Gersimi agreed, though there was a problem. One of her feet had just been tightly bandaged due to the burn, and walking without proper boots was going to be a painfully counterproductive process. Also, she might as well have been draped in cobwebs for all the protection her thin garment was providing. The cool breeze was making itself far too comfortable against her skin. Since the priest now had a reason to live…

“Right, I didn’t notice,” Manziholet lied. He had noticed her vulnerable state the whole conversation, but pointing out the discomfort would have removed a soft pressure that he could leverage to his advantage. “It’s no problem at all. Give her your boots and robe,” he told the messenger.

The man widened his eyes in surprise, before sitting down to take off his boots. He did it with the haste of someone who had witnessed the harsh consequence of disobeying the orders given. For those who were serving under Sui-Jen Ring’s residents, it might even be a life-or-death scenario.

“Stop,” Gersimi descended on him and halted his hands. She then shot a disapproving look at Manziholet. “I would rather go naked than robbing another person of their possession.”

“Of course you would, which is why I’m going to pay him.” Manziholet held a gold coin between his fingers.

“Are you going to if I’m not here?”

“Yes. Unlike many of our species, I’m a law-abiding citizen of the Imperium.”

It was easy to make such a statement, especially when one possessed an ArchSoul that automatically granted them immunity to half of the punishable crimes. To gain the title of Vixtrian Paragon, he had also spent a considerable amount of time studying the law. Perhaps he was of the rare few who did, because had the Logic Committees or the Assembly been even half as knowledgeable as they pretend, the law would not have more loopholes than a poorly made fishing net, though, on reflection, they had no need to mend it in the first place so long as the fish kept getting caught. If a hard season came, there was the option of calling in Knight Purifiers and evaporating the whole body of water.

After the apparel procurement in exchange for fiduciary value (the exact phrases had been used into an official legal document), the menial was allowed to go up to the surface to get new clothes, which he seemed to be as grateful for as the money in his hand. He had not set foot outside the tunnel for days, the menial explained. Understandably, wallowing in the bitter breeze for that long must be tortuous.

The leather boots fitted Gersimi just right, but the robe hung loosely, too large for her frame. Its plain fabric and uninspired cut were clearly put together for necessity rather than luxury, with faded decorative patterns around the neck. This type of garment was probably churned out in some nameless Promethean factory years ago.

“I didn’t know clothes could feel this good.” Gersimi ran her fingers along the inner lining of its sleeve, before pulling the robe tighter around herself.

“You have never left Marwind, have you?” Manziholet asked. He was sitting across her, as they travelled on a cart bound to the great chamber, pulled by a pair of draught horses. Their driver, a stocky thrall with calloused hands and a sunken face, kept his eyes staring straight ahead as if the Seraphist’s attention would kill.

She paused then composed herself. “It’s too obvious, isn’t it? You’re right. My whole life, I’ve been guiding the faithful here.”

Marwind was a prosperous planet (even more developed than Juno, where he was born) but it was still a backward place compared to the poorest District on TerraSol. As someone who had lived at the near bottom of society here, Gersimi must have made do with far worse circumstances, including the matter of her education, which raised some questions.

“Yet you don’t cower before Seraphists,” he pointed out, “even though our idealized form has been designed to inspire reverence in the common rabble, especially for those who see us for the first time. In fact, you seemed remarkably composed when I offered you my help, not once but twice. People would give their arms and legs for the chance, yet you had the nerve to weigh costs and benefits.”

She smiled. “Because, in my heart, there is none capable of triumphing over Invincible Light. My faith is resolute, and therefore so must my mind.”

“You are doing it again.” Manziholet lightly shook his head.

“What am I doing?”

“Masking yourself behind lines of theological rhetoric. Sometimes you even quote directly from the Holy Scripture, such as when Raka first threatened you: the darker the path, the brighter God shines. A very convenient display of piety, but I really hope you cut that out when we get to TerraSol. Some will use it as an excuse to capture and torture you until you admit you’re a spy for the Church. Remember the scenario that Chiorou had made you imagine? Multiply the horror by five.”

