"You are welcome here, Young Master Emerald," the master of the martial academy said to Nash, guiding him and his guards into the cramped gym; as always, Nash brought the minimum number of guards that he was allowed, but it was still difficult to cram both of them into the small space. Part of that was the weaponry at their hips that forced them to shimmy more than walk, holding one hand to steady the scabbard and the other in their jackets, obviously brushing up against a shorter concealed weapon better for the close quarters.

The hardwood floor was genuine hardwood rather than a veneer, kept clean and polished even though it had been scratched by time and life to no end. On the walls, pictures of students and calligraphy hung from small brass nails; the pieces of writing were done both by the proprietor of the Academy in his characteristic scratchy hand and by his students, and both were displayed with the same pride.

Nash and his party were flanked on each side of the hallway by eye-vines 'standing' on end like soldiers standing in the perfectly spaced ranks of a military parade, balanced on their plant-parts and staring straight ahead; they were different in coloration and had a smoother, less natural vine than Old Man Looking-In’s, with similarly unnatural eyes perched on those stalks. Their perfectly circular pupils slid along the perfectly spherical eyes to track the Emeralds as Nash, one guard in front and one guard behind, was guided through the hallways and up the stairs.

They emerged into a cramped but cozy study and he was directed to sit down by the small table. There were only two chairs available and, apologetically, the disciple of Old Man Looking-In directed the guards to remain standing; they did so on each side of the Young Master, mute.

"Would you like some tea?" the man asked, glancing towards the kettle but not standing up to retrieve it yet. "I apologize my Master could not be here today; he is still attending to some obligations of his own."

"Of course, though the guards will likely insist you drink yours first," Nash said, reaching into his pocket. "By your Master, I assume you mean Old Man Looking-In? He may not be here in person, but he did send me a message through this not long ago." He set the small eye-vine on the table; even with it inert and immobile, Nash had to resist the urge to fling the thing away from him when he felt the slightly wet outside of the globe touch his fingers.

"Ah, yes," the mathematician said, gathering his teaware. "He did say he had spoken to you, though I did not know one of his was still with you. He did tell me about you; did you know that?"

"I did not. Did I make that much of an impression?"

"Obviously, especially given that he set you up in the academy rather than in a hotel. It was all good things that he said, do not get me wrong, but -" The man chuckled anxiously as he collected himself, and Nash waited patiently; the man obviously hadn't any rhetoric training, so it wouldn't do to embarrass him over the minor faux pas. "Yes, he was very impressed with you for the short time you were with him." A little nervously, he glanced at the guards, but soldiered on. "In fact, he said that he was disappointed he could not take you as his disciple."

"He did seem to be heading that direction," Nash said, chuckling. "His insights were useful, but unfortunately someone in my position cannot take a master that has not been selected by the Emerald Family."

"Of course, of course," the other cultivator said, repeating the words as he brewed the tea; the movements were practiced and easy, and the anxiety visible in his expression dissipated slightly with the soothing ritual. As he poured the water in for the first steep, he paused; "If it is not too blunt, may I ask why you are here?"

"Do you mean in your Academy or in Grand Harbor in general?"

"Both, if it is not too uncouth."

"Must be a long-steeping tea," Nash remarked, more than a little amused as the man across the table scrambled to pour it out of the little teapot before it went bitter. "Why, I have some business here in Grand Harbor. I remembered that your Master had mentioned this place before, and my interest in him was piqued after our correspondence, so I stopped by."

"Ah." His face twisted into the expression of a man who heard unfortunate news. "Does this business have to do with the Temple?"

"So you know about them," Nash said, pleasantly surprised. "To answer the unspoken question, no, there is not a simulacrum running around your city and causing mischief. To my knowledge, that is. Rather, I'm simply here to acquire some cultivation resources; more than likely, I'll be spending my days here in rather dull negotiation with suppliers and such."

The man practically deflated in relief, pushing a cup of the tea towards Nash. "Of course. Is there any more I can do for you, Young Master?"

Nash took a sip, noting the cheapness of the tea but not commenting on it. "So, did Old Man Looking-In stop by, or just contact you via eye?"

