Aqsa al-Gharb. The name of the main settlement Hibara Shrine had been paired with. And the name of the one they had just walked into.
The four party members followed along closely behind their Kitsunite guide, the clacking of their mount’s horseshoes against the rugged stone path filling the quiet air with a rhythmic beat.
“Alright, we’re here,” the Kitsunite said in Plataic so spotty that Soleiman, who had long since gotten accustomed to parsing the language's sounds from non-proficient mouths, had trouble understanding what he was saying.
“Where should we go from here?” Soleiman asked, taking a look around.
It was not a flattering sight. The settlement’s outskirts seemed to have been built into the layout of a compact, modern Saracenic town; though the absolute state of the buildings in front of them challenged that very idea. They were built from a combination of concrete fashioned from river sand and clay and were reinforced by wood pillars driven into their walls. Walls which were broken down and weary. Even the roofs, made of thatch and wood and clay, all had collapsed in on themselves. All evidence of a complete lack of wealth and resources required to maintain such an ambitious approach to city planning.
“Ask the locals,” he replied, eyes drifting across the decrepit sight before them.
Were there even any locals?
“Oi!” He yelled, directing their attention to a man who had fallen asleep slumped up against the walls of one of the abandoned buildings. “Direct them to Tasufin!”
The man jolted awake, looking confused for a moment. When his eyes landed on the Kitsunite though, he rolled them in annoyance, thumping his back against the wall once more.
Ignoring them.
The Kitsunite spat a Japonic expletive under his breath.
“Oi, answer me!”
Still, the man gave no response, his eyes sealed tight and his mouth sealed even tighter.
The Kitsunite sighed.
“Just keep going further in, find some other locals to ask,” he said. “His tower’s one of the tallest buildings in the town, if I’m not mistaken. It shouldn’t be too hard to find.”
“Ok, Sir,” Soleiman responded.
As the two of them talked, Pallas took a closer look at the man. He had fallen asleep with nothing but rags on his body, layer upon layer of blankets and scarves wrapped around him in some half-attempt at fending off the cold. Furthermore, each and every piece of fabric was horribly stained, so much so that she could barely make out the plaid red-and-white patterning of his raggedy keffiyeh.
“Alright, I’m going now,” the Kitsunite said. “I trust you can find your way back, but be careful. The locals have been a bit on edge as of recent.”
“Wait, where are you going? I thought you’d see us all the way to Master Tasufin?” Soleiman asked.
“No, I have no time for that,” he responded. “I’m not running late for my patrols. Give the hillbillies an inch and they’ll take a mile, I tell you.”
They continued onwards, bidding farewell to the Kitsunite as they continued deeper into the city. They saw as the man spat on the floor where the Kitsunite had stopped his mount, the icky greenish-yellow hues of phlegm staining the already unsightly broken rock path.
The further they walked, at least, the less sad the town became. The buildings were all still stout and unimpressive, sure; but the floor became more well-maintained, the walls were more consistently taken care of and the roofs were now hardly even caved in. There were even more permanent signs of habitation, with families going about their business and children running about the streets as opposed to there just being the occasional homeless person. Though it wouldn’t be perfectly accurate to call them homeless, it's just that they were not officially in possession of the abandoned houses they called home.
A child ran into Qingxi’s legs at one point, nearly collapsing in fear when he saw her Chitite ears and her bandage-covered face. Though his fear quickly dissipated when she knelt down to pat him on the head.
“Interesting place, this is,” she remarked, waving the child away as he hurriedly ran to return to his friends; all of whom were watching from around a corner in morbid curiosity. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a place so well-kept, yet so…”
“Not well-kept?” Rumi asked.
“Mm,” she hummed. “Strange indeed.”
Strangest of all, though, was something they were yet to see.
Something they would see right now in fact, because-
“Sir! Madames!”
A young man dressed in his pyjamas quickly scrambled from out of one many homes they walked past, sprinting a good distance down the street to catch up to them.
When the party turned around to look at him, they saw that he carried within his arms a collection of strange wares; bronze teapots, little clay pots painted with geometric patterns and even some coloured glass vials filled with an unidentifiable liquid.
And everyone immediately turned back around. Everyone, except for Rumi.
“Madame, please, will you buy some of my goods?” he asked, eyes widening in an attempt to try and draw empathy from her. “They are authentic, high-quality, sourced straight from the masters of Aqsa al-Gharb. I promise!”
The wares clinked and clanked in his arms as he presented them to her. One of them almost even fell out.
The party kept ignoring him, Rumi having to awkwardly walk backwards as she tried to shoo him away.
