"Hello, Father," Nash said, standing in front of the Emerald Patriarch's desk.

His face was covered in bruises and cuts, and it was perhaps the least injured part of him; the cuffs around his wrists that kept his arms behind his back concealed the extent of his bruises, mostly on his arms, from the Patriarch, though likely unintentionally.

The room was done in the current style, with hints of the Emerald Clan's noble past. The Emerald crest, done in a tapestry of gold thread as background and green Aetheric gems for the design, hung behind the desk to frame the Patriarch, his perfectly trim silhouette of his formal suit-and-robes contrasting against the green-and-gold.

The desk was clear except for a high-end monitor, keyboard, and mouse, the cords from those devices directed to a specialized compartment in the mahogany and ivory surface of the desk, running through the artisan-carved table legs and into the polished marble floor.

Senator Emerald looked up from the organized assortment of manila folders on the desk, and sighed.

"What do you have to say for yourself, son?" The last word, said utterly unlovingly and in the same uninterested tone as the rest of the sentence, hit Nash with more force than any invective could have.

His chair swiveled, and he opened a drawer, pulling out another manila folder. He opened it and splayed out the papers in front of Nash; the dry, clinical word processor formatting and professional graphs clearly and concisely communicated the information contained within with neither judgement nor advisement.

"Ah, graphs," Nash said dryly, skimming the figures. "Costs of police intervention - a waste, since they didn't do anything, by the way - salaries for professional investigators, loss of equipment, compensation, tracking devices. I'm flattered, Father; you only spend two hundred times this much on your campaigning. I didn't know I was worth that much to you, Father."

"You are to call me Patriarch for now, son."

His eyes slowly drifted to look at Nash, utterly disinterested even as he turned his whole body to face him. "You know exactly how much of an issue you caused through your foolishness," he said, boredom creeping into his voice. "This is an unnecessary expense, and your tutors are going to have to spend months beating whatever bad habits you've picked up out of you. That is a waste of your time, and a time in which you are useless to the Clan."

He gathered the papers once again and returned them to their drawer. "Do you have anything to say for yourself?"

Nash brought most of his torso into the Aether and passed his hands in front of him. "That's quite the question, Patriarch. Sure, in those months in which I was gone I couldn't attend your supporter's parties dolled up in all my frippery as a prized decoration, but I broke through to the Third Calcification. If you inspect my cultivation, I am sure you will find it up to even the usual Emerald standards; and isn't it true that the heir to a family like ours has to be powerful?"

Nash inspected the cuffs around his wrists and chuckled slightly to himself - they were made only for Second Calcification cultivators. With a sharp movement, he broke the solid bar of metal that connected them. "If the heir to a clan is only in the Second Calcification while his peers are quickly moving past that point, does it not reflect badly on the clan?"

He smiled, and continued to speak. "Especially if that Young Master takes the time to show up to all the most exclusive events instead of spending more time cultivating?"

"You will stop talking now," the Patriarch said. "I am sure a paltry advancement feels exhilarating for a child like you, but more than likely is that we will be forced to waste yet another treasure on you to repair whatever flaws you have carved into your channels."

"You may go," he continued, looking back down at another manila folder. "You will be accompanied to your quarters. You will not be able to leave them until you are required elsewhere."

"Very well, Patriarch," Nash said, giving a perfect martial salute before turning to leave. As he did, he brought his arms into the Aether and dropped the cuffs just before closing the door.

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

In the hall, Nash was escorted to his room by several cultivators in the Third Calcification. As he was led away, he caught out of the corner of his eye Beryl entering the room, and chuckled to himself.

"What?" one of the more short-tempered guards barked out, more of a reprimand than a question.

"Nothing," Nash replied. "I just had a thought; a lapdog begging for its master's forgiveness."

The guard’s temper rose at that, and he opened his mouth as if about to speak.

Another one rose their voice, much more measured than the previous speaker. "Young Master, you have an appointment in the training grounds in thirty minutes. It is recommended to change into your training clothes. Afterwards, you are to meet with the tailor, and then with your public relations manager to brief you on the official happenings and your return."

"Very well," Nash sighed. "Tell them I'll be there shortly."