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An amnesiac leaned against an alley wall with a pack of cigarettes and a stolen pawn-shop phone, itself likely stolen and sold. Lighting the tobacco came easy, and it felt natural for it to be in his mouth as he scrolled through news articles on the apron-wearing cultivator menace of the Capital City, leeching wifi off a fast food restaurant.

"This the guy?" he asked, his eyes looking down to the reflection of the eye in his neck, it too scanning the screen.

"Seems like it," his own mouth said. "Yeah, that's the temple guy. Just gotta figure out a way to hinder that teacher's pet for Mother."

He bit down on the cigarette in his mouth, swallowing the still-burning stick. He waited a second for it to settle in his stomach, and thought at the parasite, not quite in the mood to speak and thus spit the remaining ash from his mouth. Well, that's progress, isn't it? I believe you owe me a name.

His mouth spoke the parasite's response. "Oh, goody goody. You've opened a phone and looked up 'apron dude,' want an award for that?"

"For dealing with you I deserve one."

"Fine. 'Thief' is more apt, but your name is Lepus; your personal name, at least."

Gears turned in his head, his brain foggy with the parasite's shared use. "My name means rabbit? Are you joking?"

"You never liked it all that much. From what I've seen, I find it fitting.*" The eye swirled around, red iris ping-ponging around as the yellowed, jaundiced orb rolled jovially through the lattice of fungal scar tissue. "Not as fitting as some other names, though. I can think of some off the top of your head."

"Like what?"

Lepus... Never liked it much... Other names? Thoughts swirled slowly through his head, and it felt like a half-dozen other monikers were dancing at the tip of his tongue, just barely beyond his recollection.

"Need to get me more progress for any more info, buddy-boy."

Lepus scowled, for as much as the name appeared to have chafed on him, it was the only one he had; he could feel the smoke rising out of his pores like a thousand pin-thin sticks of incense pushed into his skin, but pushed the emotion down.

He didn't dignify the parasite's words with a response, but instead scrolled through the articles once more, having to unlock the stolen phone again as it had fallen asleep during the conversation. At one point, though, he felt an odd sense of familiarity; there! Not in that article, but in the sidebar, advertising another article; an image of a face that he couldn't remember but swore that he should have and -

The eye emerging from his neck glowed a deeper red and the thief's leg muscles went slack, sending his vacant body to limply ragdoll on the ground; a few seconds later, he stood back up with a splitting headache and a cracked phone screen. Groaning, he rubbed his head. "What was that? Where were we?"

"Dunno," the parasite said. "Out of nowhere you hit your head and decided you needed a nap, little rabbit. Get back to work or no more memories for you; the phone's a dead end."

Lepus opened his mouth to dispute that, but a wave of apathy beat against his consciousness, every bit of his brainpower already nearly monopolized by the parasite. "Alright," he said, dropping the phone to clatter across the ground; he didn't have the energy, mental or physical, to dispute whatever that idiot said. "Absolute prick," he muttered, dusting off his stolen clothes. A fresh wave of pain washed through his skull, and he felt for where he hit it.

Odd. Not a bump on me. Guess it’s the perks of Third Calcification, he mused. The incongruent thought was pushed away, and he could neither tell nor care whether it was by him or the parasite. "Where did it say he was hiding out? The subways?"

"If you wanna get yourself killed, sure."

He stumbled out of the alleyway, popping another cigarette into his mouth. "Least it would take you out with me," Lepus replied through the tobacco clenched in his teeth. "Fine. I'll see if I can rob some store or equipment auction or something, go and steal myself some treasures."

"Got any plans that won't get you and more importantly me, killed?" Lepus could feel the parasitic eye retracting into the mycelium and frowned, shuddering slightly at the disconcerting feeling of the eye receding into him, rising bile into his throat.

"If you have anything better, feel free."

"I am literally incapable of planning."

Lepus rolled his eyes, the ones on his face to be specific. "Then I'll see if I can get a weapon or something at least. You sure it's too dangerous to raid an auction? I want an Aetheric one if I'm gonna be fighting that apron-wearing cultivator. Didn't he demolish a city block or something?"

