When Nash woke up, it was late in the evening. His mouth was dry, his hair was greasy and caked with salt from now-evaporated sweat, and he was unsure of what day it was.
He groaned as he sat up and trudged to the bathroom, splashing water on his face and hissing as it spread stinging salt into the open wounds of his face.
A quarter-hour and a shower later, he was feeling significantly more civilized, though still ravenously hungry.
His Eidolon costume, complete with what remained of the mask he had somehow managed to sleep in, was strewn across the ground, every piece soaked through with sweat and blood.
I'm gonna have to throw those out, he thought as he entered the main room of the apartment. Stopping before the fridge, he pulled a cold tub of leftovers out and began shoving whatever food was inside into his mouth.
That tub completed, he set it in the sink and grabbed another one, repeating the process until the gnawing emptiness in his stomach was satisfied.
Nutrition acquired, he poured glass after glass of water from the filter and slammed them back one after another, chugging maybe a gallon of water in the space of a few minutes.
He set down the glass and sat down at the table. Attempting to calm down, he closed his eyes and focused on his breathing before bringing himself back into reality.
Grabbing a notepad and pencil. he began to think about the events of last night in earnest. I can't go back there again - that fight was too close, and someone in the crowd definitely would have recognized, if not me, then my style.
Another consideration was how much leeway he had left in the financial department; he grabbed the stack of bills he had abandoned on the table before collapsing last night and began to count them.
Another week or two, as long as there aren't any unexpected expenses, he thought, tapping his fingers on the table.
That leaves enough time for me to find another revenue source and improve the materialization techniques. By the tail end of that, I'll even be at the peak of the Second Calcification. Another week and a half, maybe, after that to bring my newest channel up to par, and I'll be able to push into the Third.
The issue isn't not being found. The issue is not being found while still doing enough to keep me fed, housed, and clothed while I strengthen myself.
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Silently, the Second of the Crimson Bonfire Gang handed the Boss of that same gang a small tablet, displaying a folder of pictures.
The Boss, having taken the device, swiped through the pictures; they were taken from different angles, by different phones, at different times in the event.
Each one, however, displayed the same thing; the underground prize-fighter known as Eidolon, part of his mask broken off onto the floor. Some of the photos were blurry, taken mid-punch or kick, while others were short, shakily-held videos of that same fight. Most depicted the exhausted Nash Emerald, victorious but obviously more than a little out of it.
With each image, with each blurry, off-center, zoomed-in photo centered on his face, the shaking of the Boss's hands increased.
Thin streams of smoke, like the trail coming off of a burning stick of incense, leaked out of select pores, indicative of the Boss's restrained anger. That anger, simmering under the surface, was disturbingly composed compared to how his anger had been recently; instead of crazed, ineffectual, and very visible, here the Boss made an obvious effort to contain it.
Almost calmly (though still curt, rude, and overly forceful,) the Boss passed the tablet back to his Second without even shattering the screen.
He walked to the car, ignoring the questions of his Second trailing behind him. Once he reached the luxury vehicle, he tapped on the door and spoke to the driver. "Take me to the Motorcycle Rider headquarters," he said, "I have something to bring up to my counterpart in their ranks."
The driver, frozen in fear, managed a nod, waiting until the Boss came in and sat down before driving off.
The Second was left standing back at base, concerned beyond measure.
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Old Man Looking-In had a kindly smile on as he sat at his desk, the expression not directed to anybody actually present given that he was the only one in the room.
In front of him was a handwritten note, and to the side of that was his pot of ink and set of brushes.
With a flick of his wrist, an eye-capped vine emerged from one of the table legs and reached up through the writing surface. The old man picked up the note and folded it in his hands, unusually easily and certainly for somebody his age.
He held it in front of the eye and waited.
As if it was not an eye, but rather an eyelid, the bulbous ocular organ on the end of the vine blinked open.
The membrane split in a jagged, angry tear that sent pain up the connection between the vine and Rigel; he simply sat there, smiling, as the gel inside the eye dripped down onto the table.