He stepped into the room and closed the door, looking in the closet.

A different room than usual, he thought, looking at the opulent yet sterile surroundings. A large bed with silk sheets was the centerpiece of the room, the closet was large enough for him to walk in (though empty,) and there was an entirely new workout outfit laid out on the bed for him.

As he slipped out of his old clothes and into the new, he took care to take the knife out of the pocket; he didn't want to maim a servant as they were doing laundry, after all; it wouldn't be the first time, after all.

More than likely that they'd just burn those clothes, though, he thought, looking at the expensive yet soulless third-wave Heavenly Abstract* painting hanging from the wall. Guess they don't trust me around exterior walls. Don't blame 'em, though.

His new clothes on, he grabbed the knife. He focused on it, intently taking in every bit of the surface; the gentle filigree of the handle, forms of swimming carp done in silver along the hilt, while the blade was left unadorned.

The Emerald Flail materialized around it, the fibers tightening as they enveloped it. Then, the Flail disappeared back into the Aether, the knife with it. He pushed open the door and nodded to the attendant as he stepped out.

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

The Boss of the Crimson Bonfire Gang stared blankly. The bottle of brandy dropped from his hand as he simply forgot that he was holding anything, and the bottle shattered; glass sprayed everywhere through the room, the shards joining the shards already on the floor.

The shards of his treasure.

The broken crystals, cracked and fallen and cracked again by the force of that fall, laid in a pile on the ground around the metal tripod that once held the crystal, the stand intact where the treasure was not.

Once filled with roiling clouds of smoke, a glimpse into a microcosm of the world where a hurricane had formed from fire's remains, the crystals were empty now.

Teal, translucent, useless pieces of rock laying on the ground, mixed with shards of glass that had never held anything greater than simple booze.

The Boss could feel his body begin to produce smoke, the Densified Aether in his Sternum Etching drawn to the negative pressure of his channels reacting to his anger. He could feel his muscles tense. But he couldn't feel the anger he should be feeling.

There was nothing.

He felt nothing.

How? It was his treasure.

"It's... gone," he managed, the words coming unbidden by his conscious mind, each one a pure manifestation of his shock. "It's gone," he repeated, still not believing the words.

He knelt down next to the pile and stuck his hands in, sifting for any remnant of the smoke. Frantically, he kept going, grabbing shards and shoving them aside even as he lacerated his hand, ignoring the pain even as he could see the twitching of his tendons through the cuts in his flesh.

He found no smoke. He tried to take a shard and press it to another, and it didn't fit; he grabbed another and tried to fit that one and failed that too.

His Second found him hours later, still manically pressing shards of crystal against each other, disorganized piles forming in a system that only he comprehended. In front of him were the few shards he had managed to fit together, liable to separate at the slightest disturbance.

All of the shards were covered in the dripping, coagulating blood of the Boss. He kept going anyway.

The Second backed away slowly, putting the tablet down on the ground. The Boss would attend to it when he wanted to, if at all.

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

Amusement was unamused.

For him, that meant that he felt nothing, just a gnawing emptiness in the center of his malformed soul.

Instinctively, he knew that that emptiness should have been filled with something. Anger, hate, or frustration, perhaps; boredom, if nothing else.

Intellectually, he knew that such an absence would be disconcerting for any normal human (not that he was human,) but he was not built with the capability to feel that emotion.

As much as a creature like him could be said to 'want' anything, he 'wanted' to be finished with his current task so he could amuse himself and feel anything other than that lack.

In the back of the car, a cultivator writhed in her restraints. The Young Mistress of the Majestic Cloud Sect had a layer of duct tape wrapped around her mouth, stopping her screams, and her arms and legs were restrained in a similar manner.

Normally, weak tape like that would be unable to restrain a cultivator of her level. The Pin, however, was there to solve that problem.

The Pin was poorly named. It was less of a pin and more of a spike, a quarter of an inch in diameter*. It was a handsbreadth long, and had several pinholes cut into the sides. From those, dog-tags dangled, each one etched with minute runes, glowing with stolen lums as the heiress to the Gardner family struggled to escape.

The Pin was pierced into her sternum far enough that it came out the other side of the bone plate. Doubtlessly, the Young Mistress could feel it scrape against her trachea as she struggled.