"You'll need a weapon to fight him, especially with your primitive cultivation methods."

Lepus fell into silence, scowling.

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As a hotel meant to cater to the elite of society, the luxury Grand Harbor Hotel had to fulfill a cultivator's every whim.

They had the standard accommodations, of course; casks upon casks of aged fine wines and whiskies filled their cellar alongside herbs and seasonings made of specially dried Aether-plants, to go with the fine collection of tea stored in gilt, airtight containers. The wine room alone was the size of a normal mortal house, and they had freezers and freezers of meat and vegetables and fish, every animal product being Aether-beast derived or from prestigious farms known for the breeding of their animals.

Perhaps their most popular accommodation, though, was their training room. Or rather, rooms, as there was at least one for every floor of the hotel; each one was furnished with state-of-the-art equipment; overpriced name brands mixed with artisan work, pointless opulence ranging from weights having their labels in inlaid gold to hand stitched leather seats for benches to fountains of sports drinks, each one doped with strength-enhancing Aether herbs.

It was in one of these rooms that Lycaon, Sorex, and Lacerta had unintentionally gathered. Lycaon was hitting the weights, Sorex currently spotting him on the bench press. Once that set was finished, they switched with a reduced weight, though not by as much as one would expect by the relative sizes of the cultivators, and continued. Not too far from them, Lacerta was doing some odd grip-strength exercise that involved a cable machine and a pinch-grip that just barely touched the handle.

"So," Lycaon grunted, pushing a plate onto the barbell. "Any progress on that assignment? Or Leo?"

"Are you talking to Lacerta or me?" Sorex asked, his voice only barely above a whisper as he hovered his fingers below the bar, ready to catch it if Lycaon failed to lift the increased weight.

"Doesn't matter; either works."

"In that case," Lacerta said from across the room, slowly releasing the cable and adjusting the weight upwards, "Unless Sorex has anything to say, I'll go first. That alright?"

Sorex raised no objection, and she went on speaking, giving a short summary of a few different options she had looked into for buying resources. Once she was finished, Sorex went, softly explaining a few alternative methods they could pursue, from reputable mountain surveyors to sea trawlers to other independent contractors from whom they could buy ingredients directly. Between his reps on the bench, Lycaon chimed in, asking for clarification or tossing in some of the relatively sparse information he had gathered into the discussion.

"Any idea of when the Emerald's gonna be back?" he asked whilst taking off one of the plates in preparation for Sorex's set.

Lacerta, having moved onto a different machine, paused for a bit, considering. "I'm not sure," she said, grunting as she pushed through the next rep, pausing once more at the top, this time as part of the exercise. "He said he had to speak to the Mayor, then he had a 'personal errand,' whatever that means."

Lycaon chuckled. "Place your bets on what it is. I bet he's got a mistress or something."

"Do I need to?" Lacerta asked. Sorex seemed to silently echo that sentiment, face twisting in confusion and exertion as he swiftly finished his set and stiffly motioned Lycaon to take his place.

"Squats are next," Lycaon said in response to the unspoken offer, moving to a squat rack a bit closer to Lacerta than their bench had been. "What, not curious about what it could be?"

"One, I don't have the same psychology obsession you do. Two," she continued, holding up a single finger as she dismounted the leg press, "That could be some main family minefield I don't want to step into; I like having all of my fingers and both of my eyes, thank you very much. Three, I don't want to find out what he's doing unless it's gonna get me killed."

"Why not?"

"He's our direct superior, not to mention a main family Emerald," she said with the tone of someone explaining something rather obvious to a small child, such as that the things on the stove were hot or that children shouldn't roll around in poison ivy. "He just needs to say the word, and our lives will become much more difficult, no questions asked."

"I'm with Lacerta on this one. Sorry." Sorex's voice was even quieter than it normally was, and even though his face was impassive his hands seemed to clench just a bit harder on the weight he was sliding onto the bar. "I don't want to find out something that would get the team disbanded."

Lycaon nodded, positioning himself to squat the bar. "Fair enough. I didn't mean go and find out, exactly, just guess about what it could be. We don't really know much about him, do we? Not on a personal level, at least."

