CHAPTER FOUR

Nero sneered at the arrogance.

“Kill me?” He approached the man with his thumb against the base of his hilt, planning to draw at the moment of any outward sign of aggression. In his confidence, he even allowed Xorin to kick his own dagger back into his hands, to which Nero had expected to occur. Xorin was no fighter; He was more akin to a rabid beast in need of culling. His expression, tainted by malice, made that clear as such. “You don’t want to threaten me, boy. You’re much too frail. You lack power. Not only that, but without Beast to defend you, nor your Compass to empower you, you can’t do anything to stop me. A dagger is hopeless against a blade of my design.”

“...Are you done?” Xorin questioned, not even bothering to get into a proper fighting stance; Instead, he held his dagger in a reverse-grip, his feet plainly squared beneath his hips. It was a foolish, improper stature; Nero knew it came from inexperience and a sheltered lifestyle, with there being an absurd number of openings in the position that he took. Xorin seemed to be taking note of the position of Nero’s eyes, as if calculating the precise maneuver that Nero would take in response to his first line of attack. It was adorable, really, that Xorin believed himself comparable enough in speed to match a Government Officer.

Still, the confidence exuded by Xorin made Nero uncertain of one fact.

“You don’t care if you get hurt at all, do you?”

Nero smirked at the dismayed turn of expression plastered upon his target’s face. It was working, that much was clear, that the continuous pushing of his emotions was leading to an intense brewing of rumination. Attachment had clearly already been incited as such. Though teeming with anger and rage, Xorin could not prevent the bitter line of his essence from beginning to take place, and, in a fitful moment of ferocity, Xorin acted on impulse—aiming to deliver a strike, a slice across the neck of Nero. It was an attempt to take his very life—the ultimate severance of a connection—and Nero dodged it plainly.

“You’re a bastard, you know that?” Xorin spit with a vehement ire, his eyes carrying the wildest of furies.

“I don’t see why you’re so surprised. We informed you that you would have three days to find a way to form a Connection to us. You’ve nearly accomplished half of that already! You’re on good timing.”

Xorin swung again, but Nero knocked it once more from his hands with the back of his wrist. He didn’t bother using the blade itself, finding it to be an unnecessary tool in the moment, and instead pulled from the hilt with such intensity that it struck Xorin squarely in the stomach. Blood and bile ejected from his esophagus, splattering against the white of Nero’s coat and partially the length of his blade; Nero gagged, finding it to be a sordid sight, and took a step back as Xorin fell to the ground.

“That’s all you have to offer to us, Xorin. You’re not particularly skilled, you’re far from being strong. The only thing you’re good for, is what you can do for other people. Even if that’s not much, we can use your ability better than even you can.”

Nero kneeled down beside his attacker, who was coughing and sputtering bloody phlegm. He felt an intense pang of anxiety, Nero feeling as if he had done something incredibly egregious and were to be reprimanded. It was akin to the feeling of a child nearing the point of being scolded, an instance of infantilization hitting Nero in the pit of his soul the moment he stared into the blackened eyes of Xorin Zephylle. He jumped back out of reflex, his hand pressed to the hilt of his blade—He had already drawn, he noted, and had not realized when.

“Quiet, Nero…” Xorin stood, wiping the blood and mucus from his face, “I’m tired of everyone acting like they know who I am. I’m tired of being expected to do things that I don’t even comprehend. It’s not even been a day since I’ve arrived in Grand City, and I’m tired. Awfully, awfully tired.”

“Stand down. The next time you attack, you’ll lose a limb.”

“I don’t care. You can tell that already, can’t you?”

Nero held his throat, as if worried he were damaged. Something was wrong. It felt as though every fiber of his being were crying aloud, his body developing a shake from the sheer nervousness and anxiety. His mind flooded with a collection of darkened, corruptive thoughts, impulsive emotions of nearly random yet illimitable negativity piercing the shackles of his heart. He took a step back, looking around the Spiritual Plane for answers—and only finding Xorin.

“What did you do to me?”

“Nothing at all. You did it to yourself. If you live, the emotions will pass, and we’ll probably come to an understanding of some kind. Usually, the Connection is formed from that first, but you skipped a few steps.”

Nero recognized his mistake with immediacy. He forced a Connection to Xorin, in spite of being warned that it required a significant degree of trust and time, with such meaning that he was now experiencing a portion of the emotional turmoil that Xorin felt on a consistent basis. However, it wasn’t possible for Nero to find regret in that; He had accomplished his portion of the mission, his only thoughts seemingly twisting to that of his sister, Viktoriya. She shouldn’t experience this, he felt, It would be too much for her.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

“Would it, Nero?” Xorin asked, having approached the man in the midst of his thought processes. Nero hadn’t even understood yet that he’d been stabbed through the stomach, the obsidian dagger plunged several inches into the flesh of his belly. His organs burned with a heavy fire, and Nero clutched Xorin’s wrists as he began to lose his ability to stand. “Connections are rather… toxic, really. They spread like a web of cracked glass, originating from the center. The moment you thought of her, a Connection had formed. I’m sure she’ll arrive in time to save you.”