Turning the key in the ignition, Amusement glanced back, his face still blank.

"There isn't much point in that, Ms. Gardner," he said, shifting gears. He moved to press on the gas, but then hesitated. He looked back, and gingerly grabbed her, placing her upright. "Don't struggle. It's so hard to clean blood out of these things," he said, strapping the seatbelt around the terrified Young Mistress.

He sat back in his own seat and began driving, not putting on his own seatbelt. That gave him a twinge of the amusement he was looking for, and Amusement's face momentarily lit up as the emptiness scratching on the inside of his mind quieted.

"Stop that," he said, smiling even wider, not looking back.

The Young Mistress flinched back, a small flower growing out of her hair and wrapping around The Pin.

Metal screeched under strain, the aluminum roof of the car denting inward until it pierced through the plastic interior all at once, a sharp-edged ribbon that lunged at the Young Mistress's head like a snake and severed the flower.

It drifted to the floor, uncoiling from the Pin as it dropped, a bit of the scalp and flesh beneath still connected to the plant. It withered immediately as it hit the floor mat of the car, turning brittle and brown and lifeless.

The aluminum, with another sound of tortured, creaking metal, snapped back into place in fractions of a fraction of a second, only barely within the plastic range and only then with the assistance of Aether.

"You're quite uncooperative, you know," Amusement said, turning on his turn signal. It clicked as he changed into the turn lane, and he glanced back. "Just like one of your Sect. It's always been so inconvenient to work with you people."

His face fell into emotionlessness once more. "It'll all be over for you soon. For you and your family, for daring to disrespect us."

Not looking away from the road, he grabbed onto the seat belt and crushed the plastic clip in one hand, throwing the metal piece at Gardner's head. It stopped just before it hit her, slowly rotating as it hovered and was reshaped into something thinner, something sharper, something much more like The Pin.

The point locked onto her face, and moved in. "Got anything to say about that?" he asked as the sharp spike cut away the duct tape at her mouth. It was not gentle, and much of the flesh around her lip came off with it, flecks of gray still attached to her lips and the wide strips by her cheeks left untouched.

"What do you want?" she asked, far too composed for someone in her circumstances.

If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

"What I want?" Amusement chuckled. "I don't want. I wasn't made to. I was simply ordered to take you close enough to the Temple for the repayment of an insult."

"And what insult might that be, simulacrum?"

"Oh, I don't have to tiptoe around you, do I?" Mirth permeated Amusement's voice, and he pulled the car to the side of the road in a sudden motion that caused the screeching of tires, not only his but also of those avoiding his erratic movement.

"Isn't that right, Senior?"

Cracks spread through The Pin as it was pushed out of the hole in the Young Mistress's sternum, shattering into minuscule metal shards when it hit the ground. Out from the tearing, widening hole emerged a pair of hands made of woven mats of mycelium, and they grabbed each side of the hole, expanding it so that the entire thoracic cavity was visible.

Dripping with blood, a face emerged from behind the prying hands. It was only human in that it was generally shaped like a human head and had something that could be generously called a mouth, which it opened. Within the mouth, there was a single massive eye, yellow and discolored.

From where the neck should have sprouted, there were five mycelium arms.

One of them was clutched onto the Young Mistress's spine. It clenched, and she spoke, tendrils of mycelium winding their way into the spinal cord.

"So that Junior is finally ready to break into the Body Destruction realm," she said. "I assume you're one of the simulacra he made to prepare for that boundary. How orthodox of him. How boring. He never had any imagination."

Amusement intensely regarded the fungus-creature, reaching into his apron and pulling out a slag hammer. "So it's you behind the dissemination. You know, my main body never thought he'd see you ever again, Senior Sister."

His smile widened, and the force of his muscles acting on his face began to tear it open at the corners of his mouth. He spoke, apparently not feeling or not caring about the pain. "Especially not after your disgraceful failure, Senior. The way he remembers it, nobody believed you were still alive."

"Despite Master's wishes, I yet live, and I have decided to make it his problem. Are you going to attempt to change that, weakling off-cut from a sycophantic fool?"