"Do we have to? I just need to know enough to be sure he isn't going to defect from the Clan or get us killed some other way," Lacerta said.

"I..." Sorex considered his words. "I wouldn't oppose everyone getting to know him better. He's our leader, after all. But I also don't want to insult the main family somehow."

There was a short pause as Lycaon finished his set and racked the bar once more, resting a little. "I suppose. Guess I was just curious; I don't really know anything about what he does in his free time, if he isn't just constantly dealing with main family business. He has to destress somehow."

"Is a mistress your idea of destressing, Morganite?" Lacerta jabbed, a smile on her face. "You would think with all the prissy little mortal psychology classes you would've found a less dangerous way."

Lycaon laughed at that, a full-bodied laugh coming straight out of his gut. "Dangerous would be right! Nah, don't have the time for an affair; anyway, my father would kill me if I did."

"Oh," Sorex said just as Lycaon grabbed the bar for another set, moving to spot him. "Has he got someone selected for you already?"

"Not him," Lycaon said. "My mother has some strong opinions on the subject, though. She's been looking for one since I was twelve, or at least started telling me she was then; she has it narrowed down to three or four at this point, I think."

"Huh." The concept seemed completely unfamiliar to Sorex, who seemed deep in thought. Lacerta was the one to interrupt the silence next, except of course the clinking of weights and squeak of shoe on floor.

"Kinda the same here. At least I get a veto, though. How'd we get to this anyway?" She turned towards Sorex. "Anyone picked out for you yet? I mean, I know that your parents aren't..."

"Exactly in the picture, no. You can just say they're dead, I don't remember them anyway." Awkwardness suffused the room before Sorex, oddly enough, was the one to break the tension with a clearing of his throat. "No, nobody yet at least. Uncle Longstep stops by sometimes, but he's too busy to get involved with something as time-consuming as matchmaking."

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"Don't you have a guardian or something? Wouldn't they be the one to do that, or do they just not have the authority?" Lycaon asked, his face curious and concerned. "Maybe you're just young enough that they aren't worried yet. How old are you, again?"

"No, I don't have a guardian," Sorex said, apparently confused by the premise enough that his head cocked to the side. "The tutors stop by every so often, but they don't stay long after lessons. And I'm fifteen, why do you ask?"

Across the room, Lycaon and Lacerta shared a glance. Nothing was spoken, but there was an instant agreement that something had gone wrong along the way; hopefully, as recently as possible, and solely with Sorex's communication to them. "So..." Lycaon said, drawing the syllable out in uncertainty. "You don't have a specific guardian, but you at least have some servants around to take care of you, no? Shouldn't one of them be assigned to that sort of thing? Do they just not have the authority?"

"There are servants, yeah," Sorex said, to the obvious relief of both Lycaon and, to a lesser extent, Lacerta. "I don't talk to them much, though. I've tried, but they're not supposed to be seen."

That brief relief shattered, and the smiles became strained. "Sorex," Lycaon said, "What exactly do you mean by 'not supposed to be seen?'"

"What is there to explain about it?" Sorex seemed confused to the point of incredulity at the query. "They don't seem to like it when I try to see them. They have passages all throughout the manor; I only really know they're there because things change when I'm not in the room."

Lacerta hesitated. "You know that's... Not normal, right?"

"What do you mean?"

"Normally, servants are just within reach," she said, pointing to the door. "Standing outside this room is one of my servants, sent by my father to look over me. With a word, they are to immediately enter and assess the situation, deciding whether I am in any immediate danger and fulfilling any one of my whims. Within reason, of course."

"Yeah? I have a servant out there too. I'm not supposed to leave the manor without one; it's too dangerous."

"That's the problem. They should be in the manor too."

"What? The manor isn't dangerous." The words were with the same certainty as one stating that a Second Calcification cultivator was stronger than one in the First. "It's safe now. They patrol constantly, making sure that what happened won't happen again."

"You shouldn't be alone in the manor," Lycaon said, momentarily forgetting his exercise. "Maybe now, at your age, it would be fine for a month or two, but you can't just be alone for long stretches of time like that in your developmental years. Did you at least have a nanny or something?"