Once it was open far enough by his estimation, he placed the piece of paper in the opening and withdrew his hand, cleaning it with a prepared towel as the eye schlorped back close, knitting together at the false cornea.
Old Man Looking-In chuckled. He looked at the calendar on the wall, hung up next to a collection of sentimental photos hanging in picture frames, and sighed.
"I guess it has been quite a while," he muttered to himself. "I might as well go and visit my disciples once more, since I have to leave for a while anyway."
He posted a sign on the front door, and began packing his things.
The eye carried a note to a cheap apartment, winding its way through ancient pipes and eventually popping inside of the sink. The note read as follows.
Congratulations on your success, both in battle and in cultivation. I am afraid I cannot congratulate you in person; I have obligations down by the coast. Good luck, Junior. - Old Man Looking-In.
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Nash sat on the floor of his apartment, leaned over an old rag spread out on the floor. On top of the rag was a whetstone, and the sound of metal scraping on stone grit filled the apartment as he smoothly moved the edge of a long knife along the sharpening stone.
Precisely, repeatedly, almost meditatively, the knife was pushed forward in a sweeping motion that covered every inch of the forearm-length blade; eventually, he was satisfied with the sharpness on that side and flipped it over, starting the sharpening on the other edge.
He paused when, out of the corner of his eye he caught movement. Unhurried, he carefully set the long knife down by the stone and stood up, walking to the sink. Out of the sink dangled an eyeball, much too large to have fit through the pipes and faucet, but it was here nonetheless.
He relaxed, and waited; the eye burst, and out of it fell not only the disgusting remnants of the organ but also a small piece of paper.
For a moment, all Nash could think was oh, that's why the notes are so slimy.
Reluctantly, he reached out and unfolded the note, his face pulled back far away from it.
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The offshoot embodying the emotion of Amusement stood in a small, rural Martial Academy, a snide smile on his face; the smirk of one completely convinced by their own superiority.
Blood dripped from his empty hand onto the floor, soaked all into the front of his apron, his sleeves clinging to his arms from the amount of vital fluids that suffused them. He looked down at an old, somewhat portly man who was lying on the ground, clutching at his broken ribs with his remaining working hand.
Reaching into a pocket in the front of his apron, the smith knelt down in front of the man, the smile still on his face.
In one hand, still slippery with blood from plunging directly into living throats and tearing out the arteries within, he clutched a small pair of channel locks.
"Why did you assist them?" he asked, his head quirking to one side with the question, that same smile still visible on his face.
His perfectly straight, impeccably aligned teeth contrasted with his otherwise blood splattered face, a touch of surreal sophistication to the bloodied smirk. "Hadn't you heard? The Majestic Cloud Sect dug their own grave. I hate having to get to work. Do you know why?"
"We - we had no idea, Senior," the martial artist blubbered, fear obvious in his voice and his futile attempts to scramble away from the other cultivator, still lying on his back. "Please, have mercy - if we had known -"
The begging was interrupted, the smith opening the channel locks and shoving them into the man's mouth, clamping the pliers down on his tongue.
For a second, the smile dropped from his face, which was entirely empty, bereft of any emotion - no anger, no disappointment, nothing at all once the consistent smile left it. "That was rhetorical, you useless old fool. I wasn't done talking."
The channel locks closed fully, the cultivator's grip strength allowing the metal tool to shear straight through the fat man's tongue, filling his mouth with blood.
"When I work, I have to get serious. I hate being serious. It's so empty. Did you know the result of a clone technique like me is incapable of feeling anything other than the emotion they were made of? When I'm working, I can't feel anything at all. I wish I was one of my brothers instead; Sadism must have so much fun."
The smile came back. "At least it's amusing to talk to the last one. It's so interesting how they squirm and beg, despite all the evidence that won't work - I still haven't figured it out!"
Amusement brought the pair of pliers down, hitting the portly master of the Martial Academy square in the temple, shattering his skull. The pliers didn't stop there, though; they continued, the sheer force of the lazy swing carried through the front of the skull, burrowing through the brain, and shattering the skull on the other side, piercing the foam tile underneath them.
