Strands of brown qi, tinged with vivid green, blossomed within Cyril’s cupped palm. The gardener-djinn froze in place, not even its petals moving, as if it was transfixed by the sight. Even if he was only in Early Condensation, the energy originated from the paragon of Earth. Profound truths beyond his comprehension laced the qi. The djinn viewed it with the same unbridled gluttony as he felt when looking at the feast it had provided for him.

It seemed a fair enough trade. He doubted he would have survived from his injuries if the spirit hadn’t tended to him. Without the bronze armor encasing his wounds, he would have bled out within minutes. Judging on how weak and exhausted he felt, he hadn’t been far off even with its ministrations. Throw in a stone table loaded with meat, dried fruits, and fresh vegetables, and he would have kissed the bizarre flowerbud head if he could stand up properly.

The strands of qi latched onto the vine. For a moment, the energy flickered, as if it had been rejected, before diving into the gardener-djinn with reckless abandon. More and more qi unspooled from Cyril’s core, surging into the spirit. The tendril grew more vibrant, and small white flowers bloomed along its length. Its pathways pulsed, forcing the qi inward. Once it reached the base of the vines sprouting from the gardener-djinn’s back, they lifted and spread out like wings.

Old pathways in the djinn’s chest mended, and new ones branched off from the ones that were too damaged to heal, reconnecting with deeper parts of its disjointed network of channels.

The vine wrapped around his hand squeezed, a surprisingly crushing grip. The spirit may have been of middling-rank, but it had persisted for countless years within the material world. It was at least an equal to Hunger-Made-Alive in strength.

As beautiful as the sight was, Cyril watched his own core with some concern. A quarter of it had already been depleted, and the gardener-djinn lapped up more like a man dying of thirst. He had expected the process to look similar to restoring the Library imp, Barnabas; while that spirit had taken a decent chunk out of his core as well, it had been because of the difficulty of forming pure Knowledge mana.

Cyril cut off the flow of qi. The vines burst into a frenzy, tying themselves into knots and slapping at the floor, but the rest of the gardener-djinn remained still. Cyril poured Gravity qi into his hand, prepared to blast the gardener-djinn halfway across the Underdark.

After a few seconds, the spirit calmed, its flowerbud head drooping. While it was hard to judge in his current state, it looked like the petals had opened slightly, as if the earth spirit had survived a long winter to bask in the glory of a new spring.

It bowed its head slightly lower, then waved one tendril in the direction of the feast. Cyril offered a hesitant smile. The gardener-djinn turned and, without a backwards look, departed.

That’s all? Cyril thought to himself in irritation. He shook his head--he’d never been much of a morning person, and he was having the most grueling wakeup of his life so far.

Before the spirit fully exited the throne room, Cyril summoned a Mind Scroll and roughly sketched out the djinn’s channels. He was curious to track its progress, and perhaps glean some insight from which parts of it correlated with specific improvements. It looked more focused, more solid, but he suspected it was far from a full recovery. Healing fractured pathways in its torso and limbs was one thing, repairing its mind quite another.

Cyril ran his hand through his hair and considered his future plan. He mentally flipped to a new page of Mind Scroll and compiled a list of tasks. The simple act helped him reassert control over the situation. Unless his fortune was truly cursed by the gods, he should be the most powerful entity within this region of the Underdark. As much as he wanted to rush home to his tribe, there was loot to be had.

First, he constructed a new forearm and hand from bronze. He gritted his teeth against the agony of metal growing over the stump, but after the initial few inches it was manageable.

Staring at the result of his work, he coughed and bumped ‘practice willshaping’ higher on his to-do list. The prosthetic was little more than a block of burnished metal with five awkward nubs at the end. Even while resting it on his lap, the sheer weight of it felt like it was tearing the scabbed-over flesh back open. He dismissed most of the internal metal until the prosthetic was hollow.

Worse of all, the phantom sensation of having a tightly-clenched fist, nails digging into his nonexistent palm, remained. He lengthened the primitive fingers and added joints in the middle. Though he was unable to actually move them himself, he bent them back and forth with his real hand, and to his surprise, the majority of the phantom pain abated.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

Satisfied enough, he moved on to his next order of business: constructing a method of moving around without splitting his thighs in half. Elaborate mechanisms flitted through his head, including a massive wheel that would engulf his entire lower body. That one in particular seemed like a great way to eat floor. In the end, he formed a sled out of a slab of copper and added four small wheels.

