On the whole, the trip to Marwind was rather uneventful. The most thrilling discovery was a slightly suspicious cloud inside the sa-serpent’s demiplane, which one of the host’s Seraphists – an independent First Sphere of Ocean who went by the name of Mirish – insisted to be an Overwatch Miracle from his competitor.
“I’m telling you, it’s that menace Fliker.” Mirish kept his eyes locked on the innocent puff of water vapor, which stood out because it moved a little slower than its carefree friends. The burly man wore a bulky set of steel armor with only a lattice of narrow slits for visor. “Fliker always shows up and messes up my plans. He’s probably spying for Osiri’s enemies right now.”
“And you can tell that from what?” asked the woman with blonde hair sitting opposite from him inside the cabin, who wore a gilded steel cuirass over an elaborate blue robe. Like all Seraphists, the encasement had elevated her beauty to perfection. “It's a cloud, genius. It doesn’t even have a face, and I’m fairly certain a <
“Exactly, Chiorou, exactly. That’s how good Fliker is. He has figured out a way to disguise his Miracle.”
Chiorou groaned and resumed reading a small book titled Alugold, supposedly the last work by a prodigal alchemist before the illiterate villagers burned her alive for knowing how to treat stomach cramps.
Manziholet had only viewed the first few pages, on account that it was written in a pre-Justinian language that, upon cost-benefit analysis, was not worth his effort to learn. The First Sphere Seraphist of Bone must have reached a different conclusion, however, given her job as an Archivist of the Civil Service.
As the host’s sa-raven left the demiplane and made way to the island, the cloud, of course, did not follow them. “Don’t fool yourself,” Mirish deduced. “Fliker plays the long game.”
“Unbelievable,” Chiorou muttered, then nudged Manziholet, who was sitting beside her, with her elbow. “You don’t happen to have brain damage like him, do you?”
“I’m perfectly fine,” he replied. “Thanks for the concern.”
“Come on, don’t be shy. I’d rather not lose my head because a new member insists on keeping their deep, dark personality flaws under wraps. Illusion of grandeur? One-man moral code? Hypersexuality? Or you are one of those men who like—”
“Stop harassing the novice, Chiorou,” the leader of the host said. As another Archivist, Raka Weng also dressed in the same model of cuirass and robe, except he also had a buckler strapped on his right hand and his Second Sphere seraph possessed so much vaepor that Manziholet felt a slight tug between their Circuits.
[Seraphist detected: Bastion, Second Sphere, Candle Domain.]
In fact, Manziholet held the smallest metaphysical mass among the four Seraphists. Even when Mirish and Chiorou had just unlocked one Miracle like Manziholet, they could easily outlast him in a war of attrition.
[Seraphist detected: Breaker, First Sphere, Bone Domain.]
[Seraphist detected: Breaker, First Sphere, Ocean Domain.]
“As we have discussed, he only joins us in this job as a complementary Armament. I assume he’ll keep to himself and step in only when I ask him to, yes?” Raka said, his dark brown eyes fixing on Manziholet.
He nodded. “A learn-and-support role. I won’t disappoint you.” On the spectrum of truth, the promise fell somewhere between the confession he gave his uncle Tamajiang and the pleasant compliment he made when his friend showed up with this ridiculous haircut.
While the sa-raven streaked across the blue sky beneath the morning sun, not a person keeled over or clutched their chest in pain due to poisonous air. Marwind, after all, was a stable world with conditions modeled after Terra and seeded with the same life. Its laws of reality had also been left relatively unscarred during the past wars, hence no sentiment winds that attempted to strangle its inhabitants like those on some dissonant planet.
The bird then landed next to a military camp, set on a hill that overlooked a beach and, over the distance to the north, the small and thin island of Vonna, which was closely encircled by a perimeter of warships.
As the host stepped out of the cabin, more sa-ravens landed as well, depositing a contingent of two hundred Fireguard mercenaries, who quickly formed into ranks and marched behind their employers toward the camp. The rest, consisting of ordinary menials and thralls, would stay to unload the supplies and equipment for the expedition.
