The disciples that followed the great personage who created the Grand Pattern gave up their names because their existence outside of the mountain had come to an end. They resolved themselves to either comprehend the entirety or die trying. Ultimately, their identities mattered less than their attainments within the Grand Pattern.

That sort of resolve paid dividends; the official disciples were extremely powerful. They controlled most of the core areas of the mountain, always attempting to climb higher, to comprehend one more secret of the Grand Pattern. That became their entire reason for existence.

Thus, they referred to each other by number. Not by seniority, but by power, which was the only truth that mattered in the Nexus.

It was with great trepidation that Number One leaned against his cane and ascended the stone stairs to the Upper Summit Room. Such was the reach of his influence that the torches flickered in time with his steps. His face was unreadable, due to both wrinkles and the rotating shadows. He gathered momentum as he ascended, ready for what was to come.

Right above the Upper Summit Room was where the early disciples, from before Number One’s time on the mountain, carved ‘veins’ through the interior of the mountain, channeling some of the deadlier energies down from the Grand Pattern to create the web of tests that tortured the newer disciples and forced some of them to struggle along the surface to avoid the worst of the traps.

Privately, Number One believed this was not to assist in the training of the new arrivals, but in fact to cull their numbers. As he agreed with this principle, Number One had taken care to stamp out all talk of removing the veins.

Which only makes my current predicament more pathetic. The lines on Number One’s face deepened.

Normally, he wouldn’t care about the training camp at all. However, he had made a special invitation to an individual, albeit before the chaotic rumblings in the Nexus. His name was associated with the eventual outcomes of Randidly Ghosthound because he had extended the invitation and brought him to the mountain. Considering the young man’s talents, Number One had been confident of him excelling through the trials of life and death that he and the other direct disciples had planned to amuse themselves. But considering the unexpected interference-

The perfect fuse to ignite Number One’s temper and competitiveness. He ground his teeth, enjoying the strained force in his jaw.

Long ago, during a time when their master had spoken to them freely and Number One struggled along as Number Seven, the profound individual had sighed and shaken his head. Number Seven, why must you hold on to your pride so tightly? It digs its spurs into your side constantly, urging you forward when better judgment would reflect. Someday, it will dig your grave and lead you right into it.

Although he had flushed and bowed his head to be reprimanded, even then Number One had known the truth.

Even if my pride may someday doom me, it is only because of my pride that I push myself to the limits. No power comes freely, in the Nexus. And this is the power that I have chosen.

After firmly planting his cane on the ground, Number One waved a hand and blasted open the high door to the Upper Summit Room. The soft whistling music and the sounds of conversation stopped dead as Number One glared about at the weaklings arrayed in front of him.

The hundred-odd contestants for the training camp flinched back from his gaze, lowering their eyes to the food and drink that the disciples provided to soften up those of weak heart. A drunk trainee was one of the most amusing deaths. Yet at the moment, Number One couldn’t care less about entertainment; he wanted an explanation.

The wide and spacious Upper Summit Room glittered with finery, the wind veins engineered through the roof obstructed for the day and the patterns on the floor inert. Having above a hundred participate was a problem, but not one that the mountain didn’t know how to deal with: plenty would die in those first days to bring their numbers down to acceptable levels.

But Number One had nothing to say to these ugly caterpillars. He thumped forward, the crowd clearing a path for him, and approached the antechamber where the other disciples waited.

Number One thrust aside a curtain and snarled immediately, driven by righteous anger. “What is the meaning of this?!?”

Several figures in the low, smoky room turned to face him. The other Numbers hid smiles and acted like they didn’t know why he would be so furious. As though they didn’t gossip about his pride every time he left the room. His gaze was intense, but none of them caved and responded for several seconds. This didn’t surprise Number One; he was used to this band of fools playing dumb about the true moves they made.

He had done the same before he had sat atop the pyramid.

“Number One, what’s the matter?” An innocent voice spoke up. Number One eyes flicked to the speaker, who smiled shyly with his false, boyish features. “Is something the matter? Did you experience a setback in your comprehension?”

The most likely suspect. The fellow disciple chomping at the bit to walk a Spirit Path and challenge me, should I falter. Number One thought. His tone was venomous as he spat out his answer. “Don’t toy with me, Number Four. I extended a special invitation to a very talented individual, yet somehow he stumbled across a dormant Path of Blood? Considering the Paths of Blood haven't been used in thousands of years, how am I supposed to believe that this is somehow a coincidence?!?”

“Because whatever else could it be?” Number Four responded. His eyes were crescent moons, savoring the situation. “Besides, were you not the one who dispatched an incompetent lesser disciple who died and revealed the path? Perhaps it has been there for centuries.

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Impossible, Number One’s eyes bulged as he examined Number Four. The Grand Pattern could hide the Blood Path from others, but not from us. And all of us are too paranoid not to note such an inauspicious thing.

But Number One was unable to deny that he had sent down the welcome for the Ghosthound, knowing they would fight.

“Peace, both of you,” The easygoing Number Three sat up from her chair and gestured. “What possible reason could one of us have for opening a Path of Blood for this young man? Each disciple may only open three Paths in their lifetime. Between Wind Vein Paths and Paths of the Spirit, isn’t a spiteful Path of Blood too wasteful?”

“No matter who he serves in the outside world, this man received an invitation from ME to be here,” Number One hissed. He left the rest unsaid because he could see it in their eyes that the other disciples made the connection. This is about pride.