He yanked the pliers out, splitting not only the corpse's skull, but also the ground underneath. The foam tile had enveloped the pliers, and the whole assembly of slotted-together tiles had rose up slightly before slamming back down in a wave-like motion when the pliers were torn out.
Through his incredibly acute ears, Amusement could hear both the sound of the tile whooshing through the air before clapping back onto the ground, but also the sound of flies coming to land on the unmoving corpses of those who had unwittingly aligned themselves with the Majestic Cloud Sect.
Amusement's smirk grew as he tucked the pliers back into his apron and left.
Before getting into his vehicle, he spent multiple minutes coaxing a racoon to him with a scrap of human flesh, laughing at the situation the whole while. His perfect white teeth glinted in the night when the beast took the meat, clutched it in its paws, so much like human hands, and skittered away into the forest.
Later on the road, from the corner of his eye he caught it washing the meat in a stream a mile or two away.
He chuckled.
----------------------------------------
A luxury vehicle stopped in front of a seedy bar. Out stepped a man who fumed silently, tiny whorls of smoke rising out of his body.
Most came from his pores, but by sheer volume his mouth had the rest of his body beat, the smoke curling up at each corner of his mouth like two ephemeral tusks, ready to gore. He stepped calmly, his face only scowling due to a natural tendency and force of habit rather than any attempt to show emotion.
He reached the door of the biker bar and opened it, the rusting hinges squeaking loudly in protest at the force he opened it with.
Momentarily, the Boss's mouth wrinkled back slightly in disgust at the presence of one of his rivals in the capital city, showing a glimpse of teeth; many were filed down into sharp, animalistic points, and all that were not metal were stained black or yellow.
Several people in leather jackets stood up from where they sat in front of the bar, their helmets still set on the table.
"What do you want?" one asked, obviously preparing some kind of technique.
"I need to speak with whoever manages your arena," the Boss of the Crimson Bonfire Gang said, dismissive of whatever the mere Sternum Etching cultivator in front of him could do. "One of your pitiful little pit fighting operations has snagged a man whose severed head will belong to me."
The only man who had not stood up when the door opened finally did so, walking slowly up to the Boss.
He stopped just short of him, his motorcycle helmet tucked beneath his arm as he stood, most of his weight shifted onto one leg.
Looking up at the other cultivator, who was taller (though not by much,) the boss of the Motorcycle Rider gang spoke, his voice just as unbothered as the Boss's was just a moment ago. "And what do you want, little matchstick? Last time i checked, this was my turf, not yours; and since when can you demand I hand anybody over?"
"Eidolon," the Boss said, not bothering to respond to any of the other comments. "I don't care whatever you do on your turf, but Eidolon belongs to me. He killed some members of my Crimson Bonfire Gang; give us some face and hand him over."
"First of all," the other cultivator said, spinning his motorcycle helmet around on his finger, looking at it rather than the Boss. "I don't care if a few of your little dollar-store lighters of human beings die; that's your problem, not mine, matchstick. Ever since you discovered you had the tiniest scrap of talent, you got too big for your britches, didn't you, matchstick?"
"Bring me to Nash Emerald or I will kill you and drive your little Motorcycle Rider Gang out of the city, like I did with the Windspear Brotherhood."
The leader of the Motorcycle Riders laughed, and the Boss scowled. "Ah, little matchstick. Your one real success has really gone to your head - it's truly depressing to see you prance around like you're anything but a worthless little matchstick. We've been here since before the Windspear Brotherhood was, and we'll be here long after you're gone, since we're a real gang, not a group of deluded druggies pretending they're street tough. Take you and your anger issues elsewhere; preferably a therapist.*"
For a moment, the smoke coming from the Boss's body came in a flood, billowing all throughout the room; several of the weaker cultivators caught some in their eyes and noses, and began coughing and crying, unable to resist the choking effects of the gas.
Most of the cultivators present, however, resisted the smoke and stood strong.
The smoke rose to the ceiling and stayed there, the stuffy building having little in the way of ventilation. Thankfully for everyone present, the smoke coming off of the Boss began to slow, until the offgassing stopped entirely.
