Gerald did as he always did. He worked. Using a pair of measuring tongs on a cuboid artifact covered in alien runes. One of the spirit essence cubes that had come from the pile of restricted loot found by the boy. Technically, he wasn't supposed to study it, but there wasn't anyone here to stop him, and the astral spaces and their bounty had always been fresh in his mind. Alien worlds with impossibly different sets of rules, like they'd been cast from a wholly different concept of reality. Some would have no ambient mana whatsoever, all of it contained within objects. Then, an occasional few would be so rich in mana that certain aspects of the material world would become natural magical artifacts. A thing or an emotion distilled into an essence or lexicanum. Skillbooks and essences, though they weren't so uniform across all the realms. Some were cubes, some were literal books, or tablets of glassy stone. Some were even alive, presumably. Though 'alive' was an abstract concept when studying non-carbon based lifeforms.
Items that could offer almost transcendent power to one who had some compatibility with them. Naturally, Gerald wasn't dumb enough to actually use one. Even skillbooks could kill if not absorbed in a ritual circle. Essences, on the other hand, were far worse. Even the 'lesser' variants would most assuredly break the mind of a man. Examples in the past abounded before the things were officially considered contraband by the various guilds. An adventurer would commune with let's say... An essence of knowledge. And that is all they could ever think about. Not knowledge itself, but the concept of knowledge. Obsessed with it to the point of insanity, forgoing food and drink and all else. They all died eventually. More elemental essences would have an even more terrible effect. Or perhaps not, Gerald considered a swift death far preferable to a slow insanity.
A man who'd absorbed an essence of earth had become stone. Petrified down to the molecular level, becoming a living statue. And 'living' in this case was right. It, for surely no humanity remained in the thing, was still alive today. Frozen in place for at least five centuries. All attempts to break it and end the mans suffering were in vain, for his body would reconstitute itself from any dust or grains remaining. For all intents and purposes, the essence had given him the body of an elemental. With none of the joints or mana conduits necessary for movement. Immortal, being stuck in a place with rich enough mana to keep it alive, refusing to be moved.
A shame. So much knowledge and it's just out of reach. Gerald sighed tiredly. He had no idea how the boy had come into possession of so many transcendent artifacts, but it didn't matter much. He would see them destroyed, or Alexandros would. It was only through great pains that one out of four remaining ruling primus' had agreed to allow them a chance to study them at all. Only in the republic could they be kept when the regulations around restricted artifacts were observed to the letter. Gerald took some liberties, of course... But nobody was about to snitch on him, if they even knew.
“Lord archivist.”
“Ah, Bertrand. Please, come in. And welcome.” Gerald glanced toward the pair briefly before returning to his study. All of these readings were the peak of an enigma, something he doubted even the most famed mages in all of history could grasp. He took hold of the essence with a pair of tongs, careful not to let it touch his skin. Not even trusting the gloves he wore about his hands. “Do you know what this is?”
“A spirit essence?” Tyr frowned, staring at it. The 'apotheosis' essence of sin was being held before him. It's cube shape wreathed in faintly glowing fractals. Far more complex than any individually identifiable rune.
“Yes.” Bertrand nodded. “What is a spirit essence?”
“I've no idea, and I'm not sure I want to know based on Navi's ambiguous explanation.”
Gerald smiled softly with a curt nod. Knowledge was power, but his job as archivist for the adventurer association was the ensure that any inappropriate knowledge remain out of any hands that it would be ill suited for. Some knowledge, in particular, was suited for no pair at all. Only the gods. He wasn't a devout or pious man, but he believed in their existence as much as anyone else. There were rules that governed their reality, and men would be punished horrifically for reaching too far or too close to the design of whatever divine architect had written them.
“Smart.” He lay the essence down on the slab that served as his work surface. Inching it along until it settled in a small square recess with an audible click. Rapidly dematerializing until all the plinth was aglow with violet lines. Spitting a host of mana crystals so vast that the box designed to collect them overflowed, splaying them all across the floor with a glassy clinking, much to the archivists amusement. “There is only one mage in all of recorded history that has mastered a single aspect to the point where he was able to absorb an essence successfully. The results were... Mixed, but certainly not favorable – or so I am led to believe.”
