One by one, the harpies lowered their weapons. His Old Speech had shocked them for long enough to pause the fight, and they saw his glaive at the throat of their sister, poised to end her life.

“Alright…” Nic said carefully, “Let’s talk.”

The one he’d caught snarled. “There’s nothing to talk about. You bear the stench of the demonic intruders…”

“Oh.” Nic suddenly had a nasty feeling he knew exactly why they were so upset. “So… Let me guess, here… A bit ago, three very dangerous people, who smelled a bit like me, showed up and caused trouble?”

“They destroyed our village and took our princess.” The woman spat back.

“Yeah. Yeah, that sounds like something they would do...” Nic lifted his weapon. “But I’m not like them, alright? I don’t want to fight you. I’m not here to kidnap any princesses. In fact, I’d like to help you - but you need to trust me.”

She stood up, shaking out her long blonde hair. A long scratch covered her face, barely healed, stiff with red and black scabs, the skin around it bruised; she had been lucky to escape with both of her eyes intact.

“What is it you want?” She asked. “Why would you help?”

“With you? Nothing. I want to visit all the islands on my way across the river, and that’s all.” Nic chose not to say why he’d want to help them. The intruders were his responsibility; he had summoned them into this world to save his own skin. “As for helping, I’m hunting after these people.”

She stared at him, for a long moment…

“If we let you into our village, you will cause no trouble. Swear it on the Dao.”

“Careful, Nicolas. These oaths can change your luck- it’s a strange area of cultivation, but to some extent, it seems true that the heavens will punish you for breaking your word.”

“I swear I won’t start any violence or betray you. On all the Dao.” Nic promised, choosing each word carefully.

The woman nodded, her gold-orange wings folding onto her back. She called out to the others- “He is the enemy of our enemy! We will let him enter the village.”

---

Their home was in ruins. Buildings formed from fragile palm leaf and mud brick were collapsed inwards, reduced to charred ruins. Everywhere Nic looked, there was devastation and death. He caught sight of a hand emerging from the rubble- still and cold and dead.

The men worked to shift the ruins, to clear the way so rebuilding could begin. They lacked the brilliant, gold-orange feathers of the women, and were shorter, their walnut-colored skin glistening with sweat as they strained and struggled to repair their home.

The destruction was carved across the island in a long scar of fire and ash.

It led directly to the ziggurat-temple at the head of the island, where the great double doors had been crashed through by some enormous force.

Nic was led inside, into the cool, sunless dark, the atmosphere of a cave. His pupils shrank as they adapted to the dark after the brightness of the day beyond; hieroglyphs and holy murals covered the walls. Water ran through channels at the edges of the room, pouring from the eyes of a great stone face carved into the far wall. The constant slosh and bubble of the falling water echoed and echoed.

Sitting on a woven reed mat was an old, old woman, her wings extended around her like a shawl, the color gone from the feathers. They were as gray and drab as ash.

The woman who’d led Nic here knelt by the old crone, whispering into her ear.

“You smell the same as them. You have drunk too deeply of the poison that inhabits this land…” The crone croaked out. “But my warriors say you mean us no harm.”

“I don’t.” Nic said. “I’m not one of them.” And I’ll die before I owe my soul to their legion, he promised himself.

“Mm. I suppose we cannot change our blood, no matter who we share it with.”

“Actually, I have a question…” Nic looked about curiously, searching for meaning in the hieroglyphs. They depicted birds in flight over great rivers, and goddesses with the light of the sun in their palms. There was a sense of power in every drawing. An oppressive atmosphere that made his demonic blood seethe. “How did your people survive the poisoning of the land? Everything else, either it’s dying or it’s being warped as it drinks in the Aleph’s power. You seem fine…”

“Long ago, my people made a covenant with the gods. We are the protectors of this land, and so, the land shelters us; the waters of the river wash the corruption from our souls.” She gestured high, to the murals on the wall. “But this divine blessing is why the Invaders attack us. By taking our princess, in whom the divinity is strongest, they hope to make a sacrifice on the Altar of Night.”

Nic nodded. The Altar of Night…

It was the Invader’s half of the quest to complete the Scales of Sand. But as for how that worked, he truly had no idea.

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“I’m sorry, but can you tell me more about the Altar?” He asked.

“It sits in the shadow of the Hall of the Sun. It is a smaller temple, belonging to the Hall’s master. He feeds on the blood spilled there- and once, people would pay tribute to him, begging to see their beloved one final time after they passed through his domain. But the blood he craves now is that of the divine…”

“So they took your princess…”

“She will live until the next full moon, when the Altar hungers.” The crone said, with immense sadness. “In truth, I tried to convince my warriors to harden their hearts and allow it to be. But they are young and angry. So despite me, they will try to save her…”

“And they’ll fail.” Nic said.

“Yes.” The woman sighed. “We truly have no hope of overcoming them. Are you aware of the extent of their powers?”

Nic shook his head.