"No. I've been alone except for the visits of my tutors or Uncle Longstep for as long as I can remember."

Lycaon opened his mouth to speak, but reconsidered. He pushed his lips together and pulled them apart a few times, uncertain, before eventually settling on a few words and a promise.

"We'll talk about this later. For now, just focus on your workout."

The rest of the session was done awkwardly and as silent as a gym could be.

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Leo hated this trip; he hated everything about it. He hated being away from the Aquamarine estate. He hated having to work with a gaggle full of sycophants, all of them stronger than him. He hated having to work under a spoiled little Emerald, once again stronger than him.

He hated being weak.

Every day, every hour, every minute he wasn't occupied with one of the Emerald's vapid errands and the other branch family's favor-currying ways, he was staring into his channels with his Luminiferous Vision, hoping that that blurry image would, with his daily efforts, resolve into something sharper, something harder, something more like the sword his family cultivated. Checking, of course, did nothing for his progress, but he did it anyway; it was both infuriating and encouraging, to see every day the infinitesimal improvement. Each day, it was very little. When he had been assigned to that moron of an Emerald, he had been in the First Calcification, about three fourths of the way to the Second.

Now, he was still in the First Calcification, but he was closer to four-fifths instead of three-fourths of the way through. By any measure, that was decent, steady improvement. Still, it didn't feel like enough; he was still far behind the others, still far behind Lyncis. He scowled, slightly overswinging with that thought, throwing off the rhythm of his practice form.

Why did he have to be the second child? Why did he have to be the spare?

Even here, he was the least of the group other than the servants. Everyone else was stronger, better liked. Intellectually, he knew exactly why; the others were the heirs of their respective families, most of which were older than the Aquamarines, and had thus received better resources from a younger age than he could ever hope to lay his eyes upon. As for liked? He was pushing them away. Sometimes it was deliberate. Sometimes he regretted it. Whenever he tried to connect, though, a fresh well of disgust shot up through him, and he felt nothing but anger looking at those smug, spoiled brats.

No, he would just have to suffer through this.

He could bear with the stupid, egotistical Emerald for a while longer. He could bear with the psycho Heliodor, with the annoyingly shy little Beryl, even with the hostility between their families, and even with the stupid, nosy Morganite.

The idiotic Morganite whose questions stabbed at him like daggers. It was always the little comments, the ones that didn't set in until he was alone, with nothing but him and his sword. But wouldn't an unbacked cultivator say the same thing about you? was the most recent, but not the first.

His hand trembled, and his stab went over a centimeter off target.

Lacerta's comments were the same; you were volunteered by your family and ordered by your Patriarch, her voice whispered in his head. A slash that would've perfectly cut an opponent’s throat turned into one that would catch on their chin. Should that not be enough?

The muscles in his forearm clenched to the point of pain, his knuckles going white. The next strike was on-target, but stiff, predictable.

He loosened his grip and moved back to the initial position of the form, breathing in and out. His eyebrows furrowed as he attempted to calm himself, to bring himself away from the thoughts that were throwing him off.

Eventually, he gave up, moving to a different, much less precise exercise. He called a servant in and requested tatami mats and a stand; might as well get some cutting practice in. It would feel good to destroy something.

Better than wallowing in his insecurities, at least.

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Amusement smiled behind his dented and gouged respirator of steel and charcoal.

He was drenched in blood, both his and what seeped out of the pink corpse-shelf mushrooms when he trod on them, and his apron was shredded into unrecognizability. His body was covered in the burnt, cauterized remains of cuts and bruises and scrapes, every instance of a break in his skin closed before his Senior Sister's spores could infiltrate him.

His pants were barely there. The most intact piece of 'clothing' was the respiratory mask, and he had resorted to using his control over metal rather than mundane pockets to hold his tools to his body, his shirt shredded, only held dangling onto his body from where it was tucked into his belt; that too was itself only held together with metal pins, and only bothered with because he could tuck the slag hammer into it rather than carry it everywhere.

