Chapter 165: Impracticality Disguised as Practicality
The mausoleum was around 80km away from the city, or just under 50 miles. It was sort of a tourist destination distance, Nara equated. Kallid had built there city on top of the old civilization of Manistrengja, which had faded millennia ago. The mausoleum was in some way, Kallid’s equivalent of the Egyptian pyramids, except the artifacts inside were intended by the king himself to be looted by his future people, and normal folk didn’t visit the mausoleum, as it was filled with traps and prowling monsters. Nothing stopped monster manifestations within the mausoleum, and the magic of the mausoleum was thick, probably influenced by some magic array, or perhaps by the sheer density of magical artifacts.
They rode one of the several skimmers that putted above the ground towards the Einvaldi’s mausoleum. Mud and shallow pools of water were undisturbed except by the wind the skimmers generated in their passing. Bright green strands of grass pushed up through the thick mud, struggling to drink in the sun.
Skimmer taxis towards the mausoleum operated regularly once in the morning and once in the evening, making trips to the mausoleum a full day affair—nothing unusual for adventurers. They were additionally grouped with a small team of iron rank locals, another stipulation of the Adventure Society. The mausoleum had too many bronze rank monsters and infrequent silver rank monsters—it was much to dangerous for an iron rank party all on their own. They had their own guide, but they’d follow Roscoe’s directions.
Ceri was a studious, well put together elf. Her hair was a soft white, like untouched snow. Her eyes were a pale tan, the color of wheat. Her hair was in a neat ponytail, pulled back in a practical fashion to keep it out of her face and eyes, simultaneously athletic and academic. A dimension bag sharing similarities to a hiking backpack (although less complicated in construction) was fastened on her back, one provided by the Magic Society for her studies. She didn’t wear robes that researcher types liked to wear, but a pair of sensible leather pants with a cloth and leather top. Finally, her outfit was completed by a knee-length heavy overcoat, more for defensive purposes than for warmth, although doing respectable double duty.
She was generally polite and reserved, responding appropriately when spoken too and an adequate conversationalist. While iron rank, she evidently had been on many expeditions to the mausoleum before, her time split between her studies and progression elongating iron rank significantly. The trip itself garnered no interest; her attention was dedicated to learning about the party she was traveling with. It was important whether they were the competent types—her safety largely rested in their hands, although she had her ways if things went badly.
Her interest was purely practical, as was much about Ceri Bethel.
The team had needed to take the skimmer to the mausoleum, since none of them had been to the mausoleum yet. They disembarked the skimmer, and tipped the skimmer-taxi with a suitably dramatic adventurer-esque flip of a coin. Once all the skimmers had arrived, they’d ride back as a group, with an adventurer protecting their return to Kallid. It was low risk job that many older folks took, the driving easy on their labor worn bodies.
They saw the mausoleum from miles away, long before they had disembarked from their skimmer. It towered—disbelievingly massive. It was a sheer face built into the base of the mountain, carved from dark stone in intricate patterns, reminiscent of Petra of Jordan.
It was imposing, massive, and majestic. Monolithic. This was the mausoleum of the diamond rank Einvaldi, the ancient king of Manistrengja. His treasure trove, for he had never died, but departed from this world permanently.
Which, as far as Nara was concerned, may as well be death. A death in society. A departure. At the very least, he had lest behind his treasures for others to have. What sort of treasures would she leave behind?
The iron rank team they were taking care of had four members—Gwen, Iola, Huwe, and Wynthell. With Ceri, it was a total of five iron rankers, a responsibility that Nara was nervous about. Villagers were one thing—she’d felt the weight of that responsibility before, for but a moment, when she made desperate decisions.
But these iron rankers were (mostly) what she was, just months ago: Fresh, unsure, hopeful. The mausoleum wasn’t typically that dangerous, yet Nara now knew of some of the dangers of adventuring. She had learn them in her own trials and contracts. The building pressure in her chest was not because she was afraid of the responsibility, but rather she understood the true pressures of it. She understood the dangers, because she had lived through them.
“Are you feeling alright?” Encio said, standing next to her.
“Is it that obvious?”
“For all your aura control, you aren’t that hard to read.”
She shuffled on her feet.
“I was told the opposite, on Earth.”
“Clearly,” Encio said, “They haven’t been paying as much attention as I have been.”
She snorted. She couldn’t help herself.
“You really don’t stop,” she said with amazement. Her tone was disproving but her smile was light.
They started off towards the mausoleum, the stall stone façade looming over them like the gates of hell. It blocked light itself, the temperature dipping noticeably in the shadow of the colossal entrance.
The face of Petra was around 130 feet high (40 meters), but the mausoleum loomed over 200 feet tall. Since they could just carve it out of the mountain, Erras’ struggling progress in construction bore no impact. The mountain itself was high rank stone—able to bear weight entirely improbable by Earth’s standards.
The team ventured forward, feeling like krill entering the gaping mouth of a blue whale, Roscoe explaining all the while. Other teams entered too, in their own groups, yet they were spread apart, just at the entrance, due to it’s sheer size.