"I was not made to feel fear," he said. "I was not made to do much at all, in fact," he continued, standing up in the car. The roof caved open, cratering out to give him room to do so. "One thing I was made to do was kill."

The eye dilated and four of the arms went to pry open the still-living body of the Young Mistress further. "It does not matter even if you do. This form may be weak, but I have many others. Waiting. Watching."

Gardner's body wheezed as the creature clambered out of her.

"The Temple will topple before the century is over."

The fungal cultivator launched herself at the simulacrum, toxic liquids weeping from underneath her twenty-five fingernails.

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

Nash ducked under the crony's kick effortlessly, replying with a relatively light hook that still made the absolute training dummy of a human being stumble backwards, off balance.

He stood back up and remained in a loose stance, looking at his opponent (in the loosest sense of the term) with a neutral expression that attempted to conceal his absolute boredom.

The reason he was fighting someone so mismatched to his skill level was the absolute genius of his martial arts tutors. In their infinite wisdom, they had decided to ease him back into training after a few months of what had obviously been shameful indolence, having decided that his skills would have regressed while he was away from his political duties and actually practicing more than a few times a week.

This particular sparring partner was only barely in the Second Calcification, and while his technique was acceptable (if barely,) he was still no match for the Young Master of the Emerald Clan, who had been receiving better training for longer, and that was without even mentioning the full-realm advantage. It was rather like beating up a small child; every one of Nash's strikes, no matter how pulled, had a simple weight behind them that sent the other cultivator flying, and all of the attacks seemed sluggish and were trivial to block.

It was all Nash could do to not yawn.

The whole situation was rather frustrating, and not only due to the waste of his time - he knew that the tutors could and would provide better, more personalized training if they simply got over their own ego. Practically the only thing keeping him sane before he left had been the genuinely useful, interesting lessons his cultivation and martial arts tutors had provided in the rather limited time they had been allotted.

Now, though? Most of them didn't seem to believe he was even in the Third Calcification, and those that did didn't believe his foundation was any good.

What a shame, he thought, stepping out of the way of a charge. I was actually looking forward to another lesson. There's only so much you can learn without an instructor.

Eventually, he tired of the farce, and threw a simple leg sweep out, toppling his opponent. Before he could get up, Nash knelt on his belly and effortlessly restrained his flailing arms until the round was over, staring blankly at nothing in particular.

With a harrumph, the main tutor called out the signal to end the battle. "Finish!" he said, frustration evident in his voice.

Nash stood up and gave a curt salute to his opponent. "Your technique is good," he said, attempting to soften the blow, "But you should work on your base. If the fight goes to the ground, an entirely different skill set is required; avoid it whenever possible*."

"Thank you for enlightening me, Senior," the cultivator said. His words were polite, but there was still an injured, angry forcefulness to them.

The sparring partner walked away, and Nash heard the instructor walk up behind him. He turned, and gave another martial salute. "Do you have something to say, Senior?" he asked, politely smiling.

"That behavior is not befitting for someone of your stature, Young Master. Your junior learned nothing from being locked down like that. Nobody did."

"He might not have learned anything, and for that I take responsibility," Nash said, smiling. "But you are wrong on that last account."

"Well, then! Do enlighten me."

"You learned something, Senior. You learned to believe me when I say an opponent won't challenge me."

"Oh, did I?" An eyebrow quirked up. "Young Master, may you oblige an old man and walk with me for a moment?"

Nash didn't speak, but moved to follow, his hands politely clasped behind his back.

Behind him he could hear his guards, instructed to remain near him at all times, begin to follow him at the minimum distance that wouldn't bring shame to the Clan.

"I know you're frustrated, but we must gauge your ability. We have no idea what damage you could have done while away, and the Patriarch has specifically instructed us on how to handle your situation."

"Enough damage to regress me that far? If that man had been intended to be a challenge, I must have missed the amputation of my legs."

For a moment, the old man, (who was in fact more middle-aged but had a penchant to style himself as older than he actually was to gain respect,) remained silent. He spoke up again, but quieted as Nash began to speak again, interrupting as politely as he could.

"I understand that you may be concerned about pushing me too far, but I am much more concerned with you not pushing me at all," Nash said, his rank in the family forcing the older man to give him at least some measure of face.