“No, sorry,” she said apologetically. “We really don’t have the money to be buying anything,” she explained. “Could you please tell us where Master Tasufin is, though?”
“Oh, Master Tasufin! You know him?” He responded, lighting up.
“Yes! We’re trying to find him because we need his help,” she responded, tugging on Soleiman’s arm to try and get him to slow down.
“I see, I see. He’s right this way!”
He pointed back the direction he came from. Which, if she remembered correctly, had precisely zero tall buildings. Let alone one that could reasonably be called ‘the Tallest’.
“Oh.”
Soleiman tugged back, pulling her along to look her in the eye and whisper something just barely out of the man’s earshot.
“Ignore him, Rumi,” he said. “These sorts of people only ever want to con you out of your money.”
“I-”
“Come on, Madame!” the man insisted. “Master Tasufin is right this way!”
She did a half attempt at shaking her head, quickly turning around as Soleiman pulled her to his side once more.
“It feels wrong, though,” she told him, blocking out the frantic calls of the man from her mind as best as she could. “How can we just ignore him?”
“That’s just how it is with these people,” he responded. “The moment you respond, you give them an opening to try and pester you with whatever overpriced nonsense they’re trying to sell.”
She gave an uneasy glance over her shoulder, watching as he scrambled to try and close the gap between them.
He only stopped when Qingxi repositioned herself in between her and the man, the menacing aura exuded by her additional set of non-human ears and her meticulously bandaged face finally managing to get him to give up.
After some walking and a little inquiry with a few more personable locals, they managed to track down the location of the city’s one and only Tinkerer. It was an unassuming building, salient from all the others only through its extraordinary height; for it stood at four stories tall, where most of the other buildings that surrounded it maxed out at either one or two.
Its facade was a beautiful mix of wood and painted concrete, each intricately decorated layer distinctly separated from the others by solid wooden foundations that jutted from out the walls. Most interestingly of all, though, was the fact that the corners of the building were exposed. Instead of being made of solid wall, they were instead formed from interlocking logs of wood that clung onto each other with elaborately crafted Kitsunite locks. They were buried into the concrete of their respective walls for support, acting as a sort of rebar; if Soleiman were to guess. These corners were just lightly covered with drapes of water-proof fabric to shield them from the outside, though they seemed to be fluttering freely in the wind.
A bit of a strange option to use wood of all things as rebar, given its tendency to rot, but he was in no position to question the wisdom of those more experienced than him.
They made their way through the curtained threshold of the building’s doorway, swiping away its flowing fabrics to reveal the room inside.
Immediately, they saw that the back wall directly opposite them had been entirely blown out. It instead led into a small courtyard, covered by giant umbrellas and stocked with various materials; raw weapons, hunks of scrap metal, even a small well. Most salient and completed-looking of the weapons were a recurve bow wrapped with silver wire, a wooden pike with a twisted head of steel and a Solean claymore; its shining silver form decorated with trailing veins of gold. The room itself was quite dusty and barren, a forge having been built into the wall where it could be fed from the outside. There were buckets of water, racks filled with various smithing tools, an imposing anvil, and a very primitive lighting system in the form of wall-mounted candles. All of which came together to give the feeling that they’d just walked into a dusty, soot-covered cave.
The floor even seemed to slide slightly under their boots, little grains of sand moving about under them.
This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it
Opposite the forge wall was one fitted with a staircase and a counter underneath it. Approaching said counter, entirely unmanned, Pallas read the clean little piece of paper set upon its desk.
Busy infusing. Please ring the bell for assistance.
Her eyes immediately shifted to the utter dinger of a bell sat right next to the paper. Unlike its counterpart, it was so thoroughly rusted and covered in dust she wondered if it would even ring.
She placed her index finger upon its button, feeling the sandy roughness of its worn, brown surface.
She pressed downwards.
Ring!
Fair enough.
“Coming!” a voice responded from the floor above. There were sounds of multiple pairs of feet thumping against the wooden floor, and soon a man hurried his way down the stairs to greet them.
Though Soleiman raised a hand to try and greet him, the man ignored him, instead powering ahead to seat himself behind the counter. Fixing his posture and aligning himself with the desk, only then did he return the gesture.
“Good evening,” he said. “How may I help you?”
The group paused for a moment, Qingxi and Soleiman exchanging quick glances.
“Hello,” she ended up saying. “Is this where Master Tasufin works?”
“Master Tasufin? Of course,” he responded, leaning forward and letting the long, grey hairs of his beard touch the desk. “Why do you ask?”
Qingxi unbuckled the Xiafan blade from her hip, carefully setting it down on the table.