Groaning, half in pain and half from shame, he rolled himself onto the sled and pushed himself over to the pit of basalt where he had melted Hunger-Made-Alive. A small smile broke out across his face. Cyril may have been crippled, at least for now, but the Ascended Wyrm wouldn’t be coming back from that.

A dark glimmer in the depths of the pit registered on his spiritual sense. His smile widened. It took three Pressure Cantrips to break the floor open enough to view the treasure within. A few feet down, a black soul gem streaked with silver and crimson shined with profane light.

In death, an Ascended’s core would often crystallize into a soul gem. This one was the size of a fist. Small flecks of green also glittered within the depths, resonating with his soul. The Dominion of Plants, if he had to guess. Hunger-Made-Alive had neglected to invest any death energy into it. Slaughter and Darkness must have been its innate Dominions, manifesting once it bonded with the spirit. If it had bothered to integrate its bonded spirit better, Cyril doubted he would have emerged as the victor.

Cyril cast a final Pressure Cantrip to loosen the soul gem from where it was embedded in the basalt, then extracted the treasure with a long pair of bronze forceps. He dismissed the tool and examined the soul gem. High quality, with a score of facets brimming with power.

Unfortunately, he had no real use for it. Absorbing the gem would potentially grant him the Dominion of Darkness, but he had already decided to pursue his own Destiny. A true scion of the Underdark would have probably have sacrificed a second limb for the opportunity. Too bad none of them were around.

Cyril plopped it onto his sled unceremoniously and moved on. He would figure out what to do with it in time. Maybe give it to his tribe in order to empower a loyal vassal. In the meantime, he could find a variety of uses for it, such as socketing it into his prosthetic arm or spear to artificially imbue it with some of the dense qi.

Next, he moved on over to the darksteel throne. The sunken dais looked like an insurmountable mountain in his current state. More to amuse himself than anything, he fired off a couple Pressure Cantrips at it. The throne absorbed them without the slightest hint of disturbance.

I want the whole thing, he thought to himself. The mental image of him lugging the oversized chair across the desert made him chuckle softly.

He turned his back on it, sliding himself over to the atrium to retrieve his trusty spear. Making a new one would not have taken long, but he had already transmuted chunks of it into rotten oak and rusted iron. It had also proven itself a valuable companion during his time in the darkness. It didn’t deserve to languish for an eternity in this cursed palace.

Hauling himself to the spear sapped the last of his strength. He laid down on the sled, futilely attempting to convince himself he was on a luxurious feather mattress. Before closing his eyes, he scratched a couple tasks off of his Mind Scroll’s list of tasks. Writing out his progress proved strangely satisfying.

It took a few minutes of adjusting himself on the sled and banishing intrusive thoughts before he managed to slip into a meditative trance. He reminisced about his struggles in the Underdark, avoiding memories of his fight with Hunger-Made-Alive. His mind instinctively shied away from the fresh trauma. In time, he would harvest the final rewards of his victory, then forget about them forever after.

Hunger-Made-Alive did not deserve to be remembered. He would devour the last bits of his prey, and its empty grave would remain here, for eternity, unmarked and unvisited.

Cyril estimated that he wasn’t far from breaking through to Middle Condensation. Once he consolidated his gains and spent some time in secluded meditation refining his core, the breakthrough would soon follow. Behemoth would both help and hinder him in that regard; Cyril’s already prodigious core had expanded significantly after their bond, but the Titan’s insights would serve as a priceless catalyst for his evolution.

After less than an hour, his meditative trance slipped into a restless sleep. Somehow, he felt even worse when he woke up, but his minor scrapes and bruises had mostly faded. The edematous blisters along his injured arm had burst open, forming a puddle on the copper bed beneath him. Fresh, pink tissue had grown in their place.

Carefully, Cyril flexed his legs. The wounds on his thighs ached but remained intact. He stood up by degrees, supporting himself with a spear. At first he shook slightly. After a minute, he found his balance, and stood with his head held high.

Slowly, he worked his way back to the darksteel throne. Slowly, he ascended the dais and plopped himself into the unyielding metal chair. A quick glance at his soul confirmed a new addition at the bottom of his Transmute list: Darksteel (???)

Cyril rested his chin on his fist, staring off into space. He had much to do. Hundreds of monsters to purge, including a veritable wyrmhorde. Once he was ready, he would have to speak with Lanazael once more. After all, he had promised to give her a new name.

It hadn’t been easy, but he had conquered this forsaken land. He let out a shuddering breath. Never again, he resolved. He would never again be so weak, so helpless, laid low by a monster. Throughout the aeons, Behemoth had stumbled and fallen, but every time, it found its way back to its feet, eventually.