He was a sovereign, overlooking his kingdom. His eyes, constructs made of thought and little else, took in this realm of endless dark and mists. It’d jump to do his bidding, he knew, for this place was more than just a part of him. It was him, and he was it.
A flick of his will-flesh arm stirred the golden clouds.
A groan echoed through this space, the sound of a giant waking from its slumber. Essence tainted by courageous brilliance stilled again, awaiting a command that soon followed.
Gather
The plane exploded into movement. A shapeless congregation of power separated into dozens of tides, each rushing in a different direction and cooperating to their fullest to become the very thing their king wanted them to be.
Coiling serpents rose, their size exceeding the mighty pillars responsible for the continued survival of the Empyrean Clan. Maws, filled with misty fangs, opened and released forked tongues that writhed and tasted the not-air of this world.
Xerion watched it all, not a trace of emotion flitting across his face. In here, he was God. Every whim of his would be fulfilled, for the simple reason that he wished it so. And he wished for power, for more and more of it.
And so the darkness at the edges of this realm, the puny barrier blocking his advance, would taste his fury today.
Move
Thirty-nine colossal creatures swam at once, their bodies soaring through the nothingness in utter silence. They knew what to do, and now came the time for the sovereign to do his part.
The thought-made avatar walked with a regal gait, each of his steps creating ripples, pulses of intent that echoed and were heard. As his destination drew closer, his form grew, from a person to a giant to a titan straight from myth.
Lines of golden essence streaked throughout this apparition. They were channels for his might, forged in a vain attempt to replicate the masterpiece existing in his flesh in the world of the true. An imitation they may be, far from the real thing, but they were a start to a project he’d continue for years to come.
There’d come a day, at some point in the future, when this tiny sapling would mature, and become a tree filled with fruits of his labor. He’d reap those rewards, and increase his authority over his realm even further.
Barely two weeks had passed since Xerion’s initiation, and yet change touched uncountable aspects of him. Of the highest import was a simple fact: he wasn’t alone anymore.
Trailing behind the sovereign was a hound of white and royal aura. Its eyes, swirling pools of endless blue, looked in curiosity at the kingdom of its master and companion.
Will-flesh fingers wiggled, beckoning the pup to come and receive the scritches it was due. It did so gladly.
The king arrived at the center of his plane, thirty-nine Sparks of power lazily circling his form. Carefree, those fiery tongues were, but their idle times ended with his coming. Over three dozen ghostly arms flashed into existence and instantly grasped those flaming specks. He had a use for them, and so they could do nothing but be used.
Xerion watched the serpents’ dance. Tails entangled in the depths worked with maws that chased each other, the formation creating a tornado of nigh-limitless golden mists. Yes, he was ready.
His avatar stood unmoving yet he desired speed, and so his want was realized. The thought-made being transformed from a state of utter stillness to a whirlwind of flailing limbs, with no stages in between.
The Sparks escaped his palms only when he let them. They zoomed across the space, pierced the roiling clouds of essence, and stopped exactly where he needed them to be.
The sovereign snapped his fingers, a pointless yet satisfying gesture. In response, the breakthrough began in truth.
Tongues of flame and power moved, sadly licking at the non-air in remembrance of their previous peace. They’d have no more of it, destined to cease their being in the most explosive of ways.
Time passed, and as it did, a ring of golden-tinted scarlet formed at the edges of the realm. Circle after circle, its momentum grew, until the pull it exerted started tearing at the serpents and eating up the mists.
“Ether,” the king bellowed. “Will you do the honors?”
A howl ripped into existence, its might shaking the very foundations of this plane. The wolf’s excitement was on full display as it multiplied in size, soon outgrowing Xerion’s image of the legendary Fenrir, the World’s Hunger.
Like a single drop of white in a land of ever-black, the Hound charged and reached the ring before the sovereign could finish a blink. Once there it stopped, then moved, going from a walk to a trot to a ran to a sprint.
