Mere moments before surrendering to fate, Goujian was struck by an epiphany.

Walk the razor’s edge.

Words the Uniter often used in warning, but only now did Goujian truly understand the wisdom hidden within this simple phrase. It was all so clear now. Young Gen had said it himself during his debate with Vyakhya: the Imperial method of Balance was flawed from the first step, yet Goujian still continued down this errant Path in hopes of stumbling back onto the correct path, but he had already deviated too far. So blinded by his preconceptions, he couldn’t even recognize the Truth when it sat staring him in the face, having come across the answer so many months ago when it was imparted unto him by the Heaven’s themselves while he lay hidden beneath the floorboards of a smuggler’s ship.

“The difference between medicine and poison is often merely a matter of dosage, and such is the case with Heavenly Energy.” Those were Goujian’s words then, spoken as he knelt before Wen Zhong in a show of contrition. “Where the Defiled take too much and lose themselves to emotion, we were taught to take too little by closing our emotions off and converting Heavenly Energy into Chi. Balance, true Balance is not about control of one’s emotions, but surrender to them. Embrace love and joy, give in to anger and hatred, for only then can one be wholly in tune with nature and command the Energy of the Heavens.”

Too much was as bad as not enough. Walk the razor’s edge. Different ways of saying the same thing, and so Goujian had done, but what he’d neglected to remember was that there was more to life than merely love, joy, anger, and hatred. There was pride and loathing, pleasure and sorrow, relief and regret, so many facets of the human condition which he’d neglected out of fear of losing Balance, but the Balance he sought, the so-called True Balance he clung to, was still the same lie. Was young Gen not proof enough? He spent his days and nights mired in lust and revelry, and Goujian’s Imperial-tinted eyes saw it as blasphemy, but the boy was closer to the Truth than any other save perhaps the Uniter himself. Goujian also indulged from time to time, but he saw such acts as necessary to adjust the scales of emotion and reach a healthy equilibrium, ensuring love and hate, anger and joy, lust and discipline were all equally represented. That was how he approached True Balance, a cold, logical mechanism which he based on the flawed Imperial premise, but humans were not creatures of logic. No, humans were creatures of emotion, and True Balance wasn’t about managing one’s emotions until positive was equal to negative, but experiencing all emotions in full, following the highs of joy and lows of despair wherever they might bring him without ever succumbing fully to their control.

The razor’s edge indeed. A margin of error so slim it might as well not exist, yet Goujian neither balked nor shied away when faced with this challenge even though he knew the risk. He stood upon a precipice, and he would either surmount this challenge or stumble and fall, but at this moment, as he lay burnt and defeated upon the fields of Sinuji, he cared not for his fate. Success meant casting off the final shackles of Imperial indoctrination to become a true Chosen of Heaven, while failure meant succumbing to his emotions and becoming an inhuman Transcendent, but regardless of the outcome, Goujian would continue to serve Heaven’s Will.

What more could a man like him ask for?

It took more effort than Goujian expected to loosen his grip on his emotions, so accustomed to pressing everything he didn’t like back into the deep, dark recesses of his psyche, but once uncovered, it all came flooding out at once. Parsing through to experience them one by one, he started with his earliest childhood memory, a memory he repressed more than any other, of a time before he spent every waking moment fighting and scrounging for food. He couldn’t have been more than eight years old at the time, a peasant child living in a peasant hovel, but he’d been happy there, or he had been until the night he watched his father beat his mother to death with his bare hands. Goujian had a different name then, a name he’d abandoned alongside his dying mother and crazed father as he ran out into the streets and never looked back.

Even after so many years, the memory still filled Goujian with so much pain and misery. Would things have changed if he’d gone running for help? His mother had loved him so, but he just stood by and let her suffer instead of doing something, anything. Their home was small, the kitchen close by, and many a knife or improvised weapon to be found, yet all he could do was watch until it was too late and run.

