During the descent into the long and windy tunnel, the expedition had been significantly slowed down by hybrids and traps. What could easily be a two hours ride had turned into two miserable days underground while the obnoxious breeze persistently irritated them. Such was why the ascent back towards the surface was as liberating as suddenly discovering someone else had paid off all your debts while you were not looking.
Of course, Manziholet had yet to experience the latter verse of that simile in his entire life, but Gersimi did. “It was a member of my congregation’s story, actually. A fairy tale ending, Hnoss had always said.”
“I think I know who that is. Isn’t she the big woman with blue eyes?”
“Yes. We passed the spot where she died three chambers ago.”
The two of them were travelling side by side on the riding horses that Raka had prepared. The breed were less agile and nimble than the white-scaled draconic steeds Manziholet had used to back home, but they were serviceable enough. Their hooves struck steadily against the stone floor, the sound reverberating through the tunnel’s walls as they put the breeze behind them. The path ahead was clear of traffic and debris, and no murder hybrid dropped down from the ceiling to waste their time.
A handful of heavily laden carts were also supposed to trail behind them, but the weight of their cargo had long since slowed their progress. The mortals did not need his protection anyway, and arriving up sooner would not change the fact that they were all stranded on the island until further notice. Only Manziholet was allowed to leave the planet via the next sa-serpent as a trusted messenger.
The letter to the Grand Archivist was tucked safely inside his jacket. He had been tempted to crack the seal and let his eyes dance over its secrets, then feign a mishap during transit later (an unfortunate tumble into a puddle or a stray ember from a passing lantern) so that she could not detect the tampering. It would not be worth the trouble, though, and he could guess its content and Osiri’s subsequent moves anyway.
With the immense value of the Ruin and its Pneuma Heart confirmed, she would realize that hiding them from the rest of the world any longer was akin to asking to have her skin flayed. The government might have indulged her penchant for using the Grand Archivist position for personal gains and it might even be blissfully unaware of the Ruin’s existence for a few more years. However, left alone long enough and the government would get around to its duties eventually. In fact, once it found out the immensity of her ruse, having her skin flayed would be considered an act of leniency. The Seraphists it employed could be quite creative with punishment.
What Osiri should do was to lean sharply on the government itself and petition it to fund a full-fledged research base on Vonna. All the wealth unearthed within the Ruin would be seized, her considerable investment in the expedition would be written off as a loss, and she would still face harsh scrutiny, if not outright condemnation, for allowing a Breaker Seraphist to die under her oversight, but at least it would stave off cruel consequences.
As luck would have it, the Weng family might find themselves wealthier in the long run with the influx of Archivists and Imperial Hammers dispatched to Marwind to build the base, as well as their scribes, servants, and soldiers. This was typically followed by a massive stream of investments: paper mills, smithies, storage demiplane, grand palaces for the elite and housing for their retainers, defensive structures against both Miracles and mortals, schools, plumbing, and any other civilized conveniences that they had so accustomed to on TerraSol. They might even request the Guild of Caelivagantes to allocate more stops here, hence flooding this backward place with traders and luxury goods from distant planets. By the time the dust settled, the governor, Osiri’s loyal relative, would reign over a more prosperous Marwind – assuming, naturally, that all the people that mattered had been properly bribed.
“I’ve been meaning to ask,” Gersimi said. “Must I absolutely go with you to TerraSol? It doesn’t seem wise for me to walk in the most hostile environment in the galaxy for a priest. You can drop me off on a planet with as little Imperial and the Church’s influence as possible, and I can rebuild my congregation without looking over my shoulders everyday.”
“Is that fear I’m detecting?” Manziholet replied with a smirk.
“The word you should use is ‘caution’. And, unlike you, I am keenly aware of my mortality and what my captors will certainly inflict upon this body, now that your leader worked his Miracle on it. In the governor’s prison, I had my lackluster appearance and my congregation to shield me from the worst. In your home, I will have none.”
“Which is a reason why you must go with me. I need you to see how much suffering the individuals of your social strata, your potential followers, are enduring. You may have experienced horrible things over the last few days, but those are a vacation compared to what many of them wake up to each morning. You must internalize their suffering so that when people like Chiorou come to you with demands, you won’t compromise like the last time out of ‘caution’, knowing that their threats are the miniscule in face of reality.”