Paws filled with ethereal claws and snowy fur found purchase on the cloudy construct, lending it their power and granting it more speed – which led to the faster devouring of the mists.
Once not a speck of those remained, all absorbed into the circle, Ether clawed below itself, igniting the ring and changing existence into fire.
Xerion’s Spirit companion then did something they haven’t discussed – it dissolved its form and let itself become a part of the flaming essence. The king’s heart stopped at the sight, the entire plane shaking from the force of his distress.
Then a joyful yip echoed through the space, urging him to act and assuring him that everything was okay. The sovereign could only follow, trusting in the judgment of his friend.
His will-flesh lips cracked open, the word that left them stronger than all previously uttered combined.
PUSH
A shrill scream resounded as the ring of fire flattened, gained an edge, and started drilling into the darkness that barred his progress. Existence cried inky tears as an unstoppable force cut into it, digging ever deeper, whole chunks of it devoured under endless heat.
The King’s Heartspace burned and so did he, for they were one and the same. The agony of scorching his heart crashed against his Will not in waves, but in a torrent, gradually erasing his mind, much like a waterfall erodes the rocks it impacts. He’d prevail, for he was Sovereign, for he was God, and for he was Xerion.
Time, a concept of little meaning beyond the world of the true, persisted in its ceaseless march. Its passage slowed with the hurt’s increase, for it was a capricious and vexing thing, always bending its rules in opposition to the desires of those subjected to its whims.
Pervasive, it was too, infesting even this realm, and inextricable to the point that a Deity couldn’t rid himself of its influence. But he could endure the torments its sluggish movement brought, as he and those in his position held spirits not easily broken.
The crack of successful advancement mattered so little as to be instantly disregarded by the king. His ambitions lay higher, as he aimed for the sublime, and that he’d achieve.
After the passing of ages, the last bit of heat disappeared into the depths of the infinite darkness. With it gone, the expansion of the kingdom’s borders was completed, and the sovereign could finally rest.
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Xerion rolled down his bedroll, then stuck it into his spatially-expanded backpack. There; he was pretty much ready to move out, with only the task of removing his sigiled stakes remaining after everyone’s exit from the [Reprieve from the Vile] space.
Paleness marked his face, except for the spots around his eyes. Darkness reigned there, transforming the boy's appearance into a facsimile of that of extinct pandas.
The strangest of noises echoed through the Void Lands, as the young Practitioner had learned yesterday. Whether it be the occasional sounds of breathing behind his ears and neck or the horrid dripping of blood from unseen bodies, all were unsettling, and quite straining on his psyche. And yet, he wasn’t prepared for the worst to arrive during the night.
Constant moaning. Since before his eyes had a chance to close, continuing even after his return from his Heartspace. As happy as he was with his perfect breakthrough – achieved so quickly thanks to the Equilibrium Sphere gifted to him by his mother – in truth, he entered his realm mostly to escape the indecent notes carried by the air and the thoughts they elicited.
He vividly recalled one of his yesterday’s conversations, which also added to his astonishment regarding the loudness of what he had heard.
As a curious person by nature, especially when it came to all things magic, he asked about the markings dotted on the surface of his teacher’s tent. She informed him of their noise-suppressing properties, heaping praises on the quality of the enchantment.
He checked numerous times, and that working should’ve been in effect from dusk till dawn and more.
So what, for the love of the Empyrean, must’ve been transpiring within for him to catch the entire, very long encounter? The things that reached his ears… he’d gladly remove them and grow a new pair, if such was possible for him.
At this moment, three truths remained crystal clear in his heart: Duene was a formidable woman, Nadia must’ve focused her body cultivation on her lungs, and he didn’t want to camp anymore. Ever.
Right on cue, the tent moved to reveal the boy’s mentor. The middle-aged lady locked gazes with him for a moment, before twisting her head to the side and blushing furiously.
The swordswoman exited next, her face seemed a mask of impassivity, but Xerion knew bullshit when he saw it. It was a ruse; she hid it well, but his eyes were too discerning to miss that thick aura of self-satisfaction oozing out of her.