Oh mama... Your unfilial son deserves death a thousand times over...

The guards hanged his father but never bothered looking for Goujian, and thus began his life as an orphan, one filled with struggle and hardship. He learned to fight on the streets, not in the way a Martial Warrior fights, but in the manner of a street tough, with sacks of stones slung like a heavy club and sharpened sticks thrust into soft bellies. Few expected a child so young to be so ruthless, but Goujian was quick to anger and quicker to kill, possessed of a savagery few could match which he no doubt inherited from his murderer father. As word of his reputation spread, he found his way into a street gang, as a beggar, cut-purse, look out, and child assassin, killing men twice his age using stealth, guile, and wit. Some he lured with promise of pleasure, others he tricked with feigned fear or innocence, but he soon became known as a child who would do whatever necessary to fulfill his mission.

The years passed quickly and he became a young man, one steeped in the blood of his rivals and enemies. He never let an insult pass and killed as easily as turning a hand, but he also lacked ambition and never sought to try his hand at more profitable work. Fighting and killing was a way of life, and it was all he knew, a means to ensure his continued survival, so each day, he woke up, filled his belly, and went to sleep hoping to wake again the next morning. Goujian had touched upon True Balance then, he saw this now, but in his desperation to survive, he had erred and come dangerously close to turning Defiled. Not that anyone suspected, or that he even knew at the time, but this was what ultimately saved his life in the end. Were it not for the taint upon his soul, Mahakala would have never taken notice of Goujian, and the monk wouldn’t have been there to save him when he was gutted by a wandering Martial Warrior who didn’t like the way this ‘street rat’ eyed him.

Thus began a new chapter in Goujian’s life, following his saviour through the Empire on a journey of self-reflection. The lessons, the arguments, the trials and tribulations, all of it paled in comparison to the companionship he found in this strange and atypical monk. Eating meat and drinking wine was only the start, for Mahakala would beg for alms and spend the coin on women and drugs, with Goujian there to witness it all. The monk never let Goujian partake of course, and truth be told, he had little interest in the pleasures of flesh, but the most curious part always came the day after, when Mahakala would repent for his sins through self-flagellation, often beating himself bloody until he could barely swing his barbed flail anymore. When questioned on his behaviour, the monk would simply offer a sheepish smile and say, “How can a man appreciate the light if he never experiences the darkness?”

A teacher for a day is a father for life, and Mahakala taught him on and off for decades, the relationship continuing even after they had a critical falling out and Goujian set out on his decades-long path which culminated in becoming the Confessor. The darkness lurked in all corners, and Goujian dreamed of being the man to exterminate it, to purge it from the light, but Mahakala called him a fool for thinking this was even possible. Two sides of the same coin, he’d called it, and now, so many wasted years later, Goujian finally realized he’d been right. What would Mahakala have thought of this divide between the Abbot and Vyakhya? Where would he have stood? With his Junior Brother, the Abbot, or with his Disciple in everything but name, Goujian?

He would never know, not for certain, because through his actions, Goujian brought about the death of his teacher.

Such sin, such regret.

The familiar phrase tore away the last vestiges of his restraint and Goujian fully succumbed to his grief. First his mother, then a man he saw as a father, and even the youngsters he’d taken under his wing and come to love as his own, all these deaths lay upon his head. Sweet BoLao, sent out on her own too soon without support, a grave error of judgment on his part which cost him the life of his most talented successor. To compound his sins, whilst seeking vengeance for his would-be daughter, Goujian callously caused the death of his teacher, for he was the reason Mahakala had come to Sinuji, and it was there he met his demise at the hands of the Immortal Zhu Chanzui. Lastly were Goujian’s sons, his four precious, misguided sons, all of whom died by his own hand. There was stubborn Wen Zhong who’d been with him the longest, and the stern Sochun who was always looking out for his juniors. Curious Sun-Sin never truly shook off his wild roots, yet became a most excellent inquisitor because of his nature, rather than in spite of it, and empathetic Mapan who always saw the best in people despite being constantly exposed to the worst. Each of Goujian’s sons had their own strengths, but he’d taught them too well and let the poison of Imperial lies seep too deeply into their bones. He’d seen the truth, but they could not accept it, and thus, they sought to dissuade him by giving up their own lives.