In the haze of the smoke still rising through the air around him, the Boss's face was incredibly calm, no furrow in his brow, no scowl on his lips.
"Well," he said, a fake smile coming over his face, eerily framed by smoke. Behind the smile, his pointed, stained teeth poked out when he opened his mouth to talk, and his head was cocked to one side.
"It seems that I've... forgotten my manners. I apologize. As a peer," that word coming out with a crack of his voice and a manic look in his eyes, "the Crimson Bonfire Gang would like to make a formal request for the delivery of Nash Emerald or information on that sucker. The arrogant little rat is calling himself Eidolon and participating in your events."
The Motorcycle Rider's leader laughed.
He laughed for quite a while, and for as long as he did the Boss's smile grew and grew until it looked like it was going to stretch outside of the bounds of his lips, rip his face open, and display his molars to the world. Eventually, though, the other gang leader's amusement faded, and he wiped the tears from his eyes.
This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.
"Call me Senior and I'll do it, Junior Matchstick," he said, his voice mocking beyond measure. "We both stole our smoke from the same source, did we not? If you show me that consideration, then I'll do that favor to my junior brother and his little Red Campfire friends."
"You. Dare?" The words came out almost confused, his head cocked once again to the other side. His face was puzzled, until it suddenly twisted into a more familiar expression for his facial muscles; rage. "YOU DARE!"
Smoke billowed off of his body, more intensely than ever before. The whole room filled with the foul-smelling, throat-closing gas, and Motorcycle Riders rushed to prop open the door, as the bar had no windows.
The Boss was silent.
Then, a bottle dropped, and he heard the sound of glass shattering; too much alike to the sound of his treasure cracking.
He lunged.
The Motorcycle Rider caught his smoke-wrapped fist with a barrier of his own, made of a different smoke, one that smelled of gasoline. "You never could control your emotions, or your smoke," he said, pushing the other gang leader into the wall. "Nothing but a little kid, angry that he has no talent - I'm ashamed to call you my Junior. Well, this Senior is willing to show you some pointers anyway."
The Boss screamed and redoubled his attack.
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The weaker cultivators had all either died or fled, casualties of the Boss's relentless assault on the Motorcycle Gang's leader.
The bodies of those who hadn't run (or who had tried and failed) were strewn throughout the rubble of the sleazy biker bar, crumpled to the ground with caved-in skulls or asphyxiated from the smoke that hung in the air; others were pierced with the legs of broken stools or were barely conscious, crawling away on broken arms or legs or both, wheezing through cracked ribs and peering out from cuts bleeding over their eyes.
Two gang leaders faced each other. The leader of the Crimson Bonfire gang stood there, his hands dangling at his sides; his clothes were torn and soaked in blood, he was covered in bruises and avulsions, and one eye had already swollen shut.
Standing across from him was the Motorcycle Gang leader, who was in slightly better shape, though not by much.
He was obviously winded, and though he was less cut-up, he was obviously on the back foot; his stream of smoke was faltering even as it coiled around his body like clouds around a mountaintop, but the Boss's endless offgassing of foul-smelling smoke showed no signs of stopping.
Smoke the color of tar roiled out of him in waves as he breathed, coming out in volumes comparable to a coal-powered train.
"You've grown," the Motorcycle Rider croaked through his dry throat, all moisture drawn out by both of their smoke even behind the eponymous helmet. "What opportunity did a trash like you stumble into to make you this strong? Was it your little rock? How did you reach the Third?"
The Boss didn't respond, still fuming with rage. He pounced again, his fingers formed not into fists but rather claws. Those only things those claws were meant to seek, curled into the shape that they were, was to grab onto the Motorcycle Rider and gouge out his eyes.
As he had every time before, the Motorcycle Rider dodged out of the way and struck at the Boss with a whip of smoke.
It lashed across his back, carving another shredded line into the Third Calcification cultivator's clothes and the skin beneath. However, the carving whip did little more, scraping only into the dermis of the Boss's back, stopped by the strength of his body.
