Xerion didn’t know much about Lindani. He’d never even seen the man outside the Archives, for goodness’ sake! Virsha, the city of his birth, had a population of barely over two dozen thousand people. Not a small amount by any measure, but there was hardly a person here he hadn’t seen at least once or twice around the town.
But he did learn a fact or two about the geezer, over the years. Well, maybe not learned, per se, but figured out, based on his behavior.
For one, he sure loved books and scrolls, and really just knowledge in general, regardless of the medium in which it was contained.
Such immense affection naturally had a price, however. The heavens wouldn’t allow a being to feel passion of this magnitude without taking something in return. And so, they took all the fucks he had to give about people.
Oh, how Lindani loathed them! Especially the children. The man looked to be in something in-between a fit of apoplectic rage and having a heart attack whenever one chose to enter his sanctum. Xerion had plenty of such memories from his childhood.
Good times.
And so, the codger’s hatred for all that talked combined with his adoration of all that didn’t. Quite an insane – and annoying – concoction indeed, but one with patterns to see for one with discerning eyes.
Predictability was good, as far as Xerion was concerned. It made problems easy to resolve, as he could expect them ahead of time. Like right now.
Lindani wanted the Archive free of people, so he made it as inhospitable for them as possible. The methods of the wily old twat were brilliant in their simplicity.
Enforced silence, to discourage people from coming together. A ban on eating and drinking, coupled with keeping the toilet for his personal use only, so they couldn’t stay too long. Tables hidden in spots unreachable by those not thoroughly familiar with the place’s layout. Chairs so uncomfortable, they felt worse than sitting on jagged rocks.
But here’s where the old man’s predictability bit him in the ass.
Below Xerion’s bum laid a tiny little pillow. It seemed barely worth a mention, yet it made a world of difference. Smuggling it in here was no mean feat, but he was resourceful, and so he managed.
Ah, how nice that was, to be in comfort while he studied and researched.
On his right laid all the materials relevant to the creation of a Harashatii, from the scrolls he retrieved from the hidden compartment just minutes prior, to a bunch of books detailing the anatomical structures of various animals, mundane and monster alike.
On his left sat a collection of tomes related to ability creation, with most of them focused on the Conceptual Essence Usage system. An easy choice, given how versatile and instinctive it was.
In the simplest words, it allowed a Practitioner to call upon various aspects – or shades, or any number of other names for the same thing – of their concept. That, combined with a particular type of essence weaved into special patterns, would result in the birth of powers.
Xerion’s plan for today was to make two.
They wouldn’t be all that exciting, quite boring even, but without them, he’d be as good as dead the second he stepped out of the golden dome and into the void itself.
Ahead of him was yet another pile of parchments, this one fully focused on the use of Rituals. Pesky little things, those were. Complicated too, and often very, very situational. The amount of esoteric knowledge needed to make them work boggled the mind, not to mention how long they took to prepare.
Xerion loved them. How could he not?
Despite their many, many faults, if used right, they could completely turn the tide in almost any scenario. And their uses were plentiful.
“Banish the Evil!,” for example, was a compendium of various Rituals that allowed for the purification of items. Dreary stuff, but extremely profitable.
Then there was “Home Turf.” Mastering its contents would ensure he never found himself at a disadvantage, no matter the battlefield.
The most interesting title he discovered was called “Rites of the Marcavesh, Volume One.” A purely theoretical work, sadly, but the sheer notion of being able to speak to an essence and have it listen?
Fascinating.
Lastly, in his hands was a book describing yet another system. This one was called Totem Engravement. Irrelevant today, but if he timed everything right, in less than a week…
Xerion felt like rubbing his palms together in anticipation at the mere thought. He just needed to Sub-Rank Up once or twice, get the Grand Elder to let him play around with some of the man’s beasts and with some corpses, refresh the knowledge he spent years accumulating, and he’d be ready!
Easy peasy.
Hours flew by as he immersed himself in his studies. Meditation was an intrinsic part of his people’s culture, and this, what he was doing right now, felt like a form of it.
His eyes may’ve been growing tired, but his mind seemed sharper than ever. Unlike his body. Xerion yawned, his mouth so stretched a fist might fit. That was his cue to leave.
He could, and would, come back, but he was done for today. The scraps of energy he had left needed to be preserved for ability creation.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
Xerion shook his head, in sheer disbelief at the day he had. He’d woken up a mere mortal, but would fall asleep a Practitioner, one in possession of some very potent methods. Not to mention the ancient secrets he got to learn.
Yes, it was time to go. But he didn’t want to. Home was… He just didn’t want to. But he had to.
“Bah!” Xerion stood up, releasing a strange sound that carried all of his annoyance. “Fine then…”
He stretched, a couple of audible pops coming from his back. It took a good quarter of an hour to return all the works to their designated places. If he dared to put them into random spots, Lindani would’ve skinned him alive.
It was annoying he couldn’t take them out of the Archives, but such were the rules. Breaking one or two of the minor ones, on occasion, was fine to him, but a big one like that? That could get him banned. Too risky.
When he neared the building’s exit, the old man was still there, still working. Not sparing him a single glance.
Fine then. Be like that.
“Happy with your choice?” Duene asked, an easy smile on her lips.
Xerion jumped. So absorbed in his thought was he, that the presence of a guard outside the Archives slipped his mind completely.
“Please, Duene, don’t startle me like that. Can you imagine a Heart Practitioner dying of a heart attack? I can already see how they’d remember me. Xerion, the Joke, they’d write.”