“The warrior is the most obvious. She can reach out to pluck lives from the battlefield with the ease of crushing flies, and her skin is invulnerable. Still. I think she would be the weakest of the three. The musician is more subtle. Every note of his instrument creates flying blades the eye cannot see, and his movement is insidious, slippery. He has an assassin’s hands…”

She paused, reaching into her robes for a long clay pipe and lighting it with a single finger-talon, a ruby of fire blossoming on her fingertip. She drew in a deep puff of smoke and released it through her nostrils…

“The little hunchback didn’t fight at all…” Her eyes opened slowly. Nic saw clouded, blind white. “But I sense he’s the strongest of any of them.”

“If you see so much, how do you rate me against them?” Nic was curious. Regardless of what she said, Nic would try to fight them- but he wanted to know whether he should expect to die fast or slow.

“You are no weakling. Against the warrior, strength against strength, you might triumph. The assassin will be harder for you. He is clever and quick and versed in killing ways. As for the pygmy, I cannot say, but I do not have high hopes. If you can avoid him entirely, you would be wise to do so.”

Nic nodded. He didn’t have high hopes either.

But tearing victory out of the jaws of defeat was how he did things. If there was a chance, he’d fight for that chance…

No matter how slim the odds were.

Rising, he asked one final question. “When is the next full moon?”

“The day after tomorrow…”

“I’ll be with you, when it’s time to fight.” Nic turned and departed from the temple, his eyes shifting as he stepped back into sunlight.

The village’s warriors were waiting for him outside, their arms crossed, their faces looking sour. Clearly they weren’t about to open their hearts to a stranger.

Nic lifted his chin. “I’ve got my own business with the people who wrecked your village. When you fight them, I’m going with you.”

One by one, they looked towards a dark-haired woman at their center, her shoulders broad and scarred, the color of burnished bronze. The apparent leader nodded.

“We can’t refuse you now. We need every warrior.” She said grudgingly. “And my girls say you fight well.”

She leaned against a crutch of driftwood. Her right leg had been totally cut away, leaving a dangling stump. Still…

With her wings, Nic wouldn’t bet against her in a fight.

He smiled. “I fight like an idiot, and I’m told that makes me dangerous.”

She chuckled, limping forward to offer him a hand. “I am Sarhelia. I am- I was the war-leader. We’ll be training through tomorrow. You’re welcome to join us.”

“I’d like that.”

---

The harpies were weaker than Nic. Few of them had Shards scavenged from the world below; they had been spared the destruction of their world by the System, but by the same hand, they’d been denied the chance to grow and learn from the System’s ways.

It was only when the Dungeon opened weeks ago that they had awoken from a suspended, half-dead sleep, and begun to roam the world below, cautiously exploring. Beginning to learn…

But they hadn’t had time to master the System before destruction arrived.

Instead, their strength came from their natural bodies and a ‘divine power’ they called Sekhem.

“Probably an early form of cultivation. Numerous ancient cultures would form their own concepts of heaven and earth, allowing them to gain a little strength- but these methods are really crude compared to the System.” Sofia suggested.

Nic’s impression of them was less dismissive.

True, they were physically weaker- but their skill with spear and shield was unrivaled. When Nic restricted his body down to their level, he found he was outmatched, their weapons dancing with a speed that didn’t come from raw strength…

But merely from true understanding of the weapon.

In the hands of their leader, the crippled Sarhelia, a simple driftwood crutch became a deadly weapon. She could barely stand well enough to maintain a martial stance, but when she took flight, the crutch came alive in her hand. It would dart, striking left and right, almost bending with the force of her strikes, allowing it to come from unexpected angles.

She maintained pressure with a relentless forward motion, her wings kicking against the air in rhythm- her staff falling and stabbing until Nic was brutally hard-pressed to maintain his own footwork, sliding between blows and parrying. Swallowing his pride he unleashed a bit of his bodily strength, letting his legs speed up to match the rhythm she controlled by skill alone.

One more step backwards…

And Nic was at the edge of the training grounds, the edge of the floating island, his back to the blue sky that stretched out below.

Sarhelia dropped to the ground, her wings unfolded behind her like a cloak of gold. “I see.” She said, rising with the help of his hand. “You weren’t trained, were you? You learned on your own…”

“I was given a little training with the sword.” Nic admitted. “But no, I never had a tutor.”

“Your footwork is outstanding and your reactions are razor sharp. You have strong instincts, but you’ve never had anyone to show you where those instincts are flawed. A good teacher is a mirror- they lend you their eyes, letting you see your own faults.”

Nic nodded respectfully. The fact that he was already stronger than this warrior, one many years his senior, didn’t mean he had nothing to learn. A lifetime of being ignored had taught him that…

People could be more than the strength they achieved through the System, and they could also be less, if they were full of pride and unwilling to learn….

“If I had to describe what you lacked, I would say your killing intent is still weak. You can be too defensive, trying to fish out the right moment to strike, to lure your enemy into traps where you can win in a single move. It’s an instinct that serves you well on the back foot- but you’re stronger than me. In a winning position you don’t press hard enough, don’t lean on your strength with confidence.”

Nic considered, shifting the weapon in his hand. It was true, he was used to fighting enemies stronger than himself. Out of need, he’d adopted the style of prey, focusing on his own survival while searching for a fatal mistake in his enemy.

Maybe it was time to abandon that.

Maybe it was time to embrace his newfound strength.

“Unleash your strength. I will be able to survive- simply try to finish the fight as quickly as you can.” His instructor commanded, stepping back, her wings lifting.