One morning, Halxian came to Zelsys with a message from his father, asking her to visit him to discuss “an interesting affair”. This was code-speak for a truly severe and urgent problem, one that threatened global repercussions and required the direct intervention of the Newman Sect’s strongest. The mere fact he brought over a missive himself was enough to suggest great importance.
She had noticed the Estoras brat getting along surprisingly well with Victor. A part of her would’ve preferred for a more heated rivalry to develop, but this was also perfectly acceptable. They seemed sufficiently motivated to outdo one another, and that was all she really wanted. She truly wished to see the brat’s reaction when Victor finished whatever modifications he was making to Dawnwolf.
As for the “interesting affair”, it couldn’t have come at a better time. Over the past weeks, Zelsys had grown acutely aware of the fact that Conqueror’s Mantle was simply not cutting it anymore. The technique hadn’t been created with her current state in mind, and so it was falling short. It was now easy to initiate and she could maintain it without burning out in a few minutes, that was nice, but the flow of Fulgur through her silver conduits wasn’t pushing them as far as they could go; she no longer felt the same white-burning pressure that told her she was coursing with as much power as she could possibly handle. The quality of energy she was generating was also vastly improved, but once again, there was no doubt in her mind that she could do much better.
The biggest weakness of Conqueror’s Mantle was its former main advantage - the low level of symbiosis with the Storm-soul Cultivation Method. Before, it was necessary to simply not rely on the Butcher for the reaction; sustaining the original, Living Storm-powered version of the Mantle for only a short time was among the things that had led to it shattering in the first place. That aspect was nothing but a detriment now, even the possible flaw of losing her weapon wasn’t a factor. She couldn’t be disarmed besides in the literal sense, having her arms severed, and even then she could wield Carnifex by other means or simply manifest it as Fulguris instead.
Both she and Carnifex had outgrown Conqueror’s Mantle by far. It was like using an engine design a full generation behind and merely applying better materials and fuel to it; it was better, but not nearly as good as it could be. A redesign was needed, and though she’d been making progress trying to work it out, something more substantial to chew on was sure to be just what she needed to break through.
Indeed, it felt like the secret to fully refining the Conqueror’s Mantle would come from the same place as whatever she needed to leap the gap in understanding to finally grasp the cause of that annoying mental itch.
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There was still some time before the time when Crovacus wished to meet with her, which conveniently fell into a free spot in her schedule. The governor knew better than to try and make her play by his own schedule.
Indeed, there were still things for her to deal with before then, as the sect Elder.
For instance, the impending arrival of a contact from the Counter-propaganda Bureau, as Vaceran so readily informed her. He made no effort to hide himself, and no wonder. That man, in his trench-coat and bearded visage, smouldered like a walking ember as he walked through the street. Each other step gave the thump of metal on stone, and while one eye stared with an emerald-green double iris, the other was a brass sigil that burned inside its socket, perpetually glowing a dull cherry-red.
She waited for him at the steps of the sect, having sent Nesgon to the gate so he could open the barrier for her guest.
From across the wall, his singing and strumming echoed:
“I’ll be your demon, your devil, your bulwark for hate. Spit your accusations at me, I’ll just say Ikesia above all else!”
“So long as one of us lives, Ikesia can’t know defeat, so long as one of us breathes, Ikesia won’t know defeat!”
“In the face of all tyranny, I shall exact retribution! I’ll gladly cloak myself in hellfire to shield the fate of my nation!”
Strolvath, in his grim dignity, strummed a new instrument, a zither, as he walked, singing with a growl-like voice that Zelsys had only heard in the Dungeon’s final chamber. If she didn’t know better, if her senses weren’t sharper, she might’ve thought that the man was somehow in a perpetual state of pseudo-Hellfire Mantle. Certainly, he exuded that kind of power, but this was nothing compared to that scorching blaze. Just the low roar of a furnace without enough air.
He repeated the second verse. Ikesia can’t know defeat, Ikesia won’t know defeat. Slowly, almost leisurely, he walked through the courtyard. Quite a few disciples broke from their exercises to look or listen.
“You can hate us, accurse us, but we’ll never bend or break! Just another tyrant’s crony, your strength so frail and fake.”
“And even should our bodies be turned to naught but ash, should all our works be swept away, turn’d to rubble and dust… Never shall our spirits rest ‘til vengeance has been had, and neither shall our killers know peace, their children ever-damned.”
Slowing down even further, singing more softly as he got within only a few dozen meters and locked eyes with Zelsys, Strolvath ended his song.
“At the end of the world, when we are long forgotten, so too shall be those who thought to kill us.”
“And even when all is gone to the winds, Ikesia still won’t know defeat.”
A final strum, and by then, they were only a few steps apart. Despite sitting, Strolvath still had to look up to look Zelsys eye to eye.
“What’d you think?” he asked, casually. “I’m thinking of titling it The Hellfire Manifesto.”
“The last three stanzas could use some work,” she said plainly.
Strol emitted a frustrated sigh-groan that sounded somewhat like the roar of a fire being blown into.
“I knew you’d say that. Let’s go somewhere private, I’ve got a good reason to come in person like this.”