“We would like him to inspect this blade.”
The man’s eyes lit up slightly as they met the masterwork of a sword.
“A Zhanmadao,” he said, mesmerised; irises shifting back and forth as his gaze explored each and every detail of its sheathe and hilt. “A horse cleaver.”
“Yes, Sir,” Qingxi responded, bowing slightly.
“My, I’ve only ever seen these in books,” he said. “What an honour it is to behold one with mine own eyes.”
“Thank you.” Qingxi bowed again.
No words were exchanged for a while. Instead, the man continued to stare at the large sword, eyes meticulously scanning every centimetre of the metre-and-a-half weapon; lingering ever so briefly on the three glowing blue bands tied to its hilt.
“Right, yes, my apologies,” he said, catching himself. “You're here because you want a look at its inscription, right?"
“Yes, Sir.”
“And am I right to assume the Shrine will cover the fees?”
“Yes, Sir. They will.”
“Very well,” he replied. Saying not another word, he grabbed the sword, rising from his seat to march back up to the second floor. “Come along then!”
They made their way to the second floor, the very atmosphere of the building changing the very moment they took their feet off of the last step.
The entire room was entirely spotless, perfectly maintained and well-kept. The variety of quiet colours painted intricately on the rugs upon its floor and the banners upon its wall all sung together in a beautiful melody for the eyes; the hundreds of books stowed on shelves pressed up against the wall and placed around the room having been arranged carefully too. They were positioned such that the room would be sectioned into two parts; an inner circle surrounding a large round table and an outer ring where the vast majority of the books were stored.
The man led them to the standing mahogany table in the middle of the room, arranging them around its circumference before placing the great sword atop of it.
“Give me two moments,” he muttered, scurrying behind a bookshelf.
“Two moments?” Pallas whispered, looking at Soleiman. “What?”
Soleiman shrugged.
“A quirk of language,” Soleiman eventually responded. "I guess."
The man returned, notebook and pencil in hand.
“Now, I-” he started, suddenly cutting himself off as he set the items down on the table. “Goodness me.”
He shook his head.
“My apologies,” he said. “What are your names, if I might ask?”
“Qingxi,” the Chitite replied. “Pallas, Soleiman and Rumi.”
“Of course, of course.”
“And you are, Sir?”
He paused momentarily.
“Tasufin," he responded. "I apologise, I should've introduced myself earlier."
“Ah, okay."
“Right,” he said. “Qingxi, is there anything I should know about this sword before I start analysing it?”
“Be wary of drawing it,” she replied. “It automatically fires whenever drawn.”
“Alright. What about its language? Has it been inscribed in Sinitic, by any chance?”
“I’m… not entirely sure-”
There came a loud dinging noise, like that of a small metal object clanging against the wooden floor, from abovehead- quickly following by a few hurried footsteps that shook the wooden ceiling.
"What was that?" Pallas asked, she and the others turning to face the stairs leading to the floor above.
"My assistants," Tasufin replied, putting a hand to his heart. "Causing a ruckus as always."
He turned to look up, brows furrowing as his chest expanded momentarily.
"Oi, don't touch anything you're not supposed to!"
He cleared his throat, blinking slowly to reset the look of mild annoyance etched onto the weary, aged creases of his face.
"Right, sorry," he continued. "You were saying, Miss Qingxi?"
"I'm not sure," she repeated. "I haven't had it ever inspected before now."
“That’s okay,” he said. “I’ll just write down what I come across, and you do the translating.”
Qingxi nodded.
At once, he got to it. Firmly, in such a way that defied the boney, wrinkled appearance of his aged arms, he gripped the sword by its hilt and by its sheath.
“Do you need me to-”
In one swift motion, he unsheathed part of the blade, perfectly managing to avoid the automatic firing of the windblade; not a single drop of mana lingering in the room having been disturbed.
“No need.”
Gracefully, he continued moving, entirely unsheathing the blade before neatly arranging it and its sheath on the table; every single movement of his arms calculated to perfection– the mark of a master more familiar with the way of his weapons than with the creases of his palms.
He put his two hands together, thumbs intertwined as he held his palms out to the rough centre of the sword. Closing his eyes, he swooped his hands away, both covering the entire length of the weapon, before finally picking the notebook from the table and beginning to write.
And as he wrote, his shaky fingers struggling with each rhythmic stroke of the foreign language, Pallas felt a strange, subtle sensation. As if she was being seen.
She glanced at Soleiman, her eyes soon meeting his in search of reassurance- to which he nodded in turn. This was just them feeling the rippling of the blade’s soul puppet as Master Tasufin inspected it.