The governor (Raka Weng’s great-grandfather’s niece’s grandson) welcomed them and led the host to the main tent. Between the walls that were lined with elaborate tapestries depicting historic battles woven in gold and silver threads, they gathered around the map table showing the island and the surrounding region. The governor and his staff briefed them on the situation, including the estimated number of hostiles on the surface and the location of the ruin’s entrance.
“I want to talk to the survivors,” Raka said.
The last two Vonna islanders in question were quickly escorted into the tent. They looked around in confusion before their eyes widened in stunned silence at the four Seraphists. It was understandable. The closest thing to divine radiance in fishers and farmers’ lives was the occasional shiny fish scale or a particularly symmetrical potato.
“You.” Raka arrived in front of the older one. Her son took a step back to hide behind his mother’s old brown clothes. The Seraphist took out a piece of paper and held it in front of her face. “Tell me about the entrance you people found. Did you see these symbols anywhere near it?”
It took a moment for the mother’ brain to resume its functions. “No, lord. I don’t think I did. I only looked at it from afar.”
Raka pointed the paper to the other survivor. “And how about you?”
The son remained mute, peeking at Raka like he was going to eat him.
“He didn’t as well, lord,” the mother said. “I forbade him to go anywhere near it.”
Stolen story; please report.
“Don’t be afraid.” Raka ignored her and kept his eyes on the boy. “Look at these symbols carefully. I just need to know if you saw them.”
The boy hesitated, then gave a meek nod. “I remember them, lord.”
“You are certain?”
“Yes, especially the middle one. It looks like…two mothers leaning back-to-back.”
The Archivist’s gaze shifted to the mother, who had a sizable biological asset, then returned to the symbol. “Yes, I suppose it could look that way. Thank you for your cooperation. Governor, you can escort them away now.”
“You learn something new everyday,” Chiorou commented on the side.
“So, what’s all that about?” Manziholet asked. “If I’m not wrong, those are written in Quorathene hieroglyphic language.”
“It means we’ll have a lot of fun down there, novice,” she replied. “I’ll explain when we get there.”
Outside the operational range of the Oculon System, luxuries such as transferring money through skin contact or knowing the local time with a thought were sadly unavailable. Hence, in addition to various survival items in Manziholet’s current possession, he had also brought some forisma in the form of coins (cumbersome but made of dissonant material and therefore counterfeit-proof) as well as a beautiful silver wristwatch. It told him that, at exactly nine o’clock on local time, the bombardment on Vonna commenced.
Sa-ravens, carrying specialized cabins, flew in a line and swept across the full length of the island. Upon reaching their designated drop zones, the bottom hatches of the cabins opened, each releasing hundreds of heavy steel-tipped javelin rods. Simultaneously, the encircling warships aimed their siege artillery and let loose volleys of great stone balls. Even separated by a swath of water, Manziholet could hear, and feel as well, the thundering roars of Vonna’s crust being pulverized.
At quarter past ten, the warships had run out of ammos and the sa-ravens had executed five passes over the island, saturating Vonna with enough foreign material to alter its geological composition and ensuring that, be it the innocent ground or the bronze-flora hybrids, no hostile could have the strength to effectively deny the subsequent advance by the host and their mercenaries.
Chiorou and Manziholet landed on the western end of the island. The Archivist had manifested her <
The sight alone could render bravery a very short-lived virtue, which was why the Fireguard mercenaries around the Seraphist, hardened veterans who had mastered a supposedly unique type of weapon, were giving her a wide berth. “Alright, kittens,” she ordered, “march on.”
The two Seraphists walked in front of the mortal soldiers, who were dressed in black leather coats covered in steel plates and equipped with their signature flamethrowers. Spreading out in a thin but wide line, they would move inward and meet the others at the ruin’s entrance.
Along the way, the Fireguards spewed hot incendiary liquid onto every bit of surviving plant matter, which quickly burned away. Although it slowed the march down considerably, the last thing they needed was any remnant of the Quorathene automatic defense system recovering behind their back when they descended down the Ruin.