“Typically,” Roscoe began, “The challenge rooms list the rank of the challenge: Iron, bronze, and silver. Now gold rooms—they exist, but only as myth,” he stared at them, dropping his frivolity, “Do not enter the gold rooms. No even Hero can save you there.
“Now, there are portals that link the mausoleum together—”
“Portals?” Nara said, stopping with a shake in place. Suddenly, the mausoleum grew a lot darker, a lot larger, if that was even possible. It’s massive entrance hall stretched and extended, the white moon glowstones seemed to dim, their light less powerful, less illuminating than they should have been.
“Convenient, eh?” Roscoe said, thankfully oblivious to her inner turmoil. “Otherwise we’d have to travel the entire way. I can keep track of which rooms are unavailable, and tackle as many as possible. We guide have a schedule of which rooms are in the process of being switched out.” He stretched his arm outward, to indicate the depths of the mausoleum, “Furthest inward, some of it is still unexplored. Unmapped. It’s labyrinthic, this place. What you’re seeing is just the entrance.”
“We can’t do portals,” Sen said, crossing his arms.
Roscoe stopped to stare.
“And how do you expect to get around the mausoleum?”
Sen glanced at the halls, “We have a vehicle that can fit all of us.”
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“I don’t see a vehicle,” Roscoe said. His foot tapped against the polished and patterned grand hall, annoyed that his perfect and professional plan had hit a hitch so early on.
Nara rubbed her eyes, regretful over the mess she was already making of this expedition. She pulled the Nebula Flask from her inventory, holding it out to show it to Roscoe and the iron rankers.
“Is that a Cloud Flask?” Roscoe asked, face alight with wonder, his annoyance temporarily forgotten.
“Something like that,” Nara said dimly, not in the mood to play her technicalities game.
“That still isn’t faster than portals. We can’t execute the plan according to the schedule if we can’t use portals to get from one room to another—”
“Make a new plan,” Sen said with the tone of someone who was very sure of himself, and would not be convinced otherwise.
“Is this part of the test? I can see what I can do for you.”
“No,” Sen said, voice even and strong. “This isn’t a test. We will not use portals. Neither this week nor any other.”
No one in the party glanced at Nara. They made no indication that she was the one who had screwed the plans. The iron rankers kept quiet, nervous at the tension. Their safety depended on the bronze rankers, and they didn’t like that they were…non-traditional.
Roscoe’s yellow-orange eyes narrowed into evaluating slits. He had propositioned them, but was he having second thoughts on a team that was so high-maintenance?
“It’s just…in the beginning,” Nara spoke up quietly. “Once we go to a location, we’ll be able to use our own portals.”
Encio’s shoulder pressed lightly against her, steading her shivers.
Sen nodded, “Prioritize reaching the depths of the mausoleum, and accessing its branches. Once we’ve established that we can use our own portals, you’re more than welcome to plan around using the mausoleum’s portal system. It’s a safety precaution,” he said reasonably.
“I assure you, the portal system of the mausoleum has never failed,” Ceri said, offering her knowledge. “We’ve looked into it.”
Sen asserted with his aura mildly, pressing Ceri who had unhelpfully interjected. “I hope you can understand, miss Bethel, that it is my duty as party leader to assure the safety of all those present. Whether or not the portal system has failed is irrelevant—to travel to the depths of the mausoleum without portals is a minor detour for an endeavor that may take months. We will make that detour, if I feel it decreases risk.”
“Moreover,” Aliyah added as their helpful researcher, “If we’re too far from a portal, we’d have a faster way to escape danger.”
Ceri nodded, reluctantly understanding. The team she was with did have an odd number of portals. It would be negligent of them not to fully utilize it. Although, she didn’t understand why they couldn’t just step through every portal on the way there. Sen’s strict gaze and aura clamped her mouth shut, killing her unvoiced query.
“How fast can your, something-like-it-Cloud-Flask travel?” Roscoe asked.
“Up to 75 miles per hour,” Nara said. The cloud flask could transform into an RV as it’s carriage form. It was faster than the sky boat form since it adopted the advantages of technological advancements, although smaller and unsuitable for living for thirteen people. For transportation, it was what they needed.
“Really?” Roscoe said, both tail and tone indicating his befuddlement. “We can really make headway then. If it’s safety you’re after, I understand. We can prioritize safety this trip, and afterwards transition to efficiency. How’s that sound?”
“That’s fine,” Sen assented.
Nara popped the cork of the Nebula Flask, the sparkling magic treating the iron rankers to a rare show. It diffused the earlier tension, even Roscoe was ogling the magic formation.
They set off, piling into the RV as Roscoe gave directions to Sage (with so many people, Nara almost expected it to creak under their combined weight), who piloted the vehicle together with Sen at the front. Sen didn’t know how to drive the Nebula RV—the control were entirely foreign to him. Why was there an oddly shaped wheel? The switches and the knobs, the turn signal that they had entirely no use for there were no lanes to switch to, the radio that buzzed unconnected, the air vents that he flipped pointlessly upwards and downwards because the vehicle had perfect temperature control, the empty CD slot Nara had never used because no one used CDs anymore, and she didn’t have any either. They were remnants of Nara’s world and Sen just could not understand any of it, any more than she could understand how they piloted their skimmers with a fucking sphere. Surely, a vehicle with mild vertical movement capabilities required more complex controls?? Where were the buttons and knobs? The levers? The switches? The altitude indicator?