The Boss let his momentum carry him and kicked off the wall. He slammed into the Motorcycle Rider with his full body and brought them both to the ground, both of their flagging stamina making it unavoidable on each of their parts.
Motorcycle Rider tied down both of the Boss's arms with tendrils of smoke, and reached for something inside of his pocket.
The Boss went in for a bite instead.
It was going to be a long battle.
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In his apartment, Nash sat down at his well-scratched table, a cheap teacup in hand filled with tea of matching quality.
He sipped it and ignored the taste, the tea made more out of habit than any taste for the actual drink itself, the gesture making him more confident despite the lack of guests in the cramped apartment.
His other hand held his phone, scrolling past whatever job openings were presented to him through the thoroughly thrashed display. None of them exactly stood out, but several seemed tolerable, and he noted those rare instances down in a notebook sitting on the table in front of him.
Soon, he was finished with his tea, and he set down his cup as another cup’s worth of water steeped in the bitter, cheap leaves in the pot.
Similarly, soon after came the end of the job applications that fit his specifications, the foremost among which was discretion; there was no point in spending money if he was simply brought back to the Emerald estate, after all, and he didn't want to risk fighting in the arena again unless it was absolutely impossible to avoid.
Involuntarily, he shivered.
The fight wasn't that bad, he thought. It was a wakeup call, sure, but one that I think I needed. The dissemination of my face to that crowd, though?"
The shuddering faded. This is just temporary, anyway. I can save up enough and then...
And then?
Why haven't I just left already?
His fingers tapped on the table in that old Emerald habit. His thought accelerated, and his fingers did along with them; the tea oversteeped in its pot, forgotten (not that it could get much more bitter anyway,) and his phone was set down and untouched for long enough that it went into sleep mode on its own.
I could have taken a taxi or a rental or just hitchhiked my way out of this city a thousand times by now.
He stood up and pushed the chair in, pacing around in the cramped confines of the cheap (but still unreasonably expensive) apartment. His fingers, robbed of a table to tap against, tapped instead against his thigh, rolling pointer to pinkie and back again in a predictable wave, his fingers crashing down on his leg from above.
Why have I been so stupid? Why haven't I even considered it seriously until now?
Sure, I've spent most of my life here, but... That's no reason to do something so foolish. If I crossed the border, it would be incredibly difficult for them to find me; if I managed to secure a passing across the sea, to an island isolated enough they don't have an airstrip, they'd have to wait months until another boat willing to cross would be available, or mobilize a cultivator strong enough to force through the sea serpents.
Father could do it, definitely, but couldn't afford to be away for that long.
Senior Beryl is barely stronger than I am at this point, and even for our family, cultivators deep into the Third or all the way into the Fourth Calcification are rare.
Was it pride?
He shook his head. It could be, but if it was truly pride would I be living here? It definitely wasn't only my wish for independence, since moving somewhere else doesn't preclude that.
He sat down. Lums were sent from his sternum through the root network of his channels and rode through the pipes until his optic nerve was reached and the Greater Luminiferous Vision pathway was activated.
The sight of the Aether calmed him, as it always did, and he found he could think more clearly after a few minutes of simply being, observing the eddies and vibrations sent through the "layer" of reality as light passed through it.
"I wanted to prove it," he said to himself.
His voice was small, slight, unsure, but it continued. "I needed to prove it. I needed to prove I could be something without Father. I needed to show Father that it was a waste to use me as nothing but another political pawn."
He chuckled to himself joylessly. "If I hadn't, my life was set out in front of me. Practice the techniques my Father assigned to me. Make the 'friends' Father assigned to me. Marry a woman Father assigned to me as part of making the alliances Father assigned to me. Fight the people Father assigned to me, run for office on the platform Father assigned for me, win the tournaments Father assigned to me. Glory, power, everything, but all for him. Maybe one day the old workaholic would die or retire, and then I would be Patriarch, and then what? Do it again from the other side?"
His fingers stilled.