“Altrimar.” Tyr guessed.
A flash of something inscrutable passed through Gerald's eyes. Suspicion maybe, or just simple interest. The corners of his lips turned downward, twitching briefly before his expression settled into a more flat look. “Indeed. And how did you come upon this information?”
“A vampyre told me.” Tyr replied honestly.
“A... Vampire? In the republic?”
“In the astral space. And apparently there is some distinction between vampire and vampyre. Like... Vam pie er, versus, vam peer. I really don't get it, honestly. If you're going to drink blood, you might as well get used to a uniform distinction. Or at least come up with a name that is less damned confusing.”
“A striga, you mean. An awakened striga, I suppose.” Gerald smiled again. He was quite young looking, but he was a grandfatherly sort. Not much of a family man, but age tended to soften most men when in the right setting. “You are very candid and I appreciate that. Might I ask how you managed to make contact with a darkness attuned monster and... Well, survived?”
Tyr shrugged. Remaining as honest as ever. “One of them tried to latch onto me and ended up melting into sludge or something. Maybe I just wasn't that appetizing. I'm not saying they were weak, but they didn't seem that strong, either. Two of them were quite amicable, not exactly what I'd expect.”
At least two of them...? Gerald was stunned, but he didn't let it show. A normal striga was a silver ranked monster, but an awakened striga with the ability to speak and reason was far beyond that. In the republic, only Alexandros could face a creature like that with any equity. Leaving Gerald to consider the words that particular man had given him in reference to Tyr. Reading between the lines, he had been explicitly ordered not to anger him in any way. And if he had to, to warn Alexandros first. Far beyond any reaction Gerald would expect in regard to a middle rank adventurer. In the circles aware of the greater significance of Tyr's banishment, he was no longer considered a primus. They didn't hate him, but most wanted nothing to do with him, simply viewing him as an undesirable. But bastards were not considered at fault in the republic. They'd abandoned most consideration of heritage predicating a mans worth long ago. It was only his poor and rather brutal reputation that kept others at an arms length.
No grand conspiracy, outside of whatever the churches wanted for him – that is. And thus far only the minor ones seemed interested. No young masters and gaggle of nobles following him around to act as stand-in villains. No unrealistically rude men and women to antagonize him about his 'foundations'. He was just an unfortunate wretch, or a butcher and happy to do it. Opinions varied.
Though, worth noting, Tyr wasn't near half as terrible to communicate with than he'd heard. Many even feared him as some kind of inhuman monster. And it was clear that Alexandros held his own concerns about the boy. Gerald did not know why. In any case, he didn't care.
“Depending on how ancient they are, a party of diamond ranked adventurers would be ill suited to putting down a coven. Striga aren't true higher undead, like vampires. They have all of the benefits and none of the disadvantages of being a blood-born creature. They are living things. More akin to half elemental hybrids than anything else. Like chimera, perhaps, but I've never met one to ask. Hope I never do.”
“Okay.” Tyr crossed his arms impatiently. Bertrand paled at the disrespect, but Gerald didn't seem concerned in the slightest. An archmage anywhere was like a duke, deserving of respect and even in the imperial palaces. Tyr didn't seem overly impressed. “...And? Is any of this important?”
Gerald smiled, showing his pearly white teeth for the first time. Tyr towered over the much smaller man, but wouldn't bet on himself in a fight. With that being said, he also wasn't a fan of being summoned out of the blue to sit through a lecture on the nature of monsters and artifacts. He couldn't use essences, and wouldn't think to try his luck, so this was all arbitrary. If it didn't have a practical use, Tyr wasn't interested in it.
“Bertrand, you can get back to your duties.”