So instead of allowing them to die by suicide, Goujian killed them with his own hands.

Why? Why had he done such a thing?

...Because even in this darkest of hours, the Heavens guided Goujian’s actions.

His mother, his teacher, and his disciples were dead, but not gone, for they lived on in Goujian’s memory. Their souls had moved on to the cycle of reincarnation, but this grief, anguish, joy, and love he experienced whilst reminiscing of their time together was not only proof of their existence, but also a means for him to gain strength. The grief and remorse cut deep and pained him so much he almost welcomed death as a release, but he would not allow it, for death meant an end to it all. Not only his life, but the lives of the people he held dear, for his memories would die with him, and painful as they were, there was still joy to be found amongst them.

Such as the time he stumbled across the depraved work of Defiled bandits and discovered a survivor amongst the corpses. The sheer elation of saving that boy’s life made the decades of Goujian’s misguided crusade worth it, for that boy became Wen Zhong, his eldest and most talented son and Disciple. There was also the memory of teaching Sun-Sin to speak, a grown boy of fourteen who’d lived his entire life out in the wilds with little to no human company. Oh how frustrating it’d been to get the boy to sit still, but Goujian had beamed with delight when after days of effort, the boy pointed at himself and said, “Sun-Sin.”

Then there was Yuanyin, Goujian’s youngest son who still lived, a son he’d neglected for too long because it pained him to look upon the sole survivor and remember all those who’d been lost. How could he be so selfish as to die and leave Yuanyin utterly alone in the world?

For his mother, his teacher, his children, and more, Goujian clung to his sanity throughout the despair, and when all was said and done, all he felt... was hunger. Scorched and blistered as he was, he needed sustenance to Heal his flesh and mend his wounds, but the heat had vaporized the fat from his bones and left nothing for him to work with. Food, he needed food, but where was he to find it? Any supplies they brought with them were now dust in the wind, and with the majority of their army being comprised of cannibalistic Defiled, Mao Jianghong hadn’t seen fit to supply them with much in the way of rations, because...

...Of course.

What he grasped with his one working arm, Goujian couldn’t say, but there was little sustenance to be found from the charred bit of flesh which crumbled to ashes in his mouth. Still, even a fly had meat, so he persevered, chewing and swallowing until there was nothing left of the meagre handful he’d obtained, which only now felt more like a clump of dirt than actual flesh. Blindly grasping about in search of more, he felt someone place something within his hand which he promptly brought to his lips. Meat, burned and grisly, but more than suitable for his needs, and he chewed flesh and sucked marrow until nothing remained, even going as far as to gnaw on the bones and crunch them apart to swallow into his belly. Still yet to be sated, he waved about for more, and more he was given, but this was too inefficient for his needs. Transcendents had no need to chew, he remembered, not because they swallowed corpses whole, but because they rendered meat and bone into pulp though the manipulation of Heavenly Energy. There was no reason why Goujian couldn’t do the same, and even as the thought crossed his mind, the Heavens provided an answer.

A complex combination of Honing, Resonance, Deflection, and a few other skills he lacked a name for, but even then, he grasped the crux of this new technique almost instinctively. The morsel melted as he dropped it into his mouth, turning into a fragrant, succulent fluid which was pleasing to the tongue, and he quickly gestured for more. Morsel after morsel passed his lips, and he used the resulting sustenance to mend his battered body, starting with his other arm to better speed his progress along. Intense itching broke out across Goujian’s newly reformed skin, with each brush of the wind sending fresh waves of agony through him, but such were the ways of Healing. It would take time to adjust and acclimate, because...