She seemed to be amused by his words. “You talk like an idealist.”
He grinned back. “Between us, you are the idealist. I’m merely trying to convince you of the lessons that thousands of your kind have paid with their life over the course of history. Chains are not broken by those who tiptoe; that’s one of them. Personally, I treat it as a study into how to effectively convert the downtrodden into followers by harnessing their desire for societal change. Also, you’re wrong about one more thing.”
“What would that be?”
“In my home, you will have me, a Seraphist, as protection. Just don’t start proclaiming loudly the authority of your God or quoting Scripture in public and do as I tell, and everyone will think twice before touching you. That practically makes you immortal.”
Manziholet ended his words with a long sigh, before bringing his horse to a halt and dismounting. As far as he could see, there were only him and Gersimi inside this length of the tunnel. Frowning, Gersimi pulled the reins to steer her horse back behind him. “Troubles?”
“Yes.” Manziholet drew the Vixtrian Rapier out of its scabbard. “Big ones.”
It had occurred to him that they had not met any mortals going the opposite way for quite some time. There were supposed to be frequent resupply trips from the surface. He would know, being the rearguard who was responsible for managing them. With most of the thralls inside the Ruin occupied with transporting the trail of carts behind them, Raka also should have requested a rotation of fresh bodies back to the great chamber.
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Manziholet gestured for Gersimi to dismount and stay quiet as he tried to listen. His ears picked up faint noises from the thralls and the horses mixed in the soft hum of the breeze. Those were from behind his back, however, whereas the tunnel in front of him was filled with silence with the next curve blocking any view of what laid further beyond.
If enemies were approaching, at least his enhanced sense should be capturing the telltale sound of footsteps. Maybe it was all in his head. Even then, he decided to stop their ascent for a few minutes and waited, just in case his imagination was not being overly creative.
As it turned out, what gave the enemy away first was neither sound nor sight in the physical world, but the disturbance at the metaphysical realm. Vaepor in seraphs and draeg in ArchSouls, despite being immaterial material, possessed mass that made the Circuit encasing them an undeniable presence capable of being registered by proper tools and senses. Manziholet felt the enemy Seraphist moving toward him and Gersimi, mere seconds before his Circuit sent a message to his vision through the Oculon.
[Seraphist detected: Overwatch, Second Sphere, Cloud Domain.]
Unfortunately, his Ribbas-pattern Circuit had been designed for minimizing vaepor conversion rather than maximizing surveillance range. The opposing Seraphist’s Circuit likely matched or even exceeded his own in reach. Spotting the enemy meant that he had been spotted as well. Contact was imminent. There would be no running from this fight, but with only one Overwatch to face, the odds felt balanced despite the disparity in their Sphere or number of Miracles.
Then, from behind the curve, the enemy slipped into sight – correction, the enemies, two of them. The pair did not travel on foot or ride horses either, but stood atop a tide of blood as it washed over the floor and smoothly creeped forward. The Miracle belonged to neither an Overwatch ArchSoul nor a Cloud Domain.
Only one group of people had managed to evade the detection capability of Circuits. Last time, they showed up unscheduled and made a grand declaration during his graduation ceremony, which put a stop to an otherwise fine day. The coming Daemoneer were doing the same annoying thing right now. Hopefully it was not a hobby, because no matter how great their ideology was, that was grounds for general extermination of their race.
He looked at Gersimi, who was watching unblinkingly and intently at the display of power. What he should have done was to send her back to the other Seraphists at the first signs of the troubles. He should have followed her as well, if only he had not been so confident in his chance of victory. Perhaps, on reflection, he wanted her to behold his supremacy in action; he wanted to impress her as he had with Aezixia. It was a shame. Manziholet might emerge alive, but Gersimi would die here.
By the grace of Invincible Light onto His favorite female priest (or just plain luck), the surging sanguine tide slowed then splashed down as the enemies trudged the remaining distance on foot. One of them extended both arms up with palms turned outward to show no weapon and signal for peace. Since the enemies, contrary to the definition of the noun, wished to converse, Manziholet put his weapon back as a gesture of good faith and walked up to meet them.