“Yes, sir.” Bertrand gave a shallow bow and left without another word. Seeking to make himself scarce before something even worse happened. That smile hadn't looked friendly to him at all. Gerald seated himself at his desk. A heavy thing of enchanted slate with scoring all around it to aid in the clearing of any magical reagents or dust left on its surface. Faint lines and culverts to indicate hollowed internals. Mana channels, most likely, with the rest of the surface covered in loosely stacked books and a mess of stone tablets and more mundane paper documents.
“You're a funny lad.” Gerald said the moment that the door closed softly at Tyr's back.
“How do you figure?” Tyr raised an eyebrow. “I've no talent for comedy, and I've been told as much many times in the past.”
“Not in comedy, but in bearing. You've no fear or respect for authority. Not that I mind, in truth, it's all so tedious. The yes sir's and the no sir's of the world grate on me.”
“I mean no disrespect.” Tyr seated himself without invitation. “I am an entitled ex-royal that still hasn't come to terms with his lowly position as a commoner in this new world of his. Don't think I will any time soon, either. As you say, all the redundancy of politics and authority grate on me as well. I am too ignorant for such things. Give me a task, and I'll do it, but I won't kiss your feet for the pleasure.”
Gerald smirked. The young man before him wore his heart on his sleeve and spoke with complete sincerity at all times. It was refreshing. People weren't wretches by and large, but they all had fears and insecurities that constantly dictated how they acted. Whereas Tyr was more friendly to his instinct and spoke as he wished without preamble. It was an adequate show of character, if nothing else. Gerald had been pushing and prodding at him with his aura the entire time. Tyr hadn't seemed to notice. Which could mean only one thing, that Tyr was far more powerful than himself. So much stronger that he'd failed to notice the attempt as anything more than fluctuations in the ambient mana. Which wasn't so rare at the top floor of a tower full of people activating wards and ritual magic.
The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
This, of course, was a misunderstanding. Tyr's spira had come to a point where he was superior to any normal man on the planet. Rapidly approaching Varinn's status, but not quite there. His mana, however, was advanced for a senior mage. The problem was his lack of control or outright inability to use it. Simply put, he didn't feel Gerald's aura at all because he was constantly stuck in a state of discomfort. It had been pressuring his body since his youth, becoming a natural part of his life. If Gerald had forced the issue, Tyr would have been flattened by it. He may not be a war mage, but he was an archmage, and they were all incredibly powerful individuals. Wielding an aura was as easy as breathing to someone like that.
Instead, they were stuck in a stalemate where Gerald found himself unable to understand how Tyr managed to disguise his rather average mana signature without any obvious artifact aiding him. Like a shroud, Gerald could barely see to his core. And even then, his senses were thrust back by an imperceptible force. Like pushing against a massive set of lungs that inflated and deflated, unable to disturb the rhythm.
“Are you... What are you doing right now?”
“What do you mean?” Tyr frowned. “I am sitting here. Doing nothing. Waiting for you to get to a point. I'm hungry again...”
“I'm assuming you've only ever spoken with mages of my caliber that dedicate most of their time to practical and mostly elemental application. Along the dividing lines of those ridiculous 'schools of magic' taught at your academy. Yes?”
“I suppose that's true.” Tyr shrugged. “Not many archmages seem to choose the path of healing or enchantment as their primary study. Didn't spend enough time there to really find out.”
Gerald nodded. “Humor me, and I'll get to the point – I promise. And you'll be compensated more than fairly for your time. Deal?”
Tyr nodded as well. He itched to get to a forge and see what he could do with all the new runes he'd recorded, but he tempered his expectations. All that awaited him was a host of failures and maybe one minor success. But it'd be an improvement. Progression and learning by merit of his own hands was something he enjoyed more than most other things.