Sure, it was annoying to have to deal with his duty. The amusement he sought so hard dissipated as nothing but a distraction every time he pushed into those tunnels, flinging waves of metal and ripping spikes of rebar and reinforcing metal mesh out of concrete to attack Senior Sister, every time risking his life enough that his directives forced him to abandon any seeking of his namesake. It was so dull to keep going with his work, and he ‘wanted’ nothing more than to leave this farce and amuse himself somehow.

But his new arm was working, and that was his respite from the blankness of his duty. After every fight with Senior Sister, after every near-death experience, after every time he performed a risk-assessment and retreated, deciding that he was sustaining more damage than he was dealing, he got to get to a more fun duty. He got to move onto adjusting the arm, applying whatever he had learned in the battle, making it more powerful, more responsive, more tied into his cultivation.

That was amusing, staving off the gnawing and gnashing of void at the core of his being.

When he had first entered the subway system to thwart the apostate of the Temple, it had been a simple thing; a humanoid arm, nearly the same as his flesh one, without even the bronze shot through, clumsy and slow and imprecise. Now, though?

Now, it was so much more.

The incorporation of the bronze as artificial motor neurons had worked wonders. While once it was unresponsive, heavy, slow, now it was quick as a whip and so close to the reaction speed of his other arm as to be indistinguishable, even to his advanced senses. He had integrated weapons into it, retractable blades to pierce and cut and hack away at the fungal growths, as well as a less conventional method of attack.

Inside the forearm was a highly-compressed canister of propane, the fuel stolen from a gas station in a short excursion to the surface solely for that substance; it was compressed to the point of nigh-impossibility, only the metal-strengthening nature of his cultivation keeping the supercooled liquid from cracking and exploding the container from temperature or pressure. Next to it was another, smaller canister, of pure oxygen instead of fuel.

With a twitch of a mental muscle, he could open the valve in the canister and unlatch his hand, swinging it out of the way of the flamethrower of his arm and securing the back of his palm to his forearm. With another neural impulse he could activate the simple friction-and-magnesium lighter, igniting the gas and sending it to scorch hyphae or heat a piece of metal for cauterizing himself.

If one considered the relatively inadequate materials, it was perhaps his best work. That thought was amusing too, almost as amusing as the creation of the piece. He chuckled to himself, wiping the blood out of his eyes.

The sound, despite the muffling of his respirator, echoed through the empty halls; here, even the rot had either retreated or been burnt away with the hyphae.

Thinking of Senior Sister... He gazed down the dark hallway. In the distance, he could hear the skittering of the malformed instances of Senior Sister, stupid or slow or weak enough that she did not hesitate to discard them. Right now, he could probably take them on, but it probably wouldn't do much damage to Senior Sister at all; this was obviously an attempt to continue their war of attrition, and if things continued this way, she would win.

Instantly, he made his decision. He reached out his flesh arm, raising it into the air, fingers twisted into an arcane gesture. He slammed it down, and with it came the rebar supporting the concrete of the tunnel, sending a rain of skull-shattering concrete, flesh-shredding ribbons of stretched and sharpened rebar, and lung-choking dust down, caving in the tunnel.

He performed an about-face and headed for the nearest exit. He needed a few more things before he continued his duty.

Thankfully, he had more than enough time to look for some amusement on the way.

----------------------------------------

A few hours later, the news outlets were all over it. All the way in Grand Harbor, six old cultivators in a seaside cave grimly received the reports of heightened Temple activity. They poured a small measure of wine out into the sea for those lost and then put that behind them in order to plan their next move; the major point of contention was whether to invite an unpolished Emerald into their conspiracy.

Eventually, they came to an agreement. In the Striking Vine Martial Academy, an eye-vine awoke and opened a small tin of paper and ink set aside specifically for that purpose and began to write.

As soon as Old Man Looking-In's disciple saw it, he opened his phone and sent the Young Master a message, and an invitation.

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Nash stared up at the seaside cliff. Behind him the limousine idled, ill-suited to the dirt and gravel roads that had brought them here, adding its rumbling hum to the crash of waves and keening of wind. In front of him, the cliff loomed; the ancient rock, worn by water and wind and salt, reached hundreds of feet into the sky above the smaller, lower cliff they stood on. In ledges and crevasses, carved into the cliff by time and rock sloughing off into the sea, mosses and brambles and small branches reached out into the bleak seaside air, drinking in the salty spray.