They came to his chin, scratching at the skin there, kept smooth and unblemished by his family's cultivation, much like the rest of him until he had ran away. The chuckle returned to him forcefully, uncaring that he might be heard through the rather thin walls.
It continued, transitioning from a chuckle to a full-on cackle that would have left a mortal out of breath, and he wiped a tear from his eye, ending his use of Greater Luminiferous Vision. "It's fear or it's pride or it's both," he whispered to himself, still incredulous at his lack of introspection.
"I don't know if I ever wanted to keep it up forever, even now," he said, the tapping returning. He paced around more and more, settling for leaning on the table and staring at the cheap tea set and cold leaves within. "I wasn't wrong. It was stupid if I was actually doing what I thought I was doing, but it wasn't the wrong thing for my goals."
"Gotta prove I'm better than Father, stronger than whatever he can throw at me, that I can do it all without his help, after all. Then maybe we can talk. As equals."
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Compared to the main Emerald estate, the Aquamarine state was practically dumpy, but that meant little.
It still had an extravagant fountain in a well-manicured courtyard garden, the delicate cobble paths lined with marble benches and well-maintained though weathered statues. The sound of gardeners flitting to and fro in the courtyard accompanied the burbling of the fountain, the uniformed personnel carefully manicuring hedges, trimming tree limbs, and tending to the dozens of species of flowers.
A few hummed as they worked, but at least verbally they were silent, the only audible sound of many existing being the clopping of their shoes on the cobbles and the shearing of their tools going through plant matter.
Three-story buildings boxed in the trapezoidal garden in on all but one side, the buildings large and rectangular. Paths led up to each one, and though they were unlabeled, their functions were obvious.
The one in the middle, the largest and most opulent, was a worn but well-maintained brownstone with accents of marble, in the popular style of the time (though out of fashion now.) It lentthe building a sophisticated and storied if not old-fashioned air.
It was the house for the true members of the Aquamarine family.
On the left as one would see it walking into the garden was the servant's quarters, also worn but in good repair, though considerably less opulent than the family's building.
Directly across from the servant's quarters was the personal Family Martial Academy of the Aquamarine family, which was of similar appearance, though it had a small outside section cleared out of plants, instead filled with training equipment and racks of practice weapons.
Inside, one could find the personal technique library of the Aquamarine family (not to be confused with the historical library of the Aquamarine family, which was in the family's main brownstone,) as well as a variety of training and gym equipment. In a smaller, sectioned-off area of that same building were the cultivation chambers, stocked with elixirs, pills, and treasures to ease the cultivation of the scions of the Aquamarine family.
All of the buildings were rectangular with rather flat roofs, making them look somehow squat and dependable despite their three-story height.
It was in this estate that 'Longstep' Beryl was currently located, impatiently hobbling through the beautiful gardens with the heir of the Aquamarine family.
They stayed silent, and it was only Beryl's many decades of political experience that kept him walking at a sedate pace with the kindly smile of a friendly old man on his face rather than vibrating with the frustration that thrummed throughout his entire body.
They couldn't speak yet, of course; here, they could be overheard by one of the Aquamarine servants, and even loyal mortals held the nasty habit of gossip much too often for comfort.
It was for that reason that they were heading to a soundproofed room in the main Aquamarine family building, meant for meeting guests.
Lyncis Aquamarine, the Young Master of the Aquamarine family and the young man Beryl was walking with, had called on his servants ahead of time to set the room with liquor and pastries. On a normal mission, Beryl would find it a welcome respite, a reward for his efforts, a time to calm down and relax so he could remain in top condition for the completion of whatever task the Patriarch had assigned to him.
With this mission, however? One of such importance, that required such discretion, that had seemed so trivial at the outset, but that he had somehow failed to complete on his first attempt?
It was nothing but a useless, infuriating delay in a mission filled with useless, infuriating delays.
The Aquamarine heir nodded to a servant, who opened the door to the main building of the estate as both Beryl and the Young Master passed through. Beryl stepped through the open one of the double doors first, the Aquamarine heir following behind as he adjusted the smallsword on his belt.
Once they were inside the building, the Aquamarine heir directed Beryl through the tastefully-decorated maze of hallways until they appeared at one door.