“Myself, I never understood why so many great mages seem so overly concerned with the pomp of elemental magic. I am an aurist and an enigmatist. The first vocation can be applied to the study of magical phenomena. How magic works, the rules that dictate the process. The other is how and why it exists at all. Mostly theory, but if I were to apply it to the methods used at the academies in the successor states, you could call me an archmage of the arcane. I can't use level five offensive magic, but I can perform similar and less flashy things merely by inverting gravity on a location. Or by playing with the threads that hold atmospheric mana together. Regardless, I will – as I said – get to a point. I am one of the foremost experts in the world on the topic of a 'mana body'. That is to say, the root of mana, what you might call a core, well, or reservoir, that connect humans to the veil beyond the material world to connect to a purer source of magic. All things capable of using magic have one, regardless of race or species, they create it the instant they use magic for the first time and it begins to grow inside of them. Sounds insidious, but think of it like... Active evolution. Why do you not have a mana body?”
“I have no idea what that is.” Tyr replied honestly. “Well, I do. Like – I understand the application of that theory to the conduits that exist inside of me. I've never heard it framed the way you did, though.”
“You wouldn't have. Still too young. Study and development of your mana channels isn't important until your body stops growing. Before that, any tampering could have rather grisly side effects.”
“Side effects like what?” Tyr leaned forward, suddenly interested. And Gerald could tell. Heart always on the mans sleeve, easy to speak to once his attention was captured.
“It can vary.” Gerald shrugged. “Might turn you inside out. Some unscrupulous mages in the past have tried to experiment on children because of their flexibility and rapid growth. Attempting to create 'better mages'. Grown soldiers, basically. All failed, though. Without exception. Others just... Exploded.”
“Side effects like a warped mana core that refuses to decompress, condemning the subject to a slow and painful death before they inevitably combust from a sudden overload of mana when the etheric pseudo-barrier cascades?” Tyr asked, astonishing the older man in front of him.
“How do you...?” A glint of suspicion hovered once again in Gerald's dark eyes. Hooded eyes, with a well of power far greater than Tyr's own hidden just behind them. When he looked in the way that he did, it was like staring into the bottom of an endless well.
Tyr shrugged. “I think someone did that to me. And they failed, most likely. I've known this for some time, and am living with it. Why does any of this matter, though?”
Gerald nodded in understanding. “I ask merely as a prelude to my next question. Were you aware that you are breathing in mana? How are you doing that without getting sick?”
“I am.” Tyr replied. “And that's not a question I am at liberty to answer. Call it a sound piece of advice when I ask you not to pursue it either. A secret few besides the primus' are aware of. It fell into my lap by association.”
“World energy?” Gerald asked, and Tyr's expression hardened. “Relax, I am well aware of what happens to those who push too far into the realm of forbidden knowledge. I can see it as well as anyone who's aware enough. As can more people than you'd think, the problem is accessing it. But seeing as its development inversely harms the mana body, it remains theory. Few archmages are willing to sacrifice their hard earned mana capacity just to be a bit stronger physically. I was given this information by primus Ragnar, some time ago. No reason to be nervous, there are those of us aware who have no interest in pursuing it beyond anything but theory.”
“I see.” Tyr replied. No longer concerned with the man being a part of the clandestine organization that went about assassinating people that tried to spread advanced knowledge about the spira. Amistad's academies were aware of it too, also only in theory. Not how to build upon it, and the influx of spira from regular experience was far too little to feel enough to sense it's development. He supposed... “I was trained by a man who called it cultivation. Right now, it's the only thing keeping me alive. Or at least, preventing me from falling into a seizure and foaming at the mouth.”
“By circulating mana through your body in a close approximation to a biological circulatory system?”
Tyr nodded.
“Incredible. You do this all the time?”
“Even when I sleep.” Tyr replied. “It's not as hard as it sounds. Now, it's automatic, unless I think about it. Like conscious breathing. Now, it's irritating me, but it'll return to normal as soon as my mind moves on.”
Not as hard as it sounds. Gerald exhaled through his noise and leaned back, kicking his feet up on his desk. It answered many questions as to how such a young man was able to come to a partial awakening. Active mana circulation was hard, but unconscious mana circulation was unheard of in humans. A spiritual remnant from an age long passed when mages would meditate like priests in locations of rich elemental energy. Only a magical beast or higher form of monster could unconsciously circulate their magic. That was how chimera's worked. But he was certain that Tyr was no chimera. Something else, perhaps.