"Doubtlessly, the Patriarch will return me to my political duties again, and I will have much less time than I wish to practice. I would appreciate it if you take haste in finishing gauging my ability so you can begin increasing it, rather than sending out pitiful branch family children for me to bully."

"The Patriarch -" the instructor began saying, whatever words he was going to say next catching in his throat. He began again. "I was given orders to not strain you overmuch. We still aren't sure how much work and materials will need to be used to repair your foundation, and any injuries while your cultivation is deviated could be catastrophic."

"Oh, you don't know how damaged it is? Have you tried looking, or asking, or doing anything other than assume it's terrible?"

The instructor coughed. "I have wasted too much of our time already. Let us return to class."

Just a little bit longer. And if it doesn't work, I can just leave again. They can't help but underestimate me.

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

That day, a rather confused attendant passed a handwritten piece of paper to the Patriarch. He skimmed it and made a note on a legal pad, sending the attendant away.

Six and a half hours later, the Young Master was once again called to his Father's office. His guards were not allowed inside the soundproofed room.

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

"Hello again, Father. You've talked to me twice in the past three days; that's a new record! "

The Patriarch looked over, impassive. "I will not tolerate disrespect, Nash Refraction Emerald."

He pushed some papers to the side and rested his forearms on his desk. "Now, if you were not simply pulling another one of your pranks, you have information on the cultivator attacking the Majestic Cloud Sect recently?"

"I was not aware of it's involvement with the Majestic Cloud Sect, but I have information on it that you may find useful. I will give it to you, if you promise a few things."

Senator Emerald's tone remained disinterested. "How immature," he said, reaching into one of the drawers and taking out the handwritten note. "I will not be extorted, so do not bother to state them. However, depending on the quality of your information... I may be convinced to reward you."

Nash's face darkened. "Very well," he said. "If you decide not to meet them, I will simply leave once more, so I suppose it doesn't matter to me in the end. I believe that there was a cultivator battle involving a young man wearing an apron, who possessed seemingly limitless reserves of Densified Aether?"

"Correct," the Patriarch said. "I congratulate you on finally building a proper spy network, given that you were never given any reason to believe so."

The Young Master smirked momentarily. "A network was not required, in this particular case. I overheard someone speaking of it, and I have had the misfortune to make this particular cultivator's acquaintance. In fact, that is partially the reason I allowed myself to be captured and brought back here in the first place."

"How fascinating," the Patriarch said, obviously not interested in his son's motivations. "How, exactly, might that be?"

"Unfortunately, he found me interesting enough to drop in unannounced at my apartment." Nash cleared his throat and thought for a few seconds how to best phrase what came next.

"He is a metal-oriented cultivator, a smith, named Amusement. He is an incredibly powerful cultivator with a variety of profound techniques and a near limitless reserve of lums, due to having Sternum Etchings not only on his sternum but also on every bone on his body. He claims to be a clone or off-shoot of some sort of someone who remembers the Imperial period that recognized I was an Emerald immediately, and only knew of our family as a 'minor noble family' under the Imperial family."

The Patriarch began taking notes on a small pad of paper. "That," he said, his hand moving in short, precise movements to produce a perfect and perfectly incomprehensible shorthand, "Is quite a lot to believe. Do you have any evidence for this, perhaps?"

"When I checked his cultivation, it first appeared to be only in the later stages of First Calcification, but that was an illusion. If you look further past that concealment technique, you can see rivulets of channels like globs of liquid metal, like mercury clinging to his bones and feeding off his massive reserves."

He took a deep breath. "I am not experienced enough to gauge his true cultivation, but at the very least it is above the Fourth. Perhaps the Fifth," Nash continued. "It was for this reason that I returned home. I believed I had gained enough in my independence to prove my worth, and I wished to alert you of this threat."

It was silent for a few moments, as Nash had finished what he had to say and Senator Emerald appeared deep in thought. The Patriarch was the one to breach the silence, saying "Is there any chance that he had mentioned an organization by the name of the Hidden Mountain Temple?"

The Young Master's face wrinkled in deep thought. "I do not believe so," he said, reviewing his memory of that night.

