Eighteen-Coloured Entrails looked at the short man in front of him. There was a part of his mind that almost didn’t believe these humans were aliens at all; certainly, while their features were somewhat bestial, that was nothing special. The Beast of Viol, out past Great Tomb, looked even more atavistic. Yellow Spot were smaller, and Metal Bite more peculiar in their habits.
But then he would look with his nose, and all doubts would fade away. This Kai was almost perfectly scentless, only the smallest tinge of cut/slash/dance in his spirit permeating the air. If he crouched down in the greenery on the edge of the field, Entrails would struggle to find him.
The human inclined his head. “As I said before, I am Kai Hiien. Apologies for my sect sister; she is a fistfighter, and thus prone to flights of arrogance.” Entrails was tempted to fiddle with his collar, but shook it off; the other humans had all had proper emotions in their translated voices. This man was the only outlier, and so it must be that, regardless of how unbelievable it was, this incredible blandness was his natural tone of speech. “Shall I begin, or would you prefer to go first?”
Entrails wet his teeth. “Go ahead.”
A down-and-back tilt of the head, that he would have taken for the natural small movements of any body, if the creature in front of him had demonstrated a single one of those. But since every motion, no matter how slight, only occurred with obvious intent behind it, that tiny movement must have been a nod. Raidboss Lu isn’t much different from normal, but these new guys are really like aliens. The one with the multicoloured face appeared to move more naturally, but it was easy to see the absolute smoothness of his every motion, like his bones were no more solid than oil under his skin.
The small one also looked normal on the surface, if fidgety and nervous. But every time Entrails glanced his way, he saw the man turning his own head to lock eyes, like he could feel the warrior’s attention drifting his way from across the field. Then there was the woman, who wasn’t even pretending to not be keeping track of the entire area. She moved through the regrowing grass without it seeming to touch her at all, angling her head so that wind wouldn’t blow hair into her eyes seconds before it even started.
It was kind of scary, but also exciting. I can’t feel them using any energy at all. Will I be able to do that if I grow my cultivation, just automatically? He didn’t understand their alien Comprehensions even a little; like he was staring into a deep pool, unable to see the bottom, not knowing if what waited for him had more teeth than meat.
After a second that was longer in his head than in reality, the man continued. “My first proper encounter with consumption occurred as our delegation was defending the breach from the massed forces besieging us. My sect brother and I, being core disciples skilled in the sword, naturally took to the front lines…”
The man described his actions during the defence of Horrible Swamp, and then his flight from it. As he spoke, Entrails began to feel some kinship with this strange statue-like figure; though he could not recognise any of the exact humans – partially because of their use of armour, but mostly from the similarity of their features and builds – he had fought beside several of them during their battle against the united clans.
He moved on to the long march across the creature-infested territory, the metal constructs growing larger and more sophisticated even as they were hounded from behind by their pursuers. Then Fort Iron-Brick, that stiflingly small warren of maze-like tunnels. The events were nothing new to Entrails, but the way the man spoke of them was interesting.
He had little conception of what metal creatures even were, and described their technology in the same way he described techniques; both seemed to be equally mystifying to his alien perception.
“And then my brother and I were…” His face changed slightly, but not enough for Entrails to discern the emotion he was feeling. “…Injured. Our suits were destroyed beyond repair, and we were forced to disperse our cultivation.”
Entrails tried his best to keep the discomfort those words instilled in him hidden. Being forced to abandon everything… Even without the Swamp, I still have a piece of it in me. I can’t imagine having to throw that away, too. He was glad that this world didn’t do to him what Salt did to humans. Though I suppose that when I go home, I might need to abandon cultivation like they did. If the Patriarch doesn’t figure something out, at least.
Kai Hiien continued, recounting how he learned the method to beginning human consumption from another human named Lan, and how he chose to consume the sword.
“I have always been reaching for the sword, since my earliest memories.” This time, his expression was just identifiable enough to be recognised: a thin, humourless smile. “It is my Path, the shape my mind bends my soul into. There is no Kai Hiien without the sword. No other options could possibly exist.” He gripped the handle of the blade sheathed through his belt, the naked steel flashing in the bright sunlight.
For the first time, Entrails offered something other than a vacuous noise of confirmation. “I understand completely. I am the same with Horrible Swamp; everything that I am was born there, and there is nothing I would not do to return.” Inside his gut, his stomach churned, the essence of his home pouring through his veins. “It is my very heart. I can feel the same conviction in your words.”
Silence. Then, again, that nearly invisible nod. “After that, I fumbled for a time. Until the sect stepped in, and placed me in the care of instructor Lu. I would describe his lessons… but perhaps it would be best to do that in sequence, at the end.” He looked to the side, where Lu was having a muttered discussion – or rather an argument, if their body language told the truth – with the Lonesome. “I would quite like to hear your encounters with cultivation, Eighteen-Coloured Entrails.”