She noticed him observing her, giving him the lightest of nods and the smallest of grins. They disappeared in a blink, but he was sure it wasn’t his mind playing tricks on him.
The green-eyed girl moved to her older paramour, conversing with her for a minute before turning and marching straight in his direction.
“Oy, Xer, have you hear—” Duene managed to say, after which a delicate palm covered her mouth.
“My dearest,” Nadia said, now standing in front of her girlfriend, her voice sweet. “Since you seem to be so unhappy with the accommodations that I provide, maybe it’s time for you to procure your own, yes? Just think of all that space you’ll have, sleeping by yourself. It’ll be lovely, no?”
With the hand removed, the swordswoman had a chance to respond, yet she didn’t take it. Not at first, at least. Oh, the face she was making; Xerion made sure to engrave that frightened mug into his memories, for he doubted he’d be so fortunate to witness it again soon.
“Uh,” Duene finally croaked out. “N-No? No. Please? Don’t do this. Please.”
The boy’s mentor tilted her head by a fraction. “We shall see. Now behave.”
For the rest of the morning, the pink-clothed girl changed into the embodiment of what all Practitioners should strive to become. Her help was offered to everyone, and she was ready to provide it in an instant, even for the smallest of needs.
Xerion thought about taking advantage of her current state, especially after the night she put him through, but decided not to. She might forget in a week that he’d been magnanimous despite the wrongs done to him, but she’d certainly remember him being an ass, and her revenge for that wouldn’t be something he’d survive.
Vaikus approached him after the quarrel’s end. This three paces tall giant stood still as a statue and looked at the two women, the golden light of [Reprieve from the Vile] space shining off of his stunning plate armor. Then his gaze traveled to the pouches tied to his waist.
Metal-clad fingers struck against their surface, eliciting the loved-by-all sound of clinking coins. The man was dissatisfied, however. He stared at the boy next to him, his eyes filled with forlorn sadness.
“No,” the young Practitioner said flatly. “I don’t feel bad, and no, I’m not betting whether they’ll go at it again tonight.”
Vaikus hung his head in resignation, patted him on the back, then did a quick check of their surroundings before shooting him a secret thumbs-up and a wink.
“No! I’m not joking! Don’t you wink at me!”
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Everything proceeded fast from there. The team finished packing up in no more than half an hour and was ready to go. Despite the levity of the morning, none of them forgot where they were and why – people needed saving. Lives rested on their shoulders, and every moment they wasted might lead to the disappearance of yet another flame.
Xerion dismissed his ability, pulled out the sigiled stakes from the ground, and placed them in his satchel. It was time.
The void settled on his form as soon as the light departed, pushing at the boy in spite of his [Sentinel’s Embrace]. It licked at his protection, the coating blocking all harmful effects of the darkness yet letting him experience its touch, the slimy feeling of rotting tongues sampling his skin.
A night in safety put a film over his memories of yesterday. It dulled their severity, made the lands of the dark seem less horrid than they truly were. The beginning of today’s journey was quick to correct that mistake.
The most expedient path to their destination led them through a forest, and as soon as they entered it, the young Practitioner found himself missing the tar-like ground grabbing at his feet. Each time his foot fell, sickly green blades of grass extended, their tips nibbling at the exposed parts of his body, akin to a curious toddler just starting to teeth out.
This place was alive, for a certain definition of that word. Branches of shadowy trees reached out whenever he passed beneath their crowns, some pointing at his eyes and mouth and similar easy-to-hurt spots, but the majority had other designs.
Aside from the homicidal minority, they employed two kinds of approaches. The first focused on lightly grazing his skin, drawing in his scent, and releasing feelings of delight at the possibility of getting to devour a fresh, fragrant morsel. Those in the second camp hovered close to him, whispering of things he couldn’t understand, but if only he drew nearer, took a single step, all the secrets they spoke of would be his for the taking.