“Thank you for indulging me. I've many questions, but not the time. I brought you here to discuss payment for your contribution. In truth, I'm not sure how to. You have contributed more research material to the association that any single guild in the last decade or so. Your final tally after all is said and done, with your 10% bonus as per our contract with the hunters guild was roughly eighty four thousand contribution points.”
“Is that a lot?” Tyr asked. “I suppose that's a stupid question, since it was ten years of work practically overnight.”
“Yes, it's 'a lot'.” Gerald chuckled. “So much processing power was necessary to assess your artifacts that the power grid throughout the city went out for around four minutes. That has never happened, not in the entire time humans have occupied Aurora. Though I suspect there was more to it than that, I won't pry. As for payment, to be candid, I cannot allot more than a thousand contribution points per rank, per calendar year. Seeing as you are silver, bonus included, your annual capacity is five thousand. If you agree to promote to gold, we'll call it ten thousand. A remaining fifty to be paid out over the course of five years.”
“Fifty?” Tyr asked. He felt like he was being ripped off. Still as stingy as ever. Forging once upon a time had shown him that no amount of gold or resources was enough. He would always need more, and he had been counting on a better deal than that.
“Fifty.” Gerald replied, for a flat total of sixty thousand contribution points. “There are politics at play, even giving you ten thousand is enough for some guilds to go up in arms and declare a guild war. And seeing as most of your leadership is dead or missing, our only recourse is to declare it an anonymous reallocation of resources. From an accounting standpoint, you'll be receiving the collected financial resources of every confirmed killed Hunter with no family or beneficiary. This is the best offer you'll ever get. It's a penalized and taxed rate, but it's more than fair. I've sweetened the pot behind the scenes, but this much going public is already too much. Making it sound like a life insurance collection is simply the best play.”
“And if I say no?”
“Then I am legally and contractually obligated to abide by your request and offer you deferred payments for the next eight to twelve years. That is, if you survive the host of acquisition wars sure to come your way.”
“Other guilds can declare war on us? How does that work?” Tyr found the concept a bit amusing, though incredibly barbaric for such a civilized society.
“You meet up in a location determined by a third party and beat each other up until one side or another submits to the terms. There are rules and precedent for all of this, and they'll need senate approval to see it done. But they'll get it. Half the guilds are in their pockets, only a handful refrain from bribes and lobbying.”
Tyr smirked at the idea of being chased down by even more people. As much as he'd enjoy a brawl like that, it would be immature. The old him might have baited it, but he'd matured a least enough to know that it'd be a waste of time. Everything to lose, and nothing to gain.
“Understood.” Tyr nodded. “I'll take that offer, then. As far as being a gold ranked adventurer...”
“Your concerns were noted at length in your file by my daughter. There will be no full time contract levied against you due to your multi-national affiliation. To do so would be a conflict of interest considering the events occurring in both the republic and the successor states, in any case. As long as you stay in good standing, your gold rank will be independent from the republic and its guilds. You'll get the same consideration from them, and a badge to match, but for all purposes you'll be an association adventurer working on contract with the hunters. Thereby avoiding taking any oath of moment with the senate – but any official guild personnel regardless of their ranking may or may not still be your superior based on their individual chain of command. You'll still have the same duties, but they won't be so official. A gold rank with a class 2 rating is my offer. With it, you'll carry the benefits of a VIP adventurer, and access to more advanced resources that a class 1. You will not receive a better offer anywhere in the world, and I am only giving you this much because my daughter and others have rated you so highly. Perhaps not in personality, but at least in effectiveness and measurable statistics such as CCR, for example.”
“Daughter?” Tyr asked. He'd agree to everything else. Altogether, it sounded too good to be true, but he'd have someone look over his contract just in case. To ensure there were no hidden catches or strings attached.
“Her name is Rose. I believe she was your dispatcher in Amistad, correct?”
Tyr frowned. “Why are all of you related...?”