Chapter 7 - Spiraling Lessons

There is a particular – and incredibly human – appreciation for the nighttime in the species that vastly dominates Earth. It’s the closest there is to the primordial darkness that many cultures believe there was before the beginning of times, it is when many would cast their spells and incantations – if they believed in such a thing – and pray for a wish or simply appreciate the fact that its coming meant they could simply rest.

Under the moonlight, humankind would slowly put itself to sleep, cradled by the lullaby of crickets and night-time attendants that labored to keep many societies working while unseen.

It was when mothers found some blissful time for themselves, when lovers joined in their embrace and a new kind of life woke to dominate where their daytime counterparts once reigned, writhing and slithering unseen in the shadows.

Magical is the best word to describe it, soon followed by mysterious. Perhaps the closest thing to a proper magical hour that humans believed in – mostly because few actually delved into the night, keeping its mystery for most of mankind – and yet, the night is a time like any other.

No different than its bright counterpart but for the lack of an ever-shining sun and clear blue skies. No more amazing for it.

The night was always there, always dark. It was never beautiful or scary, it simply was and humans turned it into more with poetry and faith.

And in the land of the proud sun, the Imps of Kiringar did no different with their own.

***

Leaving Kurian behind hurt more than Dominic expected. Maybe it was the life-and-death situations they had seen through or the shared adrenaline and joy of killing the White Stalker, but the elderly human began to grow somewhat of a soft spot for the hurt boy.

And he was hurt. Kurian had already told him he had lost his father, and now he lost even more friends and family with the massacre on the road. The fact some of his losses were Dominic’s fault – even if, yes, he knew it was a necessary decision in exchange for saving the boy’s life – well…

…they still stung.

So he did what he could with the little he had. The boy’s blood-smeared face and body laid softly inside of a smoke cocoon, resting under Trakia’s Skills and Spells that she ensured him would be able to alleviate the pain of the [Memories].

Dominic had some ideas of what Kurian might be seeing in his dreams, and even the tamest of his hypothesis sent shivers down the [Death Doctor]’s spine. The possibilities of what it could do to someone already as frail as Kurian left him on the highest of alerts.

He’d keep a close eye on the boy. He had to. Too much suffering was enough to break even the most courageous of minds, and Dominic feared what it could do to an already grief-stricken child.

And yet… he’d have to leave Kurian for a moment. Not because he wanted to, but because Dominic had made a commitment with Elder Trakia: to find a way to help Kiringar and its population and, through that, help Kurian.

Though that last part, he left unsaid.

So, by leaving the billowing cocoon of smoke and incense, along with the maddening flow of the Hemoaestus – which Dominic ensured not to look at again, least he wants to go mad with the Sun’s sight – the [Death Doctor] followed the [Priestess] outside of the Temple, lifting the central flap of red cloth to reveal piercing clarity that made him close his eyes.

Dominic took a moment to settle his vision, walking forward with his eyes closed and slowly reopening them to find only…

…darkness.

Oh Lord Above, what is it now? The sudden lack of light made him take a step back, and almost try to look up at the sun in curiosity before he remembered the consequences.

It was… like someone pressed a switch and turned off the sun. No, not turned off – blocked it almost entirely.

Like entering a room where the only light came from under the door, a source of illumination that shone from a corridor beyond. The darkness was real, but somewhat – tame.

“Trakia, where’s the light?”

Dominic asked, his voice shaking slightly in anxiety as his eyes took their sweet time adjusting to the sudden darkness. In response, the Elder Imp gave him only a whisper.

“Pride protects us.”

The [Priestess] called softly and turned to Dominic, who could now vaguely distinguish her silhouette, growing more and more defined with each moment.

“Come on, Dominic. If you want to be helpful then we should go to the infirmary before the Nightmares start their assault.”

The elderly man let the words sink in and shook his head, stopping on his tracks.

“The – you guys are under attack?”

Trakia turned towards Dominic and he could now almost perfectly distinguish the single eyebrow rise in the penumbra. That… and a small glow growing behind the [Priestess].

“What? You think the Fear-Full Woods got this name because it’s easy to live in? Hmph, at least you can amuse the sick with your ignorance.”

“W-wait. Hold on a second.”

The man extended a hand, asking for a moment. Trakia gave it to him, though her snicker was clear. Dominic took a deep breath and kept his face serious, trying to emulate those moments when he had to sternly speak to one of his underlings.

He wasn’t sure if it worked – but it gave him enough courage to spill the words at least.

“I get that this might have been – somewhat – of a reluctant acceptance on your part, but there’s little need to mock me. I’m not so proud as to say I know much of this place. In fact, try to see me as someone who had a very reclusive upbringing until now, so there’s really no need for the sour comments, all right? And… I don’t know if you noticed, but something is glowing behind you.”

Trakia took the opportunity to turn immediately, hiding the slight shame that twisted her face. It was not so fun when they fought back.

The Imp’s eyes fell on what Dominic talked about and without turning around, she began to walk and explain. The [Death Doctor] scurried to follow, the sound of life going around them serving as an adept background.

Though Dominic could still hear one too many sobs and quiet crying from many of the houses.

“You don’t know what they are as well. Of course. Well, these are Ikriats. They basically have multiple purposes – their body serves as food, the roots can act as medicine and the leaves–”

“–glow. I see.”

Indeed, Dominic watched as the small, verdant growths that were planted all around the streets and houses began to softly glow an eerie, green light – turning the darkness of the night much more bearable, though the shadows it cast were much deeper.

Which he could easily see on the faces of the Imps walking around them. Small and chubby, the demonic cherubs’ faces seemed bleaker while under the soft blanket of green light – their grief and sadness present and clear for even his tired eyes to see.

Still, Dominic walked on – noticing how inside the houses and other buildings, proper candles burned with their red flames – until they reached what seemed like the outskirts of Kiringar.

That stretch of land between the walls and the last buildings.

And there, Dominic saw the consequence of events he had not been here to see.

***

If one were to look at Kiringar from above, one would notice the village was… surprisingly shaped like a box. Well, kinda – more like a box that someone sat on and had one of the walls longer than the other, making the bottom angled.

The village in itself was a circle of buildings perfectly nested in the middle of the delimited area, like a ring in a jewelry box. Oddly enough, it wasn’t the Temple to the Scarlet Star that sat in the middle of the circle.

No. Trakia’s apparent home was actually situated a little to the left of the village’s center, and surrounded by smaller than usual houses – almost as if they were designed to not be tall enough to cast a shadow onto the red tent.

Therefore, what sat in the middle of the city was another important building. A ringlet of them in fact. This one was not made of cloth and decorated with wood and flowing blood like the Temple, but a complex of buildings made of stern gray stone and impressively clear glass.

The Grey House. Home of [Artisans]. The Golden Goose of Kiringar – though that nickname would only be given by someone from