"He said that his existence was part of his main body's method to achieve the Body Destruction Realm, and that there were others like him. Their goal is to gain knowledge and reach the Ninth Calcification before returning to their sect, and his sect seemed not to care overmuch of our political concerns."

The Patriarch's fingers interlocked, leaning forward towards Nash. For once, a hint of interest was visible on his face, though minimal.

"Well, then," he said, glancing at his notes. "That is quite a deal of information you have given me. I will send some trusted servants to confirm it, and if it turns out to be true, I will consider reduction of your political duties. However..."

What could only be called a smirk arrived at the senior Emerald's face, nothing but a slight upturn of the lips yet still displaying the most emotion he had shown yet. "From what I know of this organization - which is, unfortunately, minimal - what you say has been... Consistent with those accounts, and with much more specific information on their methods. Therefore," he said, the smirk intensifying, his word trailing off slightly.

Nash was unsure of whether the smirk was one of approval or amusement. For a moment, he thought he saw an inkling of pride creep in, but it disappeared quickly.

"You will lead a small task force dedicated to uncovering information on this Amusement and his organization. Despite your, ah, questionable methods, you have displayed that you are capable of a degree of independence. This shall be quite the learning experience for you. You are to begin as soon as your cultivation is stabilized; the team will be selected for you. You are dismissed."

Nash was stunned into silence. Soon, he was outside of the office, still not believing what had just happened.

His guards led him back to his room, him not saying a word the whole time.

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

Bored out of his mind, Nash was laid down on the pleather doctor's office chair, stripped down to his underwear.

Above him, two technicians worked, one of them jotting notes down on a tablet, the other operating a complicated apparatus suspended on the end of an articulated arm, sweeping it back and forth across where his channels resided in relation to his physical body.

Every so often, the technician operating the diagnostic tool called out some incomprehensible string of numbers and jargon, often with an unhealthy helping of acronyms accompanying them - over his arm, it was a "Fifteen point seven eight thickness, deviation point three standard," while over his optic nerve it was a "Sixteen absolute, deviation point five, SCACP* is visible."

Nash spent an approximate total of one hour and forty-five minutes being analyzed by the doctors, bored beyond measure.

To his frustration, it wasn't even the type of boredom that helped you to think about productive matters, but rather the type of mind-numbing boring that sucked you into the boredom, his mind flitting from topic to topic without finding a satisfying or useful train of thought sprouting from any of them.

As soon as it was over, he stood up and began putting on his clothes.

Respectfully, the technicians waited, their hands clasped politely while they waited for him to dress. One moved to speak with the highest-ranking of his attendants, while the other remained to speak with Nash directly.

"To begin the summary of our conclusions, Young Master," he said, a polite smile on his face, "There is no significant damage. Both your channel thickness and Aether-impermeability are within the highest percentile of our age group and cultivation level, quality-wise."

He grabbed a piece of paper from his clipboard and pulled it aside to look at another page of notes beneath, jotted into the standardized boxes of a specialized page. "The variance of your channel wall thickness is more concerning, though still well into the higher quality levels for your cultivation level. These values are slightly higher than projected, especially in your new channel, though that is to be expected. The variance should gradually smooth out as your foundation stabilized once more - this is a recent breakthrough on your part, after all. If you are concerned, however, we can schedule another check-in sooner than strictly required, especially to accommodate an Emerald."

"Yes, we'll notify you if that is needed. Anything else?"

"No, Young Master. You may take your leave."

Nash nodded, turning to look at the aide, who was still speaking to the other doctor. When that conversation was finished, Nash gestured towards the guard, and they left, returning to the hallway where the other guards (except the ones stationed outside) were located.

He turned to one guard in particular. "Is there anything else to attend to for today?"

"Not for a while, Young Master," the guard said, looking through a schedule on his phone. "But, depending on how your tutors feel about your medical report, you will be speaking to your team soon."

"Of course," he said, his face wrinkling as if he ate something sour, still not sure how to feel about the new development. "Well, I should return to the estate anyhow."

Four and a half hours later, he stood in front of four unfamiliar people, expected to lead them to find information on an incredibly dangerous cultivator.