“–novice, you are depressed.”

The statement was abrupt. It was also very ridiculous. Manziholet could not imagine it being uttered by an intelligent human being like the Archivist. “I am not,” he denied with a frown.

“You are depressed,” Raka repeated, “because your dream girl left you for a Greatling. Don’t deny it. I did some digging as soon as Osiri added you to the host. I know you got strung along for weeks. You probably had a life plan with her already laid out in your mind. Marry, form a host together, make the Studium your playground. Then life essentially slapped you in the face, which is often followed by depression.”

“You are a very confident man,” Manziholet replied, “spewing nonsense.”

“It’s not nonsense. I know the symptoms. I was depressed too, when I performed average during the Proving and failed to become a student of the Studium. Entire paths of growth are denied to me, leaving working under the government as my best choice. It’s not the end of the world, but it has plenty of shortcomings, like being stuck with insufferable people like her forever.” He gestured vaguely toward the other Archivist. “You can imagine my dismay.”

“The feeling is mutual,” Chiorou said with a dismissive wave. “Not the depression, I mean. That’s just for the mentally inferior.”

“Although in theory,” Mirish added, “nothing stopped you from working as an independent contractor like me. More risks, but total control.”

She let out an exaggerated sigh. “If only we had a District Admin as a mother who gives us Shards every year, Mirish. It must be wonderful, being pampered as an heir to a massive fortune.”

“Being an independent is not all sunshine, naturally,” he replied, shaking his head. “For example, everyone assumes you’ve had it easy, even if you work twice as hard as a certain professional.”

As his companions continued exchanging the opposite of pleasantries, Raka kept his eyes locked with Manziholet’s. “Now,” he continued, “Seraphists experience depression a little differently from mortals due to the fact that we can be easily revived from just an intact brain. In my case, an unhealthy commitment to body modifications. In your case, it means your usual penchant for courting death gets, shall we say, a bit more... enthusiastic.”

“You’re getting more and more wrong,” Manziholet replied. “Like any sensible person, I have never actively sought death.”

“Said the boy who, before even receiving his Circuit, slaughtered his way in a building full of armed criminals on Promethean, broke through the security of the Langer’s estate, challenged a First Sphere Seraphist and somehow won. Not to mention, switched the revered Veil of Anna with a cheap replica, in broad daylight, during a ceremony attended by Redeemers, while–”

“That’s quite enough. Thank you for the compliments, though they hardly prove your point. They were strictly for the sake of fun, nothing else.”

“You and I clearly have very different concepts of fun. Mine doesn’t include a high chance of funerals. You like courting death, novice, and it’s becoming worse.”

Manziholet pushed Raka’s hands away and stepped back to disengage. “Correlation doesn't equal causation,” he said. “The Civil Service must have taught every Archivist the principle.”

His eyes scanned around to conduct a situational assessment. Right before him was Raka, whose damaged cuirass had been removed, and a spare one was being transferred from the rear, although he still had his buckler. Armored or not, he would not be able to mount much resistance if Manziholet chose to stab him, and Bastion Miracle might be able to fix broken arms but not revive corpses.

Chiorou and Mirish were still having their own conversation while taking time to rest. Next to them, the Quorathene sphere was being dissected for parts, and the Fireguards were trying their best to ignore the drama from their employers. The mortals were actually eating dinner and preparing to go to sleep, since it was nighttime on the surface right now. Nothing suggested a conspiracy to kill Manziholet while he was distracted, which ruled out the most logical reason for why Raka insisted on talking nonsense.

“Of course I know it,” Rake replied, seemingly more frustrated, “along with one common symptom of depression – denial, which you are making your life’s mission to do at the moment, probably because you don’t want to be considered a failure in the eyes of your mother, yes? Your family is famous for a very particular life philosophy. I suspect that’s one reason why you go with us instead of training hard for the Studium like your peers, so that your mother can’t see.”

Maniziholet looked at him in silence, before saying it one more time. “I am not depressed. A sleep-deprived squirrel’s rambling has more coherence in it than your words.”

Raka rolled his eyes. “I don’t have enough patience to give brick-for-brain people. You’re practically guaranteed a spot in the Studium, which means you should be smart enough to soon figure out who’s right between us in the end. However, even if you are not depressed, I’m still giving you an ultimate warning as the host’s leader. Stop ignoring my orders and interfering with our battles, or I shall force feed you my Miracle. If such a resolution fails, then you’ll return to TerraSol as a brain in an ice box.”

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

The expedition temporarily halted as people went to sleep for the night. With their enhanced constitution, the Seraphists only took three hours at most, after which they woke the rest up to resume the advance. The mortals would need twice that long for optimal rest, but they knew what they had signed up to. For those who felt it was unfair, they were free to lodge a formal complaint to biology.

The next two chambers were both protected by hybrids, each more dangerous than the last. Compared to the struggle with the previous sphere, the host’s Miracles greatly strained to put down the threat. The true value of having a Bastion ArchSoul in their midst was undeniable.