While the Nebula Flask had two primary modes—grand and adaptive, the interior of the construct could actually be anything in-between. Since no one here beside she and John had any idea what an RV even was, she opted for the Nebula Flask’s original interior, casting the upholstery and walls if they were made of sunset hues, twilight rays, with sparkling subdued patterns of nebulas and galaxies that glittered across walls if you looked for the detail. It was dreamy and fantastic, yet none found it to wear on their eyes, comforting instead. They melted into the cloud cushions and seats, heaving sighs of contentment as the RV sped across polished stone, with no imperfections despite the wear of thousands of years of blood and battles.
The first day was relatively easy. Roscoe expertly redrew their path, creating a route that accessed the deepest parts of the mausoleum as quickly as possible. They’d step out every so often, and he’d remark on something to imprint upon their memories as a location for teleportation. It wasn’t something he had prepared for, but Roscoe adapted well, evidence of his long experience in the mausoleum.
The outside of the labyrinth had been imposing steel grey stone. The grand hall adjacent to the entrance was the same, but other branches of the mausoleum varied in architectural style and color. It wasn’t made of different material—still the same dark grey mountain stone, but it had been permanently dyed by magic, none knew how, expressing the same physical properties of the mountain stone while possessing a different color entirely, varying up to sparkling halls of cream white to halls carved of brown, red, and gold. The variations made the sectors of the mausoleum easier to differentiate, yet each sector was so large that they had 9 portals in each, spaced roughly equidistant to each other.
*****
It’s odd.
Ceri could tell it was all odd. Why had the team leader, Sen Arlang, silenced her? The Arlangs were famous as practical and competent adventurers, and she was miffed that he perhaps had the impression that she lacked the common sense to practice safety procedures. But even now, every time she tried to bring up the option to Sen and Roscoe, she was silenced with a glance before she could speak. She was ashamed that she was so easy to cower; she thought she had more strength than that, but with one steely look her mouth clamped shut and her thoughts stilled, all energy vanishing like heat in a vacuum.
Roscoe gave her an apologetic and understanding glance—he didn’t understand the reason for Sen’s hardheadedness on this topic either, yet the entire team was in sync. It was, evidently, a stance they universally shared, without needing words nor any outward communication.
Sen wasn’t much older than her, he wasn’t, yet he felt so much weightier. His actions, his presence, stemmed from this invisible weight she couldn’t understand.
The bronze rankers had been playing table games—they could listen to Roscoe speak and played, effortlessly multitasking due to their rank, leaving Ceri envious and wistful for when she’d finally reach bronze. She was just a researcher—she wasn’t dedicated like they were. Her rare chances to rank up, if she continued to put off using cores, were on these research expeditions.
She possessed one of those crystal mausoleum tokens herself, unused and untouched. She kept quiet about it—it was dangerous to let others know she hadn’t used it yet. Danger that she, an untrained iron rank researcher, couldn’t fight off.
Two of the bronze rankers had been sitting close. The woman was a little quiet, distant, more concentrated on playing the table game than anything else, as if the table game had been started for her benefit. A wolf familiar curled across her lap, snoozing when it shouldn’t have to sleep.
The second was an ethereally beautiful man. One of those that you couldn’t quite believe wasn’t a gold ranker already. That wasn’t the result of rank ups, Ceri could tell. It was the sort of beauty that made you feel bad for him, up there among Beauty’s finest—everyone else must have looked so ugly and plain in comparison. The curse of Beauty, that they must gaze upon mundanity in turn. She felt frumpy and awkward just sitting in the same area even though she was an elf, a race known for their attractiveness just behind the celestines, which nobody could compete with, except for the leonids and dragonids who generally didn’t find them physically attractive at all.
She hadn’t realized that her gaze had been drawn to the two of them until she peeked something beneath the long sleeves of the woman’s overcoat. A large, diamond shaped scar, almost as wide as her wrist.
It was a distasteful and pointless practice, real skill would ultimately be revealed; Some adventurers faked scars for clout, but it was usually on the face, the neck, or on the torso to be exposed by an eye-rollingly wide-open shirt. There was no reason to fake a scar on the wrist, especially not in a cold region like Kallid where everyone except leonids wore long sleeves and long pants.
Unless it wasn’t fake.
Ceri was a practical person. She could tell when something was done impractically. And what they were doing now was impracticality disguised as practicality. A lie that was 95% of the way there. Safety was their excuse.
And because Ceri recognized when something that should be practical was done with impracticality, she knew that there was a reason.
Stupidity could be one. She didn’t expect that from the Arlang.
The law of parsimony—the simplest explanation was the right one.
They couldn’t use portals because someone in the team wouldn’t use portals. So when Ceri saw those scars, she saw the long, hard look that the cut through the ethereal beauty she had been enchanted by, and Ceri learned that sometimes it was more practical to be quiet, than to be right.