Entrails ground his teeth in thought for a moment, and then began.
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He had known that it would be inevitable, that their neighbours would come seeking this boon for themselves. An entire other world was simply too large a prize to ignore; with the pot stacked so high, even the weakest clan would gamble with their warriors as currency. It did not matter how long the odds were, they would be stupid not to try.
But he could not possibly have predicted this. Great Tomb cultists stood in front of Prime Movers, supported by Blackleaf and Hem’s End clansmen firing arrows like artillery – mortal enemies, standing side by side.
Perhaps this was what the shamans called world spirit, a natural response to rejecting the order of things. They had allied with something not of the Salt, and so the Salt was rebuking them for their hubris. Was it a mistake to stay with the Patriarch? Even Great Swamp Mother has turned against us – how can we continue to be Horrible Swamp, if there we are not of Horrible Swamp? How can-
His thoughts were interrupted by a small bullet ricocheting off his skull. He turned, seeing a small man in large goggles brandishing two pistols as he rose out of the ground, slowly, like a worm surfacing to breathe.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
Eighteen-Coloured Entrails snorted, crushing the man’s lower body with a flex of power. They may have found some spine, but Junk Dog remains the weakest clan. The warrior attempted to defy him in his death throes, but his wild aim failed to strike Entrails a second time. Where are those vaunted treasures you supposedly carry? Did you use them all up assaulting our borders these past months, hm?
His amusement was short-lived. As wave after wave ground themselves against his clan’s shores, they continued to lose men. They simply could not retreat fast enough; he and his clansmen were built to move through mud as much as over land, and while they had vehicles they were few in number. The Patriarch helped, but Still Water could not be everywhere; in his wake men were rejuvenated, but the parched salt-glass sands of the western wastes stifled all momentum, snatching moisture from their hearts like greedy sharpies.
A user of purified power – not a Prime Mover, thank the Ancestors, but still stronger than average – broke through the lines with a roar. Four horns spiralled out from the sides of his skull, and both earth and water sublimated as it made contact with the field of destruction projected from his skin.
He struck a clansman in half with a chop, then swung his head, breathing energy like dragon’s flame over another three. He isn’t conserving himself at all. Two, three more seconds, and he’ll be spent.
The obvious thing to do would have been to simply shift to defence, and allow the Joeist to expend his suicide charge fruitlessly on layers of cheap shields. It was a strategy that was dwindling in effectiveness as stores of energy ran low, but with a dozen of his clan brothers on either side, it was all but assured.
It was obvious, but was it correct? Purified power was unmatched both offensively and defensively, but it was far from omnipotent; the man was blood-crazed, wild-eyed, a beast gnashing his teeth on the wind. Entrails felt his heart pound in sync with his brothers on either side of him, emotions communicated without words. His own defences are sloppy. Someone could kill him, with a well-placed hit. A dozen volunteers rose up, weeded down to half that in the time it took to blink, then half again, and then it was Eighteen-Coloured Entrails stepping forward alone. His complex consumption had almost nothing to feed on out here in the wastes; he was the obvious choice to sacrifice.
The horned enemy’s jaw snapped shut when the first blow struck against his aura, a spear of wood with a stone head, the edge coated in liquid poison. It penetrated, just enough, and the remaining three sharp points of bone cut through the air as the man charged on all fours, bellowing out a challenge.
Entrails bellowed back. In front of him his energy coalesced into another spear, but the bulk of it went lower – and when the foreign warrior, whose clan Entrails couldn’t even recognise it was from so far away, stepped onto the trapped ground, it exploded upwards into spikes.
His poorly defended back limbs were reduced to ribbons, sacrificed to preserve his forward charge. The man met Entrails head-first, his open mouth projecting destruction even as more spikes erupted to tear into his midsection and chest.
The energy, off-white and radiant, met the second spear of expertly mixed Comprehension and removed it from existence easily. Entrails blocked with his left arm, which failed, and his right, which did the same. Then the attack splashed against his chest, and his ribcage was exposed to the open air.
The man died, his mouth still open in a rictus of fevered ecstasy, and Entrails slumped back. His back hit the ground, before it was raised again – propped up by the warriors behind him.
“Good work, brother,” said one man. Entrails had never so much as spoken a word to him before, but that mattered little now. “Will you make it?”
“No.” He might have lived if they were anywhere other than here; the barren white dunes were very nearly a perfect refutation to his existence, and even now grains were in his wound, maliciously contradicting energy clogging his regeneration. “Point me at the enemy. I have a bit left in the tank.”