Slowly, time trundled along. With nothing but the sound of graphite scratching against paper and the distant blowing of the northerly winds to accompany them, the party members too fell into a meditative trance. Or so Pallas thought.
Maybe she was just really bored.
Master Tasufin would occasionally gasp or choke mid-way into the ritual, startling everyone aside from Qingxi with sudden, awkward breathing noises that made it seem like he were a geriatric with breathing problems. Which, given the circumstances, he probably was.
Eventually, the Master concluded his analysis. And after inspecting his transcription of the algorithm one last time, he handed the notebook off to Qingxi.
“The inscription, Miss.”
She took the notebook with both hands, pulling it close to her body– to her heart– as she read the chicken scribbles that were supposed to be her language.
The rest of the party inched ever so slightly closer to her, their eyes flicking between the illegible foreign script and the Chitite’s brown eyes. Those quivering, anxious eyes. Every last bit of stoic professionalism melting away at the heat of the fires of fear that raged within her. A fear for the future, a fear for what might already have passed.
Her fingers gripped the pages of the notebook tighter.
Her pupils froze.
Then they continued; flashing up and down time and time again. Checking to see if what they beheld truly was real.
And then she looked away, her gaze distant and empty.
“Qingxi?” Pallas asked.
She set the notebook down.
“...Qingxi?”
Her eyes weren’t empty. No, they were watching something. Something displaced from them in time, forever frozen as memories within her head. Cherished, beloved memories– of a time that will never again be.
“He’s going to kill my Mother.”
The room was deathly silent. Even the winds had been muted.
“That change he made,” she continued, her voice beginning to show the first signs of weakness. A tirade of emotion suddenly catching up to her disbelief. “Was to make my sword kill my Mother.”
She breathed in, and then out.
“If I return without having proven myself.”
Pallas and Soleiman shot glances at each other.
“Does it say how you’re supposed to prove yourself?” Rumi cut in, every bit of horror and wretched disgust writing within Qingxi’s mind and heart reflected on her face.
“I must defeat an opponent equal to this sword,” she said, not even glancing to check. "In power."
“W-well what about the cursemark?” Soleiman interjected, desperate to try and step in before the dam broke. “Did it affect anything?”
“Yes,” she replied. “It’s mingled with every last bit of the soul puppet. Every attempt at casting a windblade will summon him now,” she said, even the several layer thick mask of bandages wrapped about her face failing to hide her distress. “...And what is considered ‘equal’ to this sword…” she trailed off.
“...Is equal to him.”
“No,” Pallas responded.
Slowly, Qingxi pulled her arms slightly closer to her sides. Her hands still resting atop the table, the party watched on as they ran white with a lack of blood as she clenched her fists; nails threatening to dig into the very flesh of her palms. Tears threatening to spill out of her clouded eyes.
“Why?” She asked softly; so quiet was the question that they could just barely hear her. Yet so loud was it that she could hear it roaring within her mind. Over and over again.
Rumi and Pallas quickly embraced her, wrapping their arms about her in comfort as she stood still as a statue.
“...Equal to the Serpent King?” Soleiman mouthed to himself.
“I’m… sorry to hear that,” Master Tasufin said, his voice now devoid of the light cheeriness he had shown before. “I could analyse it again, if you would like. On the house.”
Qingxi shook her head.
“No,” she said, her voice now well and truly broken. It was shaken, scared- like that of a child's. A child who missed her mother.
“No.”
“Shit,” Soleiman whispered again. “How are we going to do that?” He asked, eyes rising from the table to meet the girls’ gazes.
“...We have to kill him,” Pallas responded, rubbing her hand against Qingxi’s back. “There’s no other way.”
Soleiman put his hand on his forehead, leaning against the table for support.
Defeating the Serpent King? One of the six Artefact bearers?
There was room for possibility, given that Pallas’ Blessing could scale beyond even Artefact bearers after sufficient time. But that was nowhere near where they were now. And to bar Qingxi from returning home all that time?
“I…” Soleiman started, failing to find any words worthy of the situation.
“If I may,” Master Tasufin said, drawing their attention to him. “I will say this; and that is that you do not have to kill the Serpent King to fulfil that condition.”
“...Really?” Qingxi managed, wiping the tears from her eyes with a tissue Rumi had handed to her.
“Indeed so,” he responded. “The algorithm merely states you defeat one worthy of the Serpent King. Which, by reason, would include any one of the six Artefact bearers. No matter how weak or strong they are by comparison.”
“Well," Pallas responded. "Who should we kill, then?”
“Well, there’s really only one option,” he replied.
“Al-Muqayad. The Fellbeast.”