Links of rusted chain were affixed to the cliff by means of similarly rusted nails and pulled taut, going higher and higher until they ceased at a small ledge, the opening to what appeared to be one of the deeper caves in the cliff.

Nash held a hand up and snapped his fingers. The car’s engine ceased, and the driver stepped out, closing the door with a choreographed elegance, every movement emphasized and deliberate. They walked up to the Young Master, and put their fist to their palm and bowed their head; a martial salute. Nash returned it, though he did not bow his head. "One shall come with me," he said, his voice nearly drowned out by the constant rumble of waves splashing against the base of the cliff. "The highest in cultivation. The others shall guard the car."

The chauffeur bowed once more and spun in place, walking back to the car and relaying the order.

Nash walked up to the chain. Behind him, a guard followed; this one was a new one to join him and his Father had obviously decided that, if a Third Calcification cultivator was not enough to protect him, he would send a Fourth. He recognized this cultivator. It was the Lightning element cultivator who had acted as backup during the disastrous Amusement debacle. "Your name?" he asked, shrugging off the jacket portion of his suit-and-robes and draping it over his arm.

The cultivator gave another salute. "I am called Acrux, Young Master."

"Good. Be ready to scale the cliff; I am getting ready." Nash took the green-and-gold jacket and rolled it as tight as he could manage without wrinkling it - quite a bit, it turned out, thanks to the expertise of Emerald tailors and exemplary materials - and brought the Emerald Flail into reality.

Still need to write a treatise on that, he mused, flexing the appendage with his cultivation and opening a passage into the gel-like interior, putting the clothing in. "You are in the Fourth, are you not?" he asked, closing the Flail's woven exterior.

"Yes, Young Master."

"Good. I'll do my best to affix myself with the Flail, but I may fall; be ready to catch me. Do you have everything you require to continue?" A polite nod sufficed for that question, and Nash returned the gesture. He closed the Flail up once more and grabbed onto the chain, loosely wrapping the Flail around it and climbing.

Hand-over-hand, his feet pushing against the slick and uneven surface of the cliff, he ascended.

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In the mountains, a man ran from the core of his being. He was called the Alchemist by all, even himself, and he hated the moniker almost as much as he hated his previous one. He was a simulacrum, of course.

When he was made, it was from a base of Fear, and it was that name and nature that he hated so. He was one of the few that could feel an inkling of ‘other’ emotions; fear was such a primal emotion that it could vary in expression and nature within that umbrella, from pure terror to creeping dread to a deflecting hate; all that did for him, though, was make it impossible to get used to the terrible sensations and emotion that constantly filled him.

Once again thanks to the nature of fear, he was perhaps the strongest of his brothers. That was no comfort, of course; even if he was capable of feeling something of that type, he would be much too busy with his constant soul-shaking terror to notice it.

The only time the terrible, nauseating, paranoid fear retreated from him was when he fulfilled his duty, when his entire being was emptied, focused on the directives carved into the heart of his being. That was why he was outside right now. Instead of a warm, safe cabin where he would be free to fear the terror percolating through his soul, he paradoxically felt less fear under the cold and uncaring moonlight, the howl of wolves and worse in the distance.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something glimmer. He stopped where he stood and rotated all at once, his clothes snapping to his body with the quick movement and sending an echoing crack down the mountainside.

He squatted down and, with his bare hands, brushed aside the bramble; it was dead and brittle, and snapped with the slightest movement through the frozen mass of brown thorns. He leaned in further; it was a Moonlight Ice Flower. A treasure in the hands of most, though he could remember from before the split with his main body the little flowers growing alongside the paths of the Hidden Mountain Temple as nothing more than decoration.

He shivered, partly from the cold and mostly from the terror the thought of the Temple brought him.