“I agree with Number Three,” Number Ten, the weakest Disciple present, added. He was a spindly humanoid with long fingers and bug eyes. “Truly, an unfortunate tragedy, but what can be done now? There is no way to track who opened which Path.”

“Master-” Number One hissed, but he was soon interrupted.

“You believe it is worth our Master’s time to deal with such a small issue?” Number Four’s eyes were dancing.

Number One concentrated all the blood he could toward his face. His features flushed. The hidden smiles on some of the other Numbers grew more apparent. Some tried to cover up the expressions with coughs, but others didn’t even bother to hide their schadenfreude. They were eight bloodthirsty jackals, salivating as his emotions raged. The route that Number One had taken to becoming the top disciple was too cruel, too brutal, for them to feel any sympathy.

He had no allies present in the room. Only buzzards, circling until he collapsed and they could feast.

Perhaps only Number Two would have responded seriously, but as always, that fool was locked away with his own madness.

Number One forced out a breath and spoke, almost as though he was trying to convince himself. “...Bothering Master would be inappropriate. Besides, at this point- well, we are all aware of the difficulty of the Path of Blood, are we not? His attempt to clear this vestige of a crueler time can almost be considered… honorable.”

Number Three nodded happily. “True, very true. Besides, we should focus on the new initiates: perhaps we will find talented seedlings this year.”

Other Numbers nodded in agreement, but Number One couldn’t help but sneer. Look at you, pantomiming excitement. Do any of you ancient corpses really want fresh blood to walk through these halls?

Why else would the Ghosthound be sent out on the Path of Blood?

Heh, why else indeed...

*****

Randidly wiped the sweat from his brow and sat down cross-legged on the stone path. Occasionally wind blades cut sideways at him, but they smashed against his body and disintegrated; he now sat directly below the threshold to the second tier. A few more steps and he would rise into an area dominated by the Grand Pattern that could actually damage him. Not seriously, but enough wind blades would break through his high Endurance and Uncommon Metabolism.

His heartbeat quickened in anticipation. But for now, he swallowed that rising excitement and focused on his body.

Specifically, he looked at small, spectral bits of light that floated toward him and settled on his image physicalizations. Like looked like bits of ash drifting from a campfire, except their glow was a cool blue. As he absorbed more and more with his new Marred Yet Reliable Foundation of Yggdrasil, he could feel the condensed Aether sharpening and assuming more and more of the flavor of his images.

A wind black cracked against his right shoulder, splintering off bits of the black lacquer armor he received from the Grey Creature. Almost instantly, the flow of these strange drifting bits of glow accelerated toward the broken place to remake it in a superior fashion. Randidly pursed his lips. If Helen were here… heh. I wouldn’t be able to deny that I’m a bit of a masochist. Even my body wants to be brutalized in order to grow stronger.

Congratulations! Your Skill Conviction of the Celestial Cataclysm (T) has grown to Level 567!

Congratulations! Your Skill Marred Yet Reliable Foundation of Yggdrasil (T) has grown to Level 502!

Randidly had been confused at first where these pieces of energy came from, because they clearly improved his image physicalizations. But then he realized that he was the source; his own expansive consciousness and Willpower influenced the surroundings naturally. From those influenced surroundings, when flaws in his image physicalizations presented themselves, these small notes volunteered themselves to improve him.

Efficiently channel energy, indeed.

“Luckily for me, all that natural force above hits even harder. The more I absorb, the stronger the physicalizations will become. ” Randidly muttered to himself as he glanced upward into the churning grey storm. He felt the pseudo-consciousness watching him, steadily losing patience as Randidly dithered right at the edge. Great wheels and gears of air curled in on themselves as the next stage of this ‘test’ readied itself.

Excitement and responsibility warred inside Randidly’s heart. Some part of him wished to pull out his Philosopher’s Key to confirm it could take him from this place, should the danger of this test continue to rise as he ascended the mountain, but the consciousness watched him closely enough that it would likely sense something from his Fatepiece. And once he truly angered it, he would not be able to remain here any longer.

And there’s so much more growing to do, Randidly’s eyes were bright. Isn’t this why I came here? To push myself? I thought I would focus on the Grand Pattern and my understanding and anticipation, but look, the Mountain generously decided to help me train my physical body and my understanding of Cutting Tides of Amenonuhoko at the same time. It would be rude to run away before sampling the feast my host has provided.

During those frantic moments when air currents from the third tier had descended, too much had happened too quickly. He had not been able to manage the ripples of natural energy before they crashed over him with enough force to kill him. So he had buckled down and focused only on his body; he didn’t have any spare attention for other Skills.

But now…

“Okay, okay, I’m coming,” Randidly grinned as the wind above him began to howl its impatience. He pulled out Acri and drew the spear through the air, tasting the ripples. Sulfur had grown back out to a functioning arm but remained dormant as it prepared for its next transformation. But the impression that the living armor did bother to send him informed Randidly that it wouldn’t mind any spare kinetic energy he found trying to murder him.

Randidly dragged Acri’s tip lazily in front of him. “I guess all of us are gluttons, huh? Well, no matter. Let’s begin.”

He hopped up onto the ledge above him and spun Acri in a circle. The Grand Pattern rotated and brought powerful wind blades down to meet him.

Congratulations! Your Skill Cutting Tide of Amenonuhoko (T) has grown to Level 498!