...Because he was only human. But did he need to remain so? Young Gen certainly didn’t.

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Strength, he needed more strength, and a more powerful body would be a good start. Fur? Scales? No, simple skin, for he still had his pride as a human, but toughened and thickened to the texture of leather and lacking the too sensitive nerves which had yet to adjust. Not too thick or hard, for there was much strength to be found in flexibility as well, though there was also something to be said about raw power itself. To this end, he moved on to improving the quality of his muscles, not simply enlarging them, but making them many times denser as well. He’d cut open many a man and never found one with muscles more difficult to cut than a mundane wolf’s, proof that the human body was inferior in many ways, but Goujian was no longer constrained by these mortal limits. Skin, muscles, and all that was left was bones and organs, the former which he hardened to the point of steel without impacting his flexibility and the latter he protected through a myriad of methods which were Imparted by the Heavens.

Natural weapons like horns and claws he left off as he would rather keep his original appearance, albeit younger, and he still had his trusted hooked sword, his symbol and namesake, as much a part of him as his hands or feet. With the improvements planned out, all that was to supply himself with enough sustenance to carry them out, and he set to consuming whatever his mysterious benefactor provided. To his great surprise, his body Healed much faster than expected, his flesh and skin forming in great swathes as he continued his efforts without rest. His arms reformed and legs followed soon after, and within minutes he was healthy enough to sit upright, his burnt husk flaking off his back as he continued his feast, his body growing heavy and dense as his new muscles took root.

As for his eyes... he left those for last, because... Just because. No particular reason.

Swallowing the last morsel and holding a hand up to refuse more, Goujian tilted his head to Heavens and gingerly opened his eyes one at a time. Even in the darkness of night, the stars were still almost too bright to gaze upon, and he quickly lowered his head to keep from going blind. A simple ailment to fix given his new prowess, but he was never one to make more work for himself than necessary, for there was always more to be done. Blinking the light out of his eyes, his blurred vision focused and he found young Gen standing before him with a proud smile upon his lips, as if he were a senior witnessing his junior’s success, and in a way, he was. “I’d hoped you would come to understand,” Gen said, nodding as he took in Goujian’s transformation, but his smile turned to a frown as he noticed Goujian’s sword in his hand, the scabbard having burned away with the rest of his clothes. “Still, this sovereign sees much promise in you, and I... I will mention it to my Mentor, who I am sure will take great interest.” The boy chuckled before handing Goujian a shard of pottery. “Moving onto matters at hand, the fire was mundane in nature, oil, gas, and spark rather than a Divinity's attack, which is most... troubling.” Screwing his face up in annoyance, he scoffed and added, “The Imperial Clan would never devise a stratagem such as this, for they would deem it too dangerous to give such destructive power to lesser beings. Seeing as a Khishig ignited it all, I wager this was all the work of Falling Rain.”

All this was moving so fast Goujian could barely keep up. “Er...”

“This sovereign does not blame you for your failure to uncover this plot in advance,” Gen continued, though Goujian never even considered the possibility that he himself was to blame. “But do you see why Falling Rain is too dangerous to let live? Even crippled, he strikes a grievous blow to our cause, and this grievance must be redressed. Come,” he added, extending a metallic hand to help Goujian stand. “There is work yet to be done.”

Yes... There was work to be done. The Chosen of Heaven had been tempered in fire, and while many were lost, all that remained were hardened steel, for Goujian was not the only one Blessed by the Heavens. With Young Gen at the forefront, Goujian and these remaining Chosen would form an unbreakable spear, one which would be driven through the Dog Emperor’s throat to usher in a new era of prosperity for all of humanity.

