Before leaving the city, Cyril returned to the palace to check on the gardener-djinn.

After his first experiment with his Purify Cantrip, the spirit had remained in its petrified state for two days. Over the course of time, it had experienced what he could only call an evolution.

Within the center of the atrium, the spirit sat in the lotus position, its form mostly obscured behind the thick network of vines filling the room. The exuberant overgrowth had all sprouted from the ivy appendages on the spirit’s back, spreading and mutating until they encompassed the entire atrium like a gigantic spider’s web. Its tendrils had likewise merged with the plots of bloodflower corpses, turning the whole garden into an extension of its body.

Verdant earth qi circulated through the vines in some unfathomable pattern. Cyril couldn’t tell if the spirit was attempting to find the rhythm for a grand technique, or simply testing the boundaries of its new form.

Whatever was going on with the gardener-djinn, it still recognized him. When Cyril entered, the overgrowth parted and bent away to allow him an undisturbed route to the throne room. It may have done it just to avoid being burned or hacked through, but that meant the spirit at least remembered his capabilities.

He glanced at the spirit’s head as he passed by. The flowerbud had blossomed, crimson petals unfurled and glistening with mystical dew. Cradled in the center was a giant pearl roughly the shape of a skull; erratic synapses flickered across its mental network as its fractured mind pulled itself back together.

Cyril had fed the gardener-djinn more of his qi over the past couple of days, healing much of the damage to its mental pathways. While the obvious fracturing had mostly resolved, such wounds tended to leave deep scars.

The Purification had also helped, but in a way that Cyril could not quite perceive outside of a light golden coloration. A subtle alteration in its aura. An added significance.

He had experimented with the mysterious Cantrip and still had no idea what it did, exactly.

Attempting to use it to paralyze monsters had revealed to him that the target must accept the qi into itself willingly. Inanimate objects such as stones and water would absorb the qi, perhaps lacking the conscious will to resist the invasion of foreign energies. The effect was minimal, since even the tragic demise of the city was not enough to transform it into a truly cursed land. Maybe it removed toxins from the water, but his body would have naturally resisted them either way.

When he used Purify on his spear, it seemed more solid and sharper than before, as if it had been reforged by an expert blacksmith. The increase wasn’t significant--perhaps a quarter-strength overall--but it was nothing to scoff at. Such boosts compounded on one another nicely.

The effects of the Purification on spirits, as the gardener-djinn demonstrated, seemed far more pronounced. After a couple days, it had started to move once more. Cyril had hoped to communicate with the djinn, but it had immediately launched into its evolution without paying him any heed.

So far, he had resisted the urge to use it on himself. The breakthrough that granted him the Purify Cantrip had imparted a vague understanding of the process. He suspected it would not trigger some drastic evolution in himself like his Behemoth-laced qi did when absorbed by lesser spirits, but it would take time. Cleansing his meridians and fell karma was a luxury he couldn’t afford unless he wanted to spend at least another few days in secluded meditation. The benefits of such a process became apparent over years, not individual sessions.

Cyril shook his head and moved on. If he didn’t pay attention, he could stand there all day pondering the situation with the gardener-djinn. His curiosity would have to be delayed for a bit. He looked forward to his next visit.

The throne room contained the real reason he had come back: the feast strewn out upon the stone table. It remained as ripe and fresh as the first time he had stumbled across it. The desert tended not to produce much in the way of self-preserving food. Which meant he was taking it with him.

Cyril constructed a large copper jug almost half his size out of earth qi and transferred most of the contents into it, as well as other valuables like Hunger-Made-Alive’s soul gem. He didn’t touch any of the meat. As appetizing as it looked, it must have come from one of the monsters. If he was desperate, he could have tolerated eating one of the dark horses, but the thought of wyrm or humanoid meat curdled his stomach.

Cyril sealed the top of the jug with a tight lid. Grunting, he hoisted the container onto his back, affixing it around his chest and under his armpits with bronze bands. Following the routine prescribed to him by Barnabas and Arna had already helped him make strides in controlling his qi, but he could tell his constructs were sloppy. The jug was burdensome and misshapen, the metal bands rough and uneven. Still, it was better than what he could accomplish a few days ago.

He left the way he came, tossing the evolving djinn a farewell wave on his way out. A few of the tendrils in his vicinity swayed in an invisible draft, which he took as an encouraging sign.

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Compared to his first visit, the streets of Beljeza were deserted. Its affectations and idiosyncrasies, like Lanazel’s lingering Star qi, had grown familiar to him. During his short stay, he had added more than a few marks of his own--small craters in the ground, stains of gore, all manner of earth qi constructs. At least the monsters mostly handled disposing of the corpses, though he gingerly picked his way past more than a few half-devoured bodies.

He stopped at one of the canals and formed a smaller copper vessel to store water. In memory of the riverwyrms that swam in their depths, he Purified the contents. Not that he was too concerned about poisoning. He was far from mastering the complex Cantrip and every bit of practice helped.