She sat in silence for a few minutes, her face devoid of apparent emotions, before responding. “I will keep your advice in mind.”

Manziholet looked at her with amusement. “You haven’t answered my question.”

“It would involve my parents, who have left this world.” She sighed softly. “I’m sorry. Until I can actually trust you, I won’t divulge anything, but I am confident that it would make no difference whatsoever to our arrangement.”

He nodded. “As a fellow human being, I understand. See how much simpler it is when you speak plainly?”

“This humble mortal aims to please, Seraphist. I didn’t know you read the Holy Scripture though. I wouldn’t expect someone so seemingly indifferent to matters of faith like you to recognize the quotes.”

“Know your enemy,” he replied.

They arrived one more time at the great chamber. The carnage had been cleared away, while tables and chairs had been brought in. Their surfaces were laden with various tools and instruments for Raka’s experiments. Lanterns had also been set up on wooden posts to complement the light from the glowing fruits along the walls.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

Organized neatly to the left of the gateway were the colossus’s two most intact torsos, its arsenal of great weapons, one of its legs, and all three heads. Thralls were scurrying around to wrap them in pieces of cloth, with carts waiting to transport them back out of the Ruin. What was once an awe-inspiring creature of war would likely end up on museum shelves or being used as teaching aid for Archivist recruits. For the ultimate humiliation, the pieces might spend eternity collecting dust in a wealthy family’s basement after all the novelty had been lost. The rest of its remnants would give back to the world in more meaningful ways such as by being dismantled piece by piece to unravel the secrets of its inner workings, which Raka was doing at the moment.

Strewn across the stone floor beside the tables were an assortment of bronze items, ranging from battered armor platings to an array of different gears. They had all been cleaned of dead plant matter and gleamed under the light despite the odd scratches, punctures, or scorch marks. From them, the Archivist was sketching a diagram of the colossus’s rotating component, an exhausting task that also involved complex maths and engineering. Even then, his expression was one of unbridled enthusiasm.

“This must be a discovery equal to the Cipher Engine, novice,” Raka said as he led both of them to the grand prize. He paid Gersimi no attention as though she had become a decorative accessory. It was for the best, and her presence paled in comparison to what they had found anyway. The item had been put on a pedestal across from the gateway, while the Seraphist of Ocean standing watch nearby.

It was an orb, with height reaching that of an average human. Its shell was as black and rough as charcoal. Fissures of verdant green spread across it in a twisted pattern. Encircling the orb was a solid band of bronze with unknown hieroglyphs etched on it. The band’s inner edges had also been corroded and weathered away. All together, the orb’s appearance was not that impressive. He had seen ones with more gleam and grandeur on his way from home to the Academy. No, what made it a discovery equal to the Cipher Engine laid in what it could do.

At intervals (or for every one point four seconds, as Raka had so meticulously measured), the verdant fissures flared up. Their radiance pulsed in perfect synchrony with each other, as though the orb was mimicking the steady rhythm of a beating heart. With each flare, they exhaled into the surrounding a rippling wave of air, the smell and taste of which were all too familiar. This was the source of the annoying breeze and in all likelihood the only one.

Even a particularly obtuse person would realize that the orb was defying both natural laws and scientific principles. The sheer volume of air that was released each time could never be compressed within its charcoal-like shell, not to mention it had been going on almost constantly since the Ruin’s reopening.

His fingers brushing against the orb’s surface, Manziholet felt an odd sensation of warmth at his touch. “You found it inside the hybrid’s waist?” he asked and stepped back from the strong airflow. Behind him, Gersimi raised a hand to shield her eyes as hair strands whipped around her face.