Still, the bombardment had done a good job. Both the survivors and scouts had described spider-shaped hybrids infesting the surface, but the leftover bits of bronze and greenery buried in the churned and cratered soil reminded Manziholet of a junkyard. Fortunately, his curiosity was sated when one soon erupted up and charged straight at him.
He considered the Quorathene arachnid with interest as it closed distance. Standing at the height of a walking bear, it traversed the terrain with the fluidity of a shark slicing through water. The main body resembled a bulbous mass of vegetation encased in bronze plating with a gaping maw bristling with jagged bronze fangs and a long green tongue. Its screeches tore through the air like jagged metal on stone.
Beneath its armored core, eight elongated, segmented limbs of bronze strode across the ground with precise steps, the front pair of which were disproportionately larger and ended in gleaming sharp blades. Tendrils of thorny vines sprouted from fractures in the metallic casing and coiled chaotically around the whole botanical nightmare.
The mercenaries at Manziholet’s rear shot their crossbow bolts, the tips of which each contained a vial of incendiary liquid that shattered upon impact into a tiny fireball, but the Quorathene arachnid harmlessly scurried through the heat. The bolts had not even pierced through its thick plating, and whatever plant matter burning away quickly regrown. In the Quorathene’s dictionary, ingenuity and cruelty seemed to be antonyms.
“Don’t waste your ammunition,” Manziholet said, walking forward. “It is mine.”
[Seraph: 73υ of vaepor
ArchSoul: 29υ of draeg]
The Seraphist’s Wispstrike Cutter materialized in his left hand, while his right unsheathed the Vixtrian Rapier. He adjusted his grips on both weapons and assumed a general defensive stance. His feet felt slight tremors from the ground as the massive fusion between plant and bronze came into closer view, enough for him to make out rows of glossy black eyes that lined the seams between its bronze armor plates. This was the moment a rational person was supposed to run instead of meeting that much weight and momentum head-on.
Manziholet breathed out and recalled a memory. The upside of having years of studying under the finest blade masters money could buy; one of them bound to be a deranged lunatic who considered it perfectly acceptable to let a ten-year-old boy face off against a stampede of war elephants to teach him how to ward off fear and stand unshaken in front of all dangers. He almost died, as did the master after Arin found out, but that was a very effective lesson.
His mind raced to capture every detail of the arachnid. Time seemed to slow down when its front blades were inches away from his face. He stepped to the right while leveling the Wispstrike Cutter horizontally to the same height as the upper joints of its legs. With minimal effort, he made a slash.
The arachnid’s momentum, coupled with the inherent offensive concepts imbued in the Armament, amplified the force behind the strike and cleanly severed two of its left legs at the joints.
Then the Rapier, having been raised up over his head, was brought down for another cut. Without the advantages that the previous slash had, it would probably be stopped by the armor, which was why he gave its aeon tip a trajectory in line with a row of the arachnid’s soft eyes. Muddy green sap bursted out where the Rapier travelled.
With a quarter of its legs disabled, the arachnid lost balance and collapsed, but its homicidal tendency had not. Already, vines were growing out of its wounds to reattach or substitute the legs, while it screeched and twisted its body using the remaining limbs to aim the blades at Manziholet. If this was a friendly duel, the audience would applaud it for the spirit or perhaps out of pity.
The Vixtrian Rapier deflected one limb away as <
The botanical nightmare convulsed, its limbs flailing while the vines recoiled and withered. The Quorathene regenerative mechanism had obviously failed to keep up with the ravaging of time acceleration.
With the target reduced to lifeless debris, Manziholet retrieved the weapons. He grinned as a surge of euphoria coursing through his veins. This was the apex of strength, and it answered solely to him.
Even then, another voice in his head, ever the scourge of joy, pointed out that it was but a little progress towards his retribution for the one who broke his heart (and made him look like an idiot in front of his mother). Aezixia must have reached the Second Sphere by now, carried forward by the patronage of her Greatling spouse, and Breaker Miracles were always nasty troubles to deal with. He would meet her at the Studium’s Proving as a competitor.
Shoving the pessimist’s voice to the back of his mind, Manziholet switched focus to over the horizon. More arachnids were on the way.