With his future Emperor’s help, Goujian sprung to his feet with a smile and replied, “By your will, my liege. This one is here to serve.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Frantically trying to remember the last time I saw GangShu and praying the dreamy rat bastard is nearby, my muted panic is interrupted by yet another localized earthquake. This time, instead of pillars of dirt, I watch in muted horror as a veritable wall rises from the earth and hurtles forward to consume Sinuji. Clouds of charcoal and smoke are propelled towards us by the cresting wave of soil and soot, congealing into a thick, ashy fog escorting the solid mass behind it. Two kilometres passes in the blink of an eye and the wave looms overhead to blot out the starry sky, but the ashen clouds sparkle like a miniature, star-studded nebula, twinkling with the light of a million glowing embers.

And then everything explodes and a shower of dirt, pebbles, and viscera rains down over our heads.

Cradling my ears and tucking my chin to my chest, I weather through the worst of the dirt storm with help from Dastan and Sahb, their Runic Shields raised overhead to block what they can. Coughing and sputtering to keep the dirt out of my lungs, I come to my senses and find a ragged beggar sitting on the parapets before me, with one foot tucked beneath his knee and one arm posted behind him to prop himself up. With his free hand, he brings an ornate pipe to his lips and puffs once, then again, before exhaling softly, spewing out a ridiculously long stream of milky white smoke in the process. Spreading faster than I can follow, the pipe smoke wafts away the dust and ash wherever the two might meet, clearing the air in a matter of heartbeats and leaving Sinuji’s outer wall utterly pristine. Throughout it all, Guan Suo continues to laze upon the parapets and smoke his pipe, his white-ringed and red-furred tail leisurely swishing from one side to the next.

...You know what? I’ve decided. From here on out, he can steal as many meals as he wants and I’ll just smile and ask if he wants more.

“You!” Halfway between the Defiled army and Sinuji stands the ugliest woman I’ve ever seen, perched atop a platform of earth with her back hunched and wrinkled skin hanging loosely from her cheeks. Even from this distance, I can see her gap-toothed grimace directed towards Guan Suo, though I wouldn’t dare mention it to her face considering she’s poised atop a stony plateau which wasn’t there when I last looked.

“Me,” Guan Suo replies, as indifferent as always while puffing away at his pipe.

“You were there that day, at the winery.”

“Yep.” Blowing out a ring of whitish smoke, it forms into Common Characters which spell out his name, except backwards because it’s meant for the Enemy to read. “Name’s Guan Suo. Most call me the Smiling Slaughterer. Soon enough, you’ll call me death.”

Only now do the pieces fall into place, and I’m not sure what to be more shocked by. The fact that I’m looking at a Defiled Ancestral Mole-Rat or that Guan Suo is probably Mila’s biological father. “Names. Pei,” the former spits, her ugly face twisted in disgust. “A human fabrication, one I will not fall victim to.” Gnashing her buck-teeth in frustration, she eyes the ashen clouds coiling around her, no doubt Guan Suo’s unsubtle threat. “Blessed by Fire and Air, you think this makes you strong enough to disregard the treaty? Strong enough to kill a peer without paying a price?”

Instead of answering, Guan Suo taps his pipe on the parapet stone and empties it with deliberate ease, only to pack it with the same casual disdain. Putting it to his lips without lighting it, he takes a long drag and asks, “You daft or something?”

It’s easy to see where Mila inherited her surly demeanour from, though it’s much cuter when she does it.

“First off,” Guan Suo drawls, his pipe back between his lips and the clouds of smoke growing before my eyes. “I prefer to call it Smoke. None of this Fire and Air business, that ain’t all I be. Second, you ain’t my peer. I’d tell you to call me grand-daddy, but if I had a grand-daughter ugly as you, I’d kill myself with a block of tofu out of sheer shame.” To punctuate his point, the ashen clouds lift the mole-rat lady into the air as the earthen plateau implodes beneath her feet, only to unceremoniously drop her without warning. Landing with a crash, the Defiled Ancestral Mole-Rat snarls with bestial fury as her skin smoulders and cauterizes beneath the ashen smoke, but a whitish cloud sits before her face, arranged in a single character known to even the most uneducated of peasants.