She just rolled her eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous, Xer. No one would write about you. You’re too insignificant.”
Hearing that made him snort with laughter, especially because he knew she was being serious. Calling her an oddball would be an understatement, but people would say likewise of him, so that was a plus in his books.
He thought back to her original question. “Choice? Ah. Yes. I went with the [Nineseal Physique].”
“Hoping for an upgrade, eh?” She nodded to herself. “I expected as much.”
“How about you?”
“[Empyrean Revivification]. Probably won’t contribute to its growth, but I don’t expect to find anything better. Not with my luck,” she said, running her thin, calloused fingers over her scar.
Xerion made a sound of agreement. That was the safe option. The smart one. And he certainly couldn’t fault her for acting smart. He encouraged such behavior, in fact.
He would’ve loved to go that route as well, but he couldn’t.
No one ever escaped the abyss that his clan found itself in. But he would. It was a truth that rang deep within his bones, echoing through his being like a gong from those monasteries of old.
Yet despite his utter conviction that such would come to pass, the task itself remained daunting. And so he’d grab at every opportunity, every chance to increase in power, all in the hopes that when the fated hour arrived, he’d be ready.
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The reading material available to Xerion, before his initiation, was limited. “Mortals shouldn’t concern themselves with things above their station,” Practitioners would say. “How about you eat a turd?” he would answer.
His take on the law was a simple one. Rules were rules only when you got caught breaking them. And so, even as a mere mundane, his knowledge of the cultivation world grew to be extensive.
Oh, the juicy tidbits he managed to fish out over the years! Plentiful, those were, and ever so interesting.
Practitioners of the Third Rank, for example, were supposedly able to fly. How grand must it be, to take a step and arrive in the very sky? The view they must see.
Xerion hummed to himself. The journey might be long, but he’d get there, undoubtedly. For now, he’d just have to suck it up and stay limited to his earthbound perspective. That was fine. His imagination could bridge the gap with those so much mightier than himself, showing him a bird’s-eye view over the city of Virsha.
Layered like an eye of the mythical Nebulae Gazers, five concentric rings made out its layout. The smallest, center one held the town’s administrative district, nearly all buildings there of utmost importance, be it the Grand Hall, the Central Pillar, or the Archives.
Next was the commercial heart of Virsha. Everything from the common blacksmith to the shops of prestigious Enchanters could be found within. That place never slept, the clan’s craftsmen working at hours insane by the average person’s standard. But they were at war, have been since forever, the very air trying to kill them at every moment. And so, the non-combatants toiled, for the loss of even a single warrior brought them ever closer to extinction.
The third ring housed the city’s mortal population, for they had to be protected. If a breach were to happen, the Practitioners stood a chance against the monsters roaming the outside. The mundanes? They’d welcome those snarling maws with open arms; a clean death was the preferable outcome when faced with the alternative.
Xerion shuddered, and it had little to do with the chilly evening air. The stories he heard… No. No. The void wouldn’t get in. His clan may have fallen from its ancient lofty heights, but they were still proud people. They would repel the darkness, if a need arose.
He hoped.
Xerion’s nose crinkled as he entered the mortal district, his hand subconsciously traveling to his collar. Before half his face had the time to disappear into the comfy confines of his robe, he stopped what he was doing, realizing how such an action could be interpreted.
His distaste for the place of his birth – and most of the people in it – was a known quantity, but let not a person say he disliked some more than others. Some of his fellow Practitioners had those smug looks of superiority when faced with those they deemed lesser, particularly the residents of the third ring, but Xerion could gladly say he didn’t count himself among their number.
No. He’d much rather wipe those from their stupid mugs. How infuriating that was, seeing them act that way to other clansmen. Weren’t they all in it together, just trying to survive in this hellish landscape ruled by the void?
Idiots. Absolute morons, the bunch of them.
So why did he almost bury his face inside his robe? That’d be the smell. Mortals could still make good coin when talented enough, but on average, their income was nowhere close to that of Practitioners. Which meant they couldn’t afford to deal with waste in the same way as those essence-inclined could.
All that to say, the air smelled of shit. Not to some overpowering extent, but for Xerion, a boy who spent his entire life in the wealthier districts, it was enough to cause displeasure.
All’s well that ends well; the unpleasantness of the journey added an extra skip to his step. The existence of boots on his feet also might’ve contributed to his increased speed. Goodness, how nice it was to be clothed once more. There must’ve been a good explanation for why the ceremony and the impartation took place while half-naked, but whatever it was, he found nary a trace of it.
In no time at all, he crossed through the wall that separated the third ring from the fourth. He was home. Yay.
Sprawling mansions filled this space, though none were made like in the olden times. That was not to say that they were shabby, but those strange sigils couldn’t be found on any of them, nor even the special stone used to construct big parts of the central district.
Everything in here must’ve been destroyed during the Dawn and replaced after. When some nights grew lonely, Xerion often ended up falling into the well of his imagination, his overactive mind conjuring fortresses and manors worthy of immortals.
His musing came to an end as shadows covered his form. The wall surrounding his family’s mansion was an impressive thing, over a dozen paces high and absolutely covered in the workings inscribed by capable Enchanters.
The price for such a service would’ve been tremendous, but a good half of it was done by in-house work, with the rest being dealt with by granting a couple of favors, pulling on a few connections, and paying whatever little else remained.
Xerion sighed, straightened his back, and entered through the gate.