Reaching into his belt, he pulled out a small pair of scissors entirely made of silver, pure enough for this task but alloyed for hardness. Delicately, he reached out, clipping each petal off of the flower, whereupon they dropped into his other, waiting hand. Soon, every petal had been removed. He glanced over each shoulder, whipping his head back and forth, his eyes saccading with the same speed of his racing, neurotically fearful thoughts, looking for any threat to justify his fear.

He returned the scissors to their place in his belt and reached into a pouch hanging off the same. Out of it, he pulled out a small, mostly flat dish, also silver; for this instrument, the silver was only a plating over the copper interior, and in places it was etched with runes that softly glowed in the dark forest. His shaking hands went still, and he set the silver dish into the snow. He repositioned his body, sitting cross legged in the cold, wet snow, quiet crunching noises accompanying his movement; he leaned over the dish and placed the petals within, evenly spaced within the moonlight-reflecting silver.

Also out of his belt came a small vial, as long as his pinky finger and about as thick. He uncorked it and took a pipette from the inside, tapping it on the inside edge of the vial lip until only a single drop remained, and transferred that drop into the dish. Swiftly but smoothly, he repeated the same process for four other vials of varying colors, using the pipette from the last vial to mix the liquids together.

He breathed in and closed his eyes. When they opened, they saw into the Aether.

His hand wandered up to his head and he grabbed onto a single, thin hair from the wild, tangled mass of white hair that blended with the snow that had fallen into it. He turned it over in his fingers until it was held between two of his fingernails and he squeezed, severing it. Holding the hair like a brush, he dipped it into the Aethirically charged liquid, gathering a miniscule amount as residue on the infinitesimal end of the hair.

With the skill and ease of a practiced calligrapher but the unmistakably artificial precision and pauses of a CNC machine he brought the hair around, drawing an array of miniscule symbols on each silvery petal. When he lifted the hair from the final petal and set it in the snow next to the dish, the petals in the dish began to glow, both in the Aether and the physical world. Golden symbols glowed on the liquifying petals, all the melted plant matter dripping from the hollowing cellulose lattice and flowing towards the center of the dish. He kept watch over the minutes it took for this process to finish, his eyes scanning the distance out of duty-bound watchfulness rather than internal terror.

Soon, all of the useful material had been extracted from the petals. Empty scaffolds of plant matter, clear of any pigmentation or sign that they were once alive, clinged to the dish; in the center, a tiny pool of glowing liquid had collected, softly steaming. He reached into another pouch in his belt and dropped a crystal, the size of a single granule of sugar, into the liquid. Instantly, the reaction picked up; the steaming intensified in both heat and volume, and the liquid bubbled until it reduced in size by about half.

Another granule of a different material went in, and the substance began to congeal. Unnaturally, the edges picked up from the dish to accompany the increase in surface tension, and by the end of the process what the Alchemist was left with was a small, perfectly spherical pill.

The fear returned and he began to hyperventilate. Jittery, he popped the pill into his mouth and swallowed despite his rapidly building nausea, feeling the pill work on his channels, equivalent to weeks of constant cultivation. He grabbed the silver dish and shoved it back into the pouch it came from.

He stood up abruptly, and his head whipped back and forth, looking for something to justify his fear. He saw nothing but a fox and a rabbit. When the fox caught the rabbit, it stared at him; he spat at it, and it died.

It did nothing to allay the terrible, terrible fear that sunk into his gut.

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The emotionless husk in tattered robes still sat in the Temple, waiting for his simulacra to return.

Amusement. Fear. Only two of many. He would wait on more, for longer; internally, a clock ticked up. A bit under three years had passed. A bit more than one hundred and ninety seven were left.

The freezing, cutting air screamed through the stone halls. Another challenger came. Another challenger died.

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Where the river seeped into old, unprotected basements, where the subway was moist and dark and abandoned, where the alleys were unchecked and the buildings condemned but not demolished, Senior Sister waited.

Dozens of nodes of her being were placed here, in the seat of her power; the Capital. All connected. All parts of one massive, city-spanning nervous system. Her eyes, metaphorical and literal, stared at the Temple intruder pacing through her streets.

Her knives and claws and teeth were raised in rage. Wherever he went, she swore she would oppose him, that offshoot of that cowardly sycophant.