Death.

The blood drains from the mole-rat lady’s face as she struggles to free herself from the smoke, but Guan Suo continues, “Third, I’m not the one here violating the Treaty. You acted first, so I’m well within my rights to kill you here and now.” Blowing out yet another long stream of smoke, he smacks his lips and adds, “The half-fox was right. You might’ve been a Divinity once, but now you nothing but Defiled filth. Time was, you’d have probably already figured it out. The fire from before? Aside from the spark which set it off, that blaze was entirely mundane. If it’d been mine or another’s, you wouldn’t have had to raise so much dirt to snuff it out.”

Their exchange is probably incomprehensible to most Martial Warriors in Sinuji, but being an elite, Water-Blessed individual myself, I’m able to follow along. If the blaze had been Fire Chi, all mole-rat lady would’ve had to do is emit Earth Chi of her own, and when the two types of Chi met, they would’ve fizzled out, much like how I negated Gen’s fire-bolts using Water Chi on Unity’s blade. It’s not about elemental affinity, but rather equal but opposing forces cancelling each other out, like waves on a string or ripples in a pool. I mean, it would’ve taken a metric shit tonne of Chi to conjure a blaze that size and an equal amount to put it out, but it still would’ve been easier than raising literal mountains of dirt to blanket the earth.

Or I dunno. It should’ve. I don’t really know.

“Impossible,” the mole-rat lady screams, her rage ringing in my ears even as her skin sloughs under Guan Suo’s relentless and seemingly effortless assault. “Lies and deceptions, another human construct which impedes my Path. Mundane the flames might be, but the tinder is undoubtedly of Martial origin to create such a conflagration. That fox-bitch must be here, muddling my poor babies senses, for how else would they fail to notice your Fire-Blessed Warriors preparing this foul trap, even from afar?”

“Fool. There’s only one Fire-Blessed Imperial here in Sinuji tonight.” Waving a hand in Tenjin’s general direction, Guan Suo says, “Introduce yourself, young fire-bird. Let her see who she’s accusing of breaking the Treaty before we send her to the Father’s Maw.”

Where I might’ve hesitated before making myself a target for a pissed off Defiled Divinity, Tenjin doesn’t miss a beat. “I am Tenjin,” he declares, infusing his voice with Chi and pride while simultaneously illuminating himself with another bird of flame circling overhead. “Son of Healer Tokta and Weaver Khorijin, Husband to Sentinel Tursinai, and twenty-nine year old Fire-Blessed Sentinel of the People.”

“Fire-bird Tenjin!” A soldier shouts, and the cry is echoed across Sinuji. “Fire-bird Tenjin! Fire-bird Tenjin! Fire-bird Tenjin!”

The cheers continue for a long time before dying off, but Tenjin stands tall throughout it all with Tursinai in her rightful place beside him. Truth is, she’s much stronger than he is and can beat him with one hand tied behind her back, but there is no jealousy or resentment in her eyes, only genuine pride and admiration. Tomorrow, her husband’s name will be known across the Empire as the man who dealt a blow so devastating, the Enemy mistook him for a Divinity.

Fire-bird. Not the worst title. Beats ‘Undying Savage’ by a fair margin. Lucky bastard.

...What? I’m not his wife. I’m allowed to be jealous. I came up with the whole idea, Tenjin’s just the one who set it off. I could’ve done the same with a match. Fire-starter Falling Rain. Nope, doesn’t really work. Stupid water name. Stupid water Blessing. This sucks.

No longer alone on the parapets, Guan Suo is joined by a heroic figure clad from head to toe in sky-blue Runic Armour, a full set from boots to helm which emerge out of nowhere. Looking resplendent beneath the starry night sky, GangShu’s armour shimmers as he strikes a dashing pose and says, “Now that everything’s been cleared up, I reckon it’s time ye execute the bitch.” Undoubtedly leering beneath his full-face helm, GangShu adds, “Ye only skirted the Treaty last time around, but ye still almost killed me boy. This makes it twice now, so turnabout’s a bitch, ain’t it?”