Outside of the door, a small rolling cart was placed, a servant standing behind it, his hands clasped. The Aquamarine heir reached into a pocket for a key and unlocked the door, directing Beryl to enter and make himself comfortable.
Taking the cart from the servant, he wheeled it in and dismissed the servant. The door closed behind them, and he pulled an old-fashioned knife switch down, sending lums stored in a crystal coursing through the delicate rune tracery that created a ring of glowing Aether-charged designs on the walls of the room.
As soon as the runes finished 'warming up,' Beryl could feel something through his cultivation; the space around him slid somehow without his input, perpendicular to every axis he could perceive, and whatever he could feel of the space outside of the room disappeared.
It reminded him somewhat of how Nash had used the Emerald arts to bring him into the Aether and disorient his cultivation, and that memory sent a fresh shot of guilt, fear, and frustration into his old heart.
The Aquamarine heir unhooked the scabbard from his belt and sat down at the chair opposite from Beryl, setting the sword on his lap.
"On the case, sir," he said as he took the jug of liquor and poured them each a cup about the size of a shot glass, though in delicate porcelain covered in designs of birds. "There is some more information, but it would do little good on an empty stomach and frazzled brain."
Despite his current mood, Beryl still took a little time to appreciate the alcohol the Aquamarines had offered him, taking the cup and clinking it against the Young Master's before smelling the drink - despite their status as a minor branch family of the Emeralds, only recently of any importance and only (in Beryl's opinion) due to the near-extinction of his own, they had not skimped on the booze.
"Good drink," he said, a grudging sort of respect filling his voice. He took a pastry and took a graceful bite before setting it down on his small plate, and was forced to admit it wasn't bad. "Good sweets too. Now that I've ate and drank, shall we begin?"
"Of course, Senior," the Aquamarine heir said, one hand still on his sword as he leaned over to grab a pastry. He placed it on his plate and leaned back, tilting the honey-sweetened alcohol into his mouth before setting that down also and speaking once more. "The technicians managed to find an archived hex dump and triangulate it with a few other instances, so we not only know where it is, but where it was from the moment that it left your possession until it appeared in that parking lot."
Beryl's tongue clicked against the ridge behind his teeth. "That's very helpful, though he's doubtlessly moved on by now. Are there any useful locations?"
The Aquamarine heir leaned over once again, grabbing a small notebook from a cubby on the underside of the table. He consulted it for a moment, his eyes quickly scanning the incomprehensible shorthand, before looking back up at Beryl and setting it down. "A few," he said. "A small business that may have spotted him and could possibly give information on however he's disguised himself, a path through the streets of the city, an old apartment building, what seems to be one of the old subway platforms..."
He glanced once more at the notepad, but found nothing more. "Well, that's all there is for locations of interest, Senior Beryl. What is your recommendation?"
Beryl considered it for a moment, taking another idle sip of the alcohol. "Two groups," he finally said, holding out the cup to the Aquamarine heir as the latter grabbed the jug and offered to pour more in. "One tracing from each end, to meet in the middle. I, and a few specially selected subordinates, shall search backwards from the last known location of the tracker, while you and the rest of the force shall do likewise from the earliest known position."
For a split second, noticeable only due to Beryl's high level of cultivation, the Young Master of the Aquamarine family's mouth dropped out of the polite slight smile it was previously fixed in. "Of course, Senior Beryl," he said, his hand idly tracing a pattern across the scabbard on his lap, "But just for clarification, what should I and my team do if we encounter the Young Master first? Should we fall back and track him while we wait for your arrival, or move to capture immediately?"
"Hm," Beryl considered. "What is your cultivation, Junior Aquamarine?"
"The Third Calcification, Senior Beryl." The Aquamarine's face was placid as he said those words, no undercurrent of either pride or shame. "The Young Master is only in the Second Calcification, correct?
"True," Beryl acquiesced, eating a pastry. He gestured at the Aquamarine with the pastry still in his hand. "Be wary, though. He may be low in cultivation, but he is still the Young Master of the main family - not only is he stronger than usual for his cultivation, we cannot afford to harm him."
