“Hold on, did you-” he began, the realization obvious in his face as he slid into a wheezing, pained laugh. “You fell for the trap trying to get into the so-called Eternal Vault, didn’t you?”

“Hey, at least it gave me an excuse to finally have something made specifically for me,” she chuckled back to him, already grasping the scroll’s spools to open it up. “So what about it?”

“Don’t expect any of us will get it just by skimming the thing over, but what the hell, I won’t say ain’t curious,” the alchemist conceded, still chuckling to himself.

And so the three gathered round, and Zel unraveled the scroll. Upon its surface was emblazoned a strange tongue, its symbols inscrutable. And yet, it flashed with the faintest of a glow, and before their very eyes it twisted into legible Ikesian.

To those who would tread the walking way of the Despot of Self, of the Self-Forging-Blade, behold and know, I leave this legacy.

The inner beast stirs when roused, thrashing and lashing out.

Those who think to chain it have grasped a half-truth.

Those who think to set it loose have grasped a half-lie.

That Thing, the Beast, the Primordial Self, it is a part of all mankind. It is the blazing fire behind every human ambition, it is what makes us human, for better or worse.

To set it loose and to chain it is wrong in the same measure.

By setting the Primordial Self loose one reduces oneself to a mere animal, one risks devolution;

In other words, one relinquishes the divinity inherent to man - gnosis - and willingly submits to the Supreme Law of the Wild. Through this foolish exchange, wilden divinities gorge themselves upon the relinquished gnosis and bless those who walk this path with bestial strength.

One who walks this path to its conclusion becomes a manbeast and may even obtain a perverted sort of wisdom free from intellect, reprising man’s role as an arbiter of the wilden food chain.

By chaining the Primordial Self one becomes conceited and detached, one grows delusional and pursues false ascension;

For it is through focusing entirely on the immaterial that one severs oneself from the flesh, and it is the Supreme Law of Detachment. Through this expulsion of libido, one may achieve a flawed divining sight and transcendence, for these boons only persist for as long as the practitioner remains an apathetic observer.

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One who walks this path to its conclusion leaves their flesh behind, departing the material realm for the Fog-sea’s eternal depths, from whence they scarcely return.

The Primordial Self is an unfettered force of nature, of instinct.

It is the ancient violence with which our ancestors dominated the natural world.

It can be taught, tamed, but never domesticated.

One who tames the Primordial Self may wield it as any other tool.

One may impose one’s will over aspects of the self relegated to nature.

One may remould one’s flesh, one may put to the forge the very clay which makes up Man.

One may become both the clay and the sculptor, the blade and the smith, the alchemist and the philosopher’s stone.

It is perhaps appropriate that some have compared my method with the internal alchemy of the west, for in a manner of speaking, it is an inversion of its philosophy.

Artefacts, magickal elixirs, impenetrable armor, the sharpest, most savage blades man can conjure - all these things are worthless without will, without the clarity to wield them.

This will, too, originates from the Primordial Self - from within man, not without.

This is the Walking Way of the Despot of Self, the Self-Forging-Blade.

I have chosen to scribe this text in the Imperial merchant-tongue and mnemoglyph both, that I might selfishly attain a measure of immortality should those who come long after learn of my walking way.

You needst but choose to step onto the path;

To partake of my secrets as I knew them through the medium of this vessel.

“I… Think I get it?” Zef murmured, audibly confused as she ruminated on the scroll’s outward message.

“I swear I heard one of my tutors back with the Sangers say some of this stuff word for word...” added Makhus, re-reading passages over and over again.

Zelsys didn’t make a comment, only reading the entirety of the scroll twice more in its entirety. It didn’t necessarily feel like learning new information, but rather as if the scroll’s contents placed what she already knew into a new light, rearranging the pieces of her mosaic into a new image altogether.

She understood it, and being the one to hold the scroll, she also felt the arcane thrumming on her hands, reminding her of the way the motorbike’s handles vibrated when in operation. It was obvious the knowledge was incomplete without taking in the scroll’s mnemonic contents, which she frankly wasn’t ready for right now.

When she was certain all three of them had read it thoroughly, she slowly rolled it back up. Makhus was the first to speak, piping up that, “Y’know, I always thought descriptions of masters reading ancient scrolls were exaggerated, but I think this is just how it is.”

After recovering from the general state of mild bewilderment brought on by the scroll, Zel remembered to ask whether the alchemist could recreate Fogging Canisters for sect use and general sale, to which he enthusiastically agreed, stating that he knew how they worked and just needed to procure the equipment necessary, and that he probably wouldn’t have thought of it had she not brought it up. They then left Makhus the remaining two slices of pumpkin cheesecake, and departed for the sect. With the morning bustle having calmed down the streets were now only frequented by slightly more people than usual, and so they finally got some use out of the motorbike. Zel hadn’t really noticed it until now, but it had a small maker’s mark alongside a name stamped onto the dial plate - a four-eyed, scaly, snarling beast’s head, arcs leaping between its teeth. The name below the logo was tiny, the letters barely two millimeters tall - Sturmgandr.