Prepared for at least a month’s journey alone through the desert, he departed the city.

Soon enough, he came across the stone ladder he had created to descend the cliff. It had broken apart and collapsed, unsurprisingly. Probably from the humanoids using it. Some of them may have even taken up residence in the rusted iron room. He’d have to stay on his guard, even though he doubted they could pierce through his bronze plate armor and Mass Reinforcement.

Reconstructing the ladder took a couple minutes. It was far trickier to build from the ground-up, for some reason. The climb was simple enough, though awkward due to over a hundred pounds of supplies dangling from his body, including his spear.

As he journeyed through the tunnels, he reflected back on his willshaping with the ladder and the copper vessels. What he had done right, what he had done wrong. How to rectify his mistakes in the future.

Once he came to the rusted iron room, he paused for a bit to look at Hosjin’s symbol. He had mixed feelings about the Tyrant, especially since the man could have very well usurped his Destiny. It may not have even been an intentional inheritance, but the attempt had occurred all the same.

Cyril glanced around the room. The hair on the nape of his neck stood on end, though he couldn’t tell why. His body was tense, as if he anticipated violence, but his mind felt as calm as ever. He shrugged it off as residual outrage over his first visit to the room. In retrospect, his vehement rejection had been surprising. Discovering the symbol had enraged him more than almost anything else he'd experienced in the Underdark. He had since reflected on that deep, visceral reaction of his and why it had occurred.

He shook his head and departed. Retracing his path in reverse made him feel strangely nostalgic, as if he were revisiting the sites of ancient memories. Outside of his breakthroughs and recovery, he was fairly confident it hadn’t been more than a few months down in the Underdark, though he wasn’t certain. The vision of the tree from the Third Sphere of Earth had rattled him and worsened his already-miscalibrated sense of time even more.

Sinuous figures writhed and swarmed through the cavern containing Lanazael’s temple, but not nearly in as many as before. He pulverized them with Pressures and the unrelenting meteors of his Flicker Cantrips.

At Barnabas’ insistence, he had started to split his attention and focus on his casting speed beyond what he considered possible. Much of his poor control came from a lack of confidence. His estimation of his abilities prior to bonding with Behemoth was still a leash around his throat, limiting his creativity and expectations for himself.

And so, a half-dozen small orbs of Sun qi whistled through the air, leaving streamers of light in their wake. They chased wyrmlings down tunnels and scoured the walls for hidden enemies. His control was sloppy, missing the mobile wyrmlings more often than not, but the relentless barrage and unpredictable trajectories led to the Flickers finding their targets eventually.

Cyril fed their death energy into the Dominion of Mass and moved on.

Soon enough, he stood once more before the entrance to the temple. The sharp turrets and jagged lines of its architecture no longer struck him as all that foreboding. He observed the ancient intent lingering throughout the desecrated grounds, pleased to note he could discern specific qualities within the aura.

Before, it had merely struck him as mysterious and terrifying. Now, it reminded him of the slivers of Star qi embedded in the ruins of Beljeza, of grief and longing, and most prominent of all was the darkened gold of corrupted sanctity. Similar to the effect of his Purification, but distorted through entropy and loss. Once, Anadei and Lanazael had been divine figures, worshipped and revered. All of that had been undone by a knife on her wedding day.

He stood before the gouged and pitted ground where the Half-Ascended Wyrm had bled out. For all of Lanazael’s tragic sins, she had helped him when he was in need. Of course, he had manipulated her into it by forcing the monster onto her sacred grounds, but she had lent him her assistance all the same. She’d also helped him reorient himself in the Underdark. Listening to her plight had shaken him out of his lost and worried mindset, gave him questions and a purpose to pursue.

Cyril took a deep breath and approached the stairs leading up to the temple. He remembered them well, rebuffing him from entering the building properly. At the time, he had only made it fully onto the fourth of seven steps. Their gravity doubled with each new level. Of course, he hadn’t tested himself to his full limits or used any of his qi beyond his Mass Reinforcement. Even if he had, he probably would have been pulverized after ascending the sixth step.

Now? A small smile broke across his face. He could make out the flow of Gravity qi interlaced throughout the steps, though a proper analysis was still far beyond his capabilities. The enchantment had lasted for ages, retaining its complexity. But he didn’t have to know exactly how the steps functioned to overcome them.

The challenge was half the reason behind his burning desire to return to the temple. That, and he had his suspicions of what lay beyond.

It took several minutes for Lanazael to appear. As soon as she did, Cyril understood why. A galaxy of Star qi hovered about her tiny figure, each one radiating more power than his own scant number of Flicker Cantrips. Shadows obscured her features, but he could feel the resentment, the outrage, pouring off of the spirit.

“Out of respect for the Heavenly Pillar,” she snarled, “I will allow you to explain why you bear the Tyrant’s Mark.”