Nero fell onto his back, confused and dazed. He had been defeated not through combat, but through his own hubris. He wasn't even being killed for such impudence; His superiors would likely commend him for having accomplished all that he set out to perform—and with ample time remaining.

“Why do you feel this way, Xorin?”

“I don’t remember, nor do I wish to,” Xorin admitted, “Beast is stalling the game, allowing me to venture further. I’d have allowed you to come with me, had you not been so callous.”

“Huh…That’s an ironic twist of fate.” Nero mumbled beneath his breath, placing his hand upon his wound. He wasn’t damaged lethally so, but it was enough to incapacitate him when combined with the emotional turmoil he had undergone. It was strange to be directly corresponding to Xorin’s emotionality, especially when it had never been clear that he had such depthful pains. He could feel Viktoriya, her arrival becoming especially desirable, now that Nero had nearly been slain—by a terribly weak Caster, nonetheless, who hadn’t even cast a Spell. “I believe I should thank you, Xorin. You’ve given me an opportunity.”

“Pardon?”

“The Connection goes both ways, does it not? With this understanding, I’ll be able to report to my superiors much more pertinent information. I’ll likely be seeing you in the future—whether I am to be an aggressor or not, depends on the circumstances.”

“...Just stay out of my memories.”

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In spite of the Beast having taken the brunt of the spiritual damage, Xorin himself found that he was considerably more deprived of his energy than he previously understood. It was clear that his ability to progress was hindered, especially from the emotional instability that stabbing Nero had caused him. It was not his first time harming a person, but it was the first that he had done through rage—such left him distraught, especially as the flooding in of Nero’s own emotions continued to weigh on his conscience.

“We’ve reached the third memory,” Metatron spoke, her voice a relaxing presence in the exhaustion that Xorin faced. The man smiled softly, recognizing that he was halfway to the most cherished memory of himself and Beast, before continuing forward with extreme quickness. It was all he could do at that moment.

They were in the midst of Outsider Loft, within a small, dilapidated archive. It was here that Compass were made, Xorin remembered, though how he had done such remained unknown to him—He could sense the vaguest presence of the darkness of the Beast, captured within the spirit of the memory in which he stood. The same child from the crater, perhaps a tad younger, wandered the halls of the library, unknowingly being stalked by that of Xorin.

“Why are you following him?”

“Because I'm curious where it leads.”

Xorin was knowledgeable on the surface, though internally had little understanding of his own abilities. Should he see them from an external perspective, he felt it could become much more obvious as to how he performed the Spell in the first place. After all, if Alyza were correct in that Compass was not an energy-beast, it would mean it was something else—which was far more concerning to Xorin than even his own safety.

The child seemed curious, inspecting a box that had been placed upon one of the shelves, before shaking the contents and spilling them to the ground. A number of archaic, rustic tools fell, many of which the glass implements became shattered, though a particularly oxidized and derelict compass had managed to remain unharmed from all things but age; The child seemed giddy, picking it up with a smile.

“Hiya, Compass!”

Xorin remained quiet.

“Hmm. Where should we go today?”

Instead of the long, arduous process of programming and building the compass that Xorin remembered, the factual contents of the memory seemed to imply that Compass must've existed prior to his involvement. Such was deeply troubling, and it made little sense—Xorin tapped Metatron, desiring an answer from her. Still, the child walked away, content with having discovered the item nonetheless.

“Meta, you seem to have an idea of what occurred here. How did Compass come into existence? And where is Beast? I don't even see him in this memory.”

“Master… I can't explain everything, you know.”

Xorin sighed deeply.

“Can you try your best?”

“...From what I can tell, Compass was with you already, and you transferred her into the object upon touching a suitable host.”

“That…” Xorin shook his head. “That doesn't make sense at all. But, what of the Beast? Are you implying that he was also part of myself?”

“That would be correct. He became actualized in the previous memory, following the explosion.”

Xorin narrowed his eyes towards Metatron.

“Where did you come from, then?”

“From within you as well, Master.”

Xorin grit his teeth.

The answer was expected, but it served only to infuriate him—There was a strange emotion bubbling in the center of Xorin’s chest, burning with a sharp intensity that increased the further he remained ruminating on the opinion of Metatron. He could feel his patience wearing thin, his soul becoming woefully damaged after having spent almost a full hour wading through memory after memory. It was impossible for him to venture any further without calling into question his own sanity, his remembered experiences becoming invalidated by the simple viewing of his own past. Still, Xorin pressed further onwards, carrying Metatron with what little pride remained in himself.

“...Are there others? Like you?”

“Of course, Master. We’re merely products of your imagination.”

Xorin bit his tongue, holding back a wave of emotionality that he could not yet process. However, if it were the case that Metatron and Compass were simply that—imaginary—then he could not understand what precisely Beast was, being capable of taking tangible form and equally interacting with those he chose to communicate with. It boggled his mind, bending it in such a way that he could feel his own thoughts beginning to erode.

“Let us continue, Metatron.”

“...Okay.”