“Correct,” Raka replied. “The orb was slotted into the rotating component. My current hypothesis is that the hybrid harnessed the orb to spin its upper body, modulate centrifugal force, and likely channel energy into its arms. It would not have been so flexible otherwise.”

“But the breeze did stop when the hybrid woke up. I don’t see any switch on the orb, and the hybrid didn’t vent any excess air during the fight.”

Raka gestured back to the diagram he had been drawing. “That’s what I am trying to figure out. The metal elements are largely intact, and they’re well within the scope of our current understanding. I can see the principles behind them, hence my current hypothesis. The Quorathene had definitely invented a way to control the orb though, and it would probably involve the botanical elements. Unfortunately, there are none left.”

Manziholet considered the hieroglyphs on the band around the orb. The answer must also be tangled up in whatever those lines and curves meant. However, if generations of smart people like the Civil Service’s Archivists, armed with every tool imaginable including the honored technique of squinting very hard, had barely managed to understand the ancient language, then it was safe to say he was unlikely to crack it anytime soon.

Despite their ability to craft bronze-flora hybrids capable of standing the test of time, the Quorethene had been remarkably lax with preserving the helpfulness of their hieroglyphs. It was a huge oversight, because they had inadvertently allowed silly monkeys to rename their legacy. “What do we call it?” Manziholet asked.

“The Orb of Eternal Breeze,” Mirish declared. He had discarded his damaged armor and donned on a fresh set. Its design was slightly different from the last and painted entirely in sleek black, but it still stubbornly adhered to the independent’s principle of complete defensive coverage.

Raka sighed. “As we’ve discussed, absolutely not. We’ll be forever linked to whatever the orb is called. We cannot afford to settle for something so trivial. This demands thought and deliberation.”

“Incidentally,” Manziholet said, “the Orb of Eternal Breeze is also the name of that famous flowerhouse in Nuwa District.”

“Oh, so that’s where I got the idea. No wonder it felt familiar. How about–”

After considering a few more suggestions, they settled on the name of Pneuma Heart, a phrase which would certainly be analyzed, romanticized, and mythologized for generations without somehow making the three Seraphists who had conceived it feel embarrassed.

Then came the next phase of the expedition. Raka would stay behind to further study the orb. He could not risk moving it out of the Ruin and back to TerraSol only for it to spontaneously combust. Mirish would also remain to provide an additional eyes on things, as would the Fireguard contingent.

The Ruin of Vonna being cleared of its automatic defense system did not mean all threats had been eliminated. If anything, with all the hard work having been done by the host, the place had become ever more inviting for opportunistic independent Seraphists or other enemies of the Imperium. It was probably paranoia speaking (laying hands on government employees, even when they were doing missions unsanctioned by said government, would be a declaration of total war against the greatest arsenal of weaponized Miracles in the galaxy) but better to check twice rather than regret once.

“And this is where we must say goodbye. It’s time you came home to your mother and actually trained for the Proving, novice.” Raka handed him a letter. “Have this delivered to Osiri for me. She would know what to do.”

“How considerate of you,” Manziholet said as he put away the letter. “All my hard work, and I get to leave with nothing but a bit of paper. Truly, I’m overwhelmed with your generosity.”

“It’s the least I could do, novice, for your immense and absolutely irreplaceable contribution. Also, please do not fumble your Studium’s Proving. Chiorou wagered fifteen million on you getting into the top three. I’d really prefer not to have to knock on her family’s door to collect debt.”

“Same reluctance here,” Mirish raised his hand, “though double the amount.”

Manziholet did not know that. Despite her less than desirable etiquette, she actually believed in him. He smiled. “Strange, I would think that you two know better than to wager against certainty.”

“We had our doubts at first,” Raka replied, “but then we realized your unique variety of bravery.”

He shrugged. “As Justinian the Great had said, fortune favours the brave.”

“As do the graveyards, Manziholet. They commonly have special areas reserved for heroes when Fortune loses interest in them.”