Even as Mirish narrowly escaped being sliced in two or Chiorou was incapacitated when her neck snapped, however, Manziholet stayed at his post and dutifully handled rear guard responsibilities. After the talk, he found it best to temporarily withdraw from social activities (incidentally, that was another symptom of depression, but mere incident it was; he could not fathom succumbing to such weakness) and spent the majority of his time studying the Quorathene artifacts and decorations.

It would be a crime against culture, after all, to ignore the sophisticated craftsmanship surrounding him, especially the patterns on the floor. Back home, he had seen fragments of such designs in a museum, where entire slabs had been painstakingly extracted from ruins and displayed like ancient trophies, but standing amidst the unmarred, pristine originals was an entirely different experience.

The Quorathene had obviously devoted a significant portion of their time and effort to make their dwellings as both mathematically perfect but also breathtakingly ornate as possible, masterfully weaving bronze works into plant lives. The more he looked at them, the more beauty he discovered. For example, on the floor of one chamber was gleaming bronze patterns sprawled outward from a flower, creating seven concentric rings, on each of which were a dot made of rare gemstone. The star system of Marwin, as a matter of fact, had seven planets. Astronomy was not his speciality, but he could bet that the floor was not just a map but also mirrored a phase of it.

He wondered if the Quorathene themselves were as aesthetic-pleasing as their architecture. As far as humanity had discovered, the Quorathene left behind no portraits of themselves or illustrations of their daily life, which meant no one really knew what the ancient beings looked like. They might as well have been shapeless blobs, rat-like creatures, or possibly very artistic arrangements of bronze sticks, with the geometry Manziholet was stepping on being their group paintings.

Quorathene was not even their species’s name. They probably had a much grander way to refer to themselves, but humans, in an exercise of infinite creativity, decided on the term ‘Quorathene’ because Quora happened to be the mountain where a ruin was first stumbled upon (the discovery of which perished two thousands mortals along with a host of unknown proto seraphists).

Apart from the ‘kill first, ask questions later’ automatic defense system, the Quorathene also left behind an assortment of miscellaneous items, presumably having the same functions as hairbrushes, forks, or cups. After carefully studying them though, humanity could not tell for sure if they were actually mundane domestic tools or implements of doom.

They agreed, however, that the Quorathene had started the construction of their dwellings on a handful of planets simultaneously, in tandem with one another, at roughly the same point in time, and that these separate civilizations then vanished quietly and inexplicably long before the reign of Justinian, as if they were a Miracle in themselves.

Those planets had not even been terraformed to sustain life during that time, which led to another question: how could the Quorathene and their hybrids endure the violent conditions of nature? Marwind, for instance, had been enveloped by a crystalline layer of cold noxious fumes before humans arrived. Any creatures would have been suffocated or frozen to death without Miracles, but the Quorathene had managed to cultivate plants, though technically their plants were alien constructs that closely resembled Terra’s flora.

Perhaps that was why their dwellings were invariably carved deep underground or hewn into the protective embrace of mountains, just like the last chamber that the host cleared would reveal a grand and long gateway. It led into another circular chamber, one that was much more enormous than any before.

From the measurements taken along the winding tunnel they had travelled through, they were certain this vast space was sitting directly beneath the edge of Vonna’s northern beach, hidden beneath all the sand and water.

Vines crept up to cover most of the wall and converged at the epitome of the vaulted ceiling, from which hung a giant glowing fruit. It would seem that the Ruin ended here, because from the other end of the gateway they saw no more tunnel entrances.

“If it is a closed space,” Manziholet pointed out, “then where is the breeze originating from?”

“I suspect the answer will be apparent once we settle inside,” Raka replied, “along with the grand prize.”

“I wouldn’t get your hopes up,” Manziholet said. “This doesn’t feel like one of those wonderful vaults you’re imagining. It has been too straightforward and easy. None of us have died yet.” Of course, the mortal toll had already climbed into the dozens, but those hardly mattered. They must take in consideration all the pigs or other animals slaughtered on Vonna so far to mark the expedition status of perilous.

“We’ll see, novice. First, let’s send in our final volunteer.”

Gersimi, last of his congregation, was ushered in front of the gateway. The young man had been further exhausted in both mind and body, walking sluggishly as though bound by invisible chains. His face was pale while his eyes were void of focus.

“Time to unite you with your Invincible Light,” Raka said.

“A common mistake,” Gersimi chuckled, before coughing heavily. When he recovered, faith seemed to lit up in his eyes as he stared back at the Seraphist. “Invincible Light embraces all that is. He is with both the faithless and the faithful. I’ve never been apart from Him.”

Chiorou nudged Manziholet with her elbow. “Faithmongers, novice. If anyone’s more out of their minds than you, it’s them, and that’s a feat considering how deluded you are.” He ignored her. The Circuit had given Chiorou the face of a goddess but had obviously passed over the muscle of her mouth.

Meanwhile, Raka looked down on the priest with amusement. “Since you have been so helpful to us in organising your people, Gersimi,” –the priest frowned at the remark– “I believe a parting gift is in order. Can’t have the Invincible Light welcome you to the afterlife while you look like a walking tragedy wrapped in the equivalent of a stray’s wipe cloth, can we? It’s disrespectful. Mirish, break his arms.”