Lyncis Aquamarine leaned back, skeptical. "I am sure I will be fine," he said, regarding the cup of liquor, the porcelain so thin that it was translucent.
He put it to his mouth and tossed the whole thing back. "The main family's techniques may be more profound than our own, but they are streams from the same spring; besides, the Young Master is an entire realm of cultivation below me, and younger besides."
Beryl quaffed his own cup. It was set back down on the table next to the jug with a clink, the light refracting through the delicate artistry to create phantom images of leaves around where it was sat. "But can you apprehend him without lasting harm, sword cultivator?"
Lyncis took pause at that. "I must, and so I shall."
"Then we agree. We start in two hours - you have that much time to assemble your team. If you aren't done by then, I shall not wait for you."
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The Boss of the Crimson Bonfire Gang barely stood in the broken remnants of a bar.
Once, it was a seedy biker bar; faded pictures hung on the wall, shelves and shelves of strong alcohol, a rather illegal gambling operation, everything such an establishment needed.
When he had walked in, the Boss had been uncharacteristically calm, prim, and proper.
Now, the bar was in shambles. The furniture was broken into splinters, the occupants laid there like crumpled ragdolls thrown down by a frustrated child, and each and every bottle of alcohol had fallen and broken.
Behind the bar, the tabletop of which was smeared in several places with blood, a puddle of broken glass and dozens of varieties of intoxicating liquid had mixed into one innards-shredding concoction.
The Boss, too, had been roughened up in the battle.
His clothes were torn, his shirt in particular shredded to near-uselessness, a bruise or a cut underneath each slit in the fabric. He had a black eye and more than one of his stained, pointed teeth had been punched out of his mouth, scattered somewhere in the rubble of the ruined speakeasy.
He spat, and blood came out of his mouth; he wasn't sure whether it was from the loss of his teeth, his busted lip, or blood flowing into his mouth from the wounds cross-hatching his face, all weeping blood.
Below him, the boss of the Motorcycle Rider gang was in even worse shape.
While the Boss was barely standing, the Motorcycle Rider was barely conscious; just as many bruises covered his form, and his smoke had dissipated to reveal a broken arm and a shattered collarbone.
Despite that, however, behind the broken motorcycle helmet that still stood askew on his head he had a knowing smirk.
"I won! Didn't you see, I WON?" The Boss screamed, more of a declaration than a question. "WHERE IS THE RAT? WHERE IS THE CASHIER? WHERE IS THE EMERALD?"
"It's breaking, isn't it?" The words were followed with a weak chuckle, but each guffaw made him wince in obvious pain.
"You're nothing, still. Just a little thief that wants to be a big man, huh? You never changed."
Smoke still came off of the Boss in crashing waves, and his entire body snapped towards where the Motorcycle rider was laid on the floor. "SHUT UP. You're weak," he said, manic, his eyes wide-open and irritated by his own smoke, "You're weak, and I've always been stronger. You're not better than me! You're NOT NOT NOT NOT!"
The Boss stomped again and again, bringing his booted heel down on the Motorcycle Rider's shin, gradually snapping the bone and bending the limb out of shape. "WHERE IS HE? I'll deal with him like I dealt with you, and then it won't matter."
"It really did, huh, old friend?" Motorcycle Rider's smile didn't drop despite the pain. "I told you, I don't know where he is and don't care to know."
This provoked another round of bone-shearing stomps, but the cultivator kept talking nonetheless. "You're nothing without your little rock, and you know it - that's why you're throwing your biggest tantrum yet. I'll wait for you when I die and drag you down into the dark with me, you worthless thief."
The Boss's leg stopped stomping. Instead, he knelt down and gathered some of the Motorcycle Rider's shirt in one hand; with the other, he pried the motorcycle helmet off the other Boss's head. Tossing away the helmet, he pushed the other man's head against the wall.
He curled his hand into a fist.
He started punching.
He didn't stop until he could see the wall through the hole in the Motorcycle Rider's head.