dismissed the flagon of spiritual wine back into his ring. “I’m sorry.”

“I am as well. I should have been the one to accompany her, but I thought my duty as master-at-arms was more important.” Loras extended one of its arms. A slot opened along the back of its hand, and it extracted its simple flute. “This was her instrument. She loved music, though I always found it a pointless distraction. After my men and I razed Valenport to the ground and salted the earth, I played her favorite tune amongst the ashes.”

Cyril swallowed and nodded slowly. “An act of war.”

“Yes,” Loras agreed. “This was long before Leviathan incarnated and conquered the western kingdoms. The Cult were a small sect within the city, but when I annihilated them, the rest of Valenport leapt to their defense. I enraged quite a few powerful families in the region when I tore everything out by the root. To make peace, the elders of Fissure sent them my head. In their infinite generosity, they first allowed me to forge a new body, so I could make do without it.”

Cyril hauled himself out of the bath, onto the surrounding platform of pink glass. With a brief flex of his will, he evaporated the water from his body with Sun qi. He dressed himself in his familiar tunic and slippers while contemplating Loras’ story. Truthfully, he wasn’t quite sure how to respond. Loras’ bloodthirsty behavior made sense in retrospect, but a western port city would have housed countless mundanes. Tens of thousands, if not more.

“What happened to your men?” he finally said.

“In truth,” said Loras, “I never cared to find out. Perhaps their heads were sent off as well. Not that the elders cared much about their relations with the western kingdoms. It was intended as a punishment for betraying the noble ideals of the Cult of Behemoth. No one would have dared to actually attempt to assault Fissure in retribution. It was considered an impregnable sanctuary until, of course, the day it no longer was.”

Cyril descended the few steps from the platform, down to the ground level. “Do you regret it?”

“No,” said Loras, without hesitation. “I would do it again, a thousand times, if I must. I am an instrument of war. Anyone who has chosen to side with the Cult of Leviathan has sealed their fate.”

Sighing, Cyril pulled his long, shaggy hair back into a ponytail. With a thought, he bound it with a ring of bronze metal and let his hands fall away to his sides. Despite the tension between them, the hot bath had been exactly what he needed to feel like himself again. Still, he half-wished he hadn’t asked Loras about its--no, his--past. Easier to think of the exile as a heartless war machine, opposed to a man who had ruined himself with pointless revenge.

After a moment’s thought, Cyril resummoned the flagon of spiritual wine and took another deep gulp.

“Do you regret those cultists you killed at the oasis?” said Loras.

"Yes." Cyril wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “A little.”

“Then do me a favor,” said Loras. “Go somewhere deep in the desert and end your own life, freeing Behemoth. At least the Titan of Earth can do battle in its true form, instead of being caged within a coward. Because if you are not willing to do it a thousand more times, Leviathan will slaughter everyone and everything you love without a second thought.”

Cyril tilted back the flagon and drained it. The liquid warmth flowed through his stomach, fighting off some of the sudden chill he felt from Loras’ words. Before leaving the steaming bathhouse, he summoned his bronze armor and mask once more. With his Late Condensation Core, the energy expenditure had been more than halved. Though it was the same E-grade material, it felt sturdier, heavier, though nowhere near enough to weigh him down. Part of him wanted to test himself against Loras, to humble the metallic bastard. Weren't those words blasphemy, of a sort?

Maybe later, he thought, his mind delightfully warm and tingly from the spirit wine. Don't want to destroy two buildings my first day back, after all.

Loras bowed and turned away, heading out of the room before Cyril could take the lead. As he stared at the metallic cultivator’s back, he found himself smiling awkwardly. Perhaps Loras was not so detached and rational as he pretended to be. How could a man not feel the weight of so much fell karma upon his shoulders?

“Good talk,” Cyril muttered, attempting to keep some of the surliness from his voice. “You know, in a weird way, I’m no longer nervous to face my mother after that conversation. Lead on, then. They’re throwing a feast in our honor, after all.”