The blood content spread out across the floor and flowed past Manziholet, bringing with it distinctive metallic smells before the breeze ventilated them away. The horses, ever sensitive to the unnatural, neighed loudly and stepped back as the liquid reached them then abruptly stopped flowing. The inclined floor had failed to wrestle control from the Daemoneer and drain it down toward the great chamber. Make sense; the enemies would not want to notify the rest of the host, and with that much blood remaining, they possessed absolute advantage on the battlefield.
At five paces between them, the two sides paused in their steps, the distance more than enough for them to scrutinize each other from head to toes.
To his left stood a handsome man as tall as Mirish, with a long neck and a pointed chin. His white hair, grown to impressive lengths, was let fall naturally past his shoulders. Its smooth and sleek texture made it appear almost liquid, flowing with every subtle movement he made. He wore an overcoat of the same color, except it was crafted from snakeskin, with another layer of silver chainmail underneath. Each individual scale was larger than a human’s head, suggesting a serpent so colossal it could easily span the entire tunnel they stood in. The overlay from Manziholet’s Oculon marked the man as the warned Overwatch Seraphist.
“You must be that menace Fliker,” Manziholet said.
The man’s lips curved into a sly smile. “My dear Mirish’s words, I assume.”
“Yes. When we left our sa-serpent, he swore up and down that you were spying on us with your <
Fliker nodded. “Your operational security has been lax. We even stayed at the same inn during the whole trip. I wasn’t stupid enough to oust myself with the Miracle though, and can’t blame the poor kid’s paranoia either. He probably developed a habit from our many encounters.” He grinned. “It’s my pleasure to ruin his business as it’s my business to ruin his pleasure.”
“You enjoy bullying, then?”
“I enjoy retribution, novice.”
Both sleeves on his white overcoat, Manziholet noticed, had been lightly charred. He turned to face the other man, who wore a simple set of steel armor. Three dents, presumably from crossbow bolts, scattered across the chestplate. He was standing with arms crossed. On his left wrist was a band with marbled black exterior and adorned with bold golden patterns, half-hidden under his gauntlet. His two green eyes, the color resembling that of unripe olives, bore down on Manziholet.
The Circuit detected no metaphysical presence from him. For all intent and purpose, Manziholet was looking at a rather nondescript mortal, albeit one who wielded total control over the blood under their feet. “And you must be his employer.”
“I am,” the man replied. “The name is Relias Agool, Third Circle Daemoneer of Blood Lineage, member of the Defiant Path.”
Despite his composed demeanor, Manziholet groaned inside. If the words of Amat Ninlil, the first Daemoneer he had met, were to be believed, then the man before him must have subdued the will of a Third Circle daemon and claimed its three Domains of Blood, Flame, and Matter as his own.
His Sanguine Wright might be inferior to Amat’s Sanguine Alchemist, but that did not necessarily mean he lacked the ability to effortlessly control and transmute blood, which made Relias the very peak of authority here. The Quorathene colossus might as well be a decrepit doll in the face of his Miracles. Of course, that was assuming both Daemoneers were not lying. Actions spoke louder than words for good reason.
“Manziholet Claisara Sylvektor, Vixtrian Paragon, First Sphere Seraphist of Mist, but you two must have known that. I have a question, Relias. What happened to the mortals after you finished the Fireguards?”
“They had given themselves to a greater cause.” The Daemoneer gestured down to the blood-soaked floor with a tilt of his head. His voice held no remorse. “They are serving us even in death.”
If he meant what he said, they were standing on what used to run through the veins of every single living being at the entrance. The mercenaries left behind to guard it could not have bled enough to feed the tide, but adding in the unarmed servants would. They had been drained and repurposed.
“From your rants on TerraSol, I reckoned the Defiant Path was all about freedom for mortals and feasting on the flesh of the elite. So, they were merely rhetorical to instill dissidents.”
“They weren’t, but changes demand more than just blind adherence to principles. Unlike many of my colleagues, I know how to be flexible. Exceptions must be made if we’re going to succeed. I’m making one right at this very moment.” He paused, before continuing. “Help us kill the two government's pets, Manziholet, and you can carve your name into the annals of history as a member of the Defiant Path.”