The man nodded, moving to hoist him up further – but was stopped. Suddenly there was a hand on his shoulder, and with a surge of something incomprehensibly Entrails’s front regained its skin and muscles.
His jaw worked as he twisted to see a slender figure in form-fitting white armour. It had no smell, no pulsing life beneath its skin, and for a moment his death-addled mind said metal creature. Then he blinked, and saw the face inside the glass helmet.
The alien made a sound that was not language, and then stepped back into the press of bodies.
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Kai Hiien and Sir Entrails seem to be getting along. At least as far as I can tell, with the both of them being so stoic. Better than Bo and Jiendao, at least; Lu would have to switch things around soon, or he might have to break up a fight. Could I even do that? Jiendao is, for now, my inferior in cultivation, but she was once a core realm martial artist. There’s no doubt in my mind she has higher realm arts to fall back on, not to mention instinct and experience. She had shown off a bit during the hunting trip, but he wasn’t the only person to have grown rapidly since their return; her boast that she would be fourth realm soon hadn’t been just a boast. No, I’ll just have to make sure it never gets as far as actual violence.
At his side, Cobo stewed. His jaw worked, as if he were physically chewing on the situation Lu had placed him in – and after another minute, he finally spat out an answer.
“It isn’t that I don’t want it. It just feels… weird to think about. I don’t plan on settling down on this planet, you know?”
You might not have a choice. The Emperors are two for two as far as inter-reality wars are concerned. Lu didn’t voice the thought, instead keeping the topic on the present. “It isn’t like it’s permanent. If you have trouble, you can disperse it in an instant.”
The man grumbled deep in his chest. Come on, I’m offering you the same power-up your countrymen are getting. I would have thought you'd jump on it like a starving dog. “…Maybe. I want to talk to Stingy first, see how she feels.” A pause. Ah, I see it was good to put Hom How and Sir Yon together. The massive warrior was the most boastful of the four, though he covered it up with a professional demeanour, and he had a competitive streak as wide as his head. Hom How’s humble nature was a perfect fluid to douse those fires; any of the other three would have been a poor choice for the first meeting. “I don’t want to spend time and effort on something that will explode the moment I get home. Besides, we don’t even know if it works; as the crystal grows, their spines might just be cut in two.”
“No, that shouldn’t happen. Warrior bodies are too mutable; at worst they’d get a little hump.” Lu turned away from the four pairs. “You’re much more reluctant than I expected. Especially after… that one bit from your speech.” Ah, so much for ignoring it. But I really didn’t think I’d need to make an argument; Cobo has never been cagey about learning anything before.
“I just- I don’t know how to word it, alright? There’s something inside me that feels bad about doing it, and a man has to trust his guts.” His teeth ground together. “Not now. Maybe later, but not now.”
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In neat lines and disorganised mobs, soldiers filed into the circle set into the earth. It was no longer a bichromatic blue, dark water below vibrant air; a floating island had been congealed through great effort, a tiny speck of brown amongst the ocean. Old Jonn could see it bobbing there in the distance as he watched, warriors from two-dozen different clans jumping through to land on the moving warcamp minutes or hours later. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to the order they appeared; some groups would pass through all at once, still in lock-step, while others were broken up over the course of a half-day.
“What do you think, Old Jonn?”
Jonn looked up at his successor. The man’s skin was bright like bleached teeth and twice as hard, almost seeming to glow under its own means. But he was still Junk Dog stock, under the weight of his Comprehension; Jonn could feel his own blood, faintly, diluted by generations.
“I don’t think anything. That’s your job, now.” The two shared a smile, but then things became more sober. “I think most of us will die, though maybe not right away. There’s no way Joe can follow us, not even as a shadow the way the other Ancestors can.” Joe was still flesh and blood, in a way the other Great Heroes very much weren’t. While they could split themselves, Joe could only be himself, monolithic and invincible.
Junk Dog the Immense rumbled, his hum more like the revving of an engine than anything a normal man's chest could make. “I cannot say you are wrong. Do you resent me?”
“Not at all.” He gave the man a different, more wry smile. “Don’t think you can take credit for this. You aren’t some mastermind; that this happened after I gave you the name was just coincidence.” If anyone, it was the Cloud-Toucher who broke the Rod’s doing.
The giant’s brows raised, as if saying was it, was it really? Then he laughed, his deep, vibrant chuckle reaching across the camp to batter at the tents. “As you say, Old Jonn. Shall we make final preparations? It wouldn’t do for men like us to lead from the back.”
Jonn sniffed. “Tell that to my son. He’s been reorganising his warriors over and over for days now.”
The two continued their languid banter, before finally making their way towards the portal. And above, obscured by the terrible riot of the broken sky, golden stars began to fall towards the ground.