“Fuck yer Treaty.” The blackened clouds eating away at the mole-rat lady dissipate into nothingness as a portly, lumbering figure appears at her side, dwarfing her and everyone else in both height and width. “Ye want a fight? This grand-daddy be happy t’ oblige.”

That slurring accent. Those droopy ears. That fat, bulbous face. Even from such a long distance, his identity is unmistakable, or at least it is to me. For months, I suffered at the hands of his progeny, and to this day, the memories still haunt me in wakefulness and in sleep, but now, I finally get to lay eyes on the bastard responsible for my torment.

The Immortal Zhu Chanzui. Defiled Ancestral Pig, Mahakala’s murderer, and a bastard who deserves to die a slow and painful death.

...He’s more handsome than I’d imagined, and a lot bigger too, in height and width. All padded muscle, by the looks of it, so robust and powerful, yet he moves with a dancer’s grace.

Two Defiled Divinities against two Imperial ones. While Guan Suo is undoubtedly superior to mole-rat lady, I can’t help but remember a conversation we had when I thought the scraggly bastard was just a half-red-panda, one which is far more frightening now that I know how powerful he really is. “Newborn calf like yourself might not fear the tiger,” Guan Suo had said, “But even I’d think twice before crossing blades with the Immortal.”

Oh hell... GangShu was amazed Big Poppa Piggy beat Mahakala, which means he’s probably not confident about beating either one of them, and the Enemy still could pull out Anathema to use against us. The only bright side is that the sun is down which means the black goop should stay dormant until morning, but it’s possible light isn’t the trigger, but heat, which makes it that much more dangerous for everyone involved.

Besides, who knows how many more Divinities are hiding in the shadows?

As if in answer to my question, the Abbot shuffles out to join GangShu and Guan Suo on the parapets, drumming out a steady beat on the wooden fish in his hand. “Eh-Mi-Tuo-Fuo,” he intones, looking none-too-regal in his plain, grey robes. Even the blocky wooden fish is lacklustre and uninspiring, as if carved by a five-year old who’d never seen a fish before in his life, its eyes too bulging, lips too thick, and body too square. “This monk’s junior brother used a curious phrase, one which resonates with the Great Path. ‘To err is human, to forgive Divine’. Such wisdom, such insight, this monk is ashamed to admit his inferiority, but is this not also human nature?” Shaking his head with a sigh, the Abbot draws himself up to full height for the first time ever, transforming from humble monk to burning warrior without changing a single thing about his appearance, all the while drumming out a slow, plodding rhythm from his fish drum which resonates across the battlefield. “Zhu Chanzui, this monk is only human, so he cannot forgive you for your crimes. The blood of my Senior Brother stains your hands, and for this, you must die.”

Nice. The Abbot isn’t a pleb like I’d feared, but as heartening as it is to know we hold the upper hand in this clash of Divinities, the pessimist in me can’t help but remember yet another troubling conversation I had in the past. On his deathbed, Mahakala said he was stronger than the Abbot, and considering he lost to Zhu Chanzui, the best odds I can give are 55-45 in our favour, assuming all present Divinities have been accounted for. Not-Gen could still be lurking around somewhere, and seeing how he’s being puppeted by an eight-hundred year old monster, that’s a third Divinity to match our numbers which means the outcome looks bleak.

...Yanno, I’m kinda starting to regret setting all of this into motion and wish we could just fight a million-strong horde of Defiled with sword and spear. It sure as hell beats all this Divinity power-level guestimation bullshit, but alas, the decision is out of my hands.

This is what I get for trying to fight smart. I bet if the Tyrant ever gets working cannons, the Enemy Divinities will just throw a shit fit and destroy them all.

It’s true. Might makes right, and right now, I am all sorts of wrong.

Chapter Meme