Xerion shook his head. Lies. Everything they uttered was a lie, a different way of making him succumb to their influence. He wouldn’t be fooled.
Immediately after that, he sensed a fruit of gold and fire. It was tiny, unworthy of notice by those who attained Coalescence, but for him, a boy barely in the middle stages of the First Rank, it might just change his fate.
Greedy fingers grabbed at that radiant plum, nostrils flaring at the sweetest of aromas it released. Right before white teeth sunk into juicy flesh, a smidgen of clarity flashed across the young Practitioner’s mind, and it was enough to unravel the illusion.
Gold gave way to brownish red, the heavenly scents evaporating and becoming an unholy mix of pus and decay. The sludge in his palm seemed eager to be devoured, and filled with a yearning to bring the most excruciating of torments to its consumer.
Xerion threw it away in disgust, vowing to himself to not touch anything without the express permission of his mentor.
The team’s journey continued. Three more groups of dark-tainted beasts thought to make them their prey, all getting turned into tiny chunks as a reward for their vile intentions.
Nadia kept murmuring to herself throughout this time, but despite numerous attempts at prodding the woman for answers, she remained tight-lipped. Then, after a long stretch of silence between the party, the boy’s teacher raised a matter that caught his interest.
“Xerion,” she said. “There’s still something that needs to be addressed, before we arrive at our destination.”
“Y-Yes?” he asked, stuttering slightly as a particularly persistent and lengthy blade of grass tried to enter his pants and nibble at the jewels hidden within.
“Tell me true, have you asked about us? About Team Hylkiö?”
“Uh, what?” he said eloquently.
“Have no rumors reached your ears? Not one?” She gestured at all the members. “Regarding who we are, how we are perceived.”
“No— Wait. The receptionist at the Training Hall did mention a thing or two, but I thought he just meant that you were, uh, well… a bunch of weirdos?”
Nadia hummed, the sound muffled by the rotting mists clinging to her form. “To designate us as such while not untrue, covers merely a corner of the picture.”
“Okay?” Xerion said, stretching out the word. “So? Is there something else I should know?”
“Yes. You see, when talking of us, you’ll likely hear Practitioners label us as the Kill Team.”
The boy’s eyes widened. “That’s…” The word badass flashed across his mind, but he didn’t think it appropriate to say, so he finished with, “interesting.”
“Indeed.”
“Does that… does that mean we’re, I don’t know, responsible for killing rogue cultivators or the like?”
A snort echoed throughout the space, coming from the pink-clad woman, if he wasn’t mistaken. She didn’t seem inclined to explain what humored her so, unfortunately. Nadia resumed their talk.
“No, I’m afraid not. That ‘Kill’ part is an, ah, a shortening of what they actually mean to say. They enjoy calling us the ‘To-be-Killed Team,’ you see.”
Xerion stopped and stared at his party members. “No, I don’t think I see.”
His mentor sighed, sounding more tired than a second prior. “Team Hylkiö is composed of able yet… unusual, individuals. If I remember correctly, that word, ‘Hylkiö,’ comes from a long-dead tongue, and means ‘Outcast.’”
She paused for a moment, as if giving the boy time to take everything in. “We’re known as a competent group, but one that doesn’t conform to Empyrean Practitioner norms, and so we’re often sent out on missions likely to cause some of us to perish. If such were to happen, the clan won’t lose much, and if we succeed at our task with no losses, then all the better.”
“So we’re, what, just disposable pawns they throw at a problem?” Xerion asked, his voice filled with heat, disbelief, and anger.
“We actually have quite a couple of nicknames,” Philip chimed in cheerfully. “I particularly like ‘The Expendables.’ It’s catchy, ain’t it?”
Duene expressed her agreement out loud, while Vaikus silently nodded, a giant grin hidden beneath the man's bushy beard. Even Nadia didn’t dispute the blue-clad man’s words.
Xerion facepalmed, wondering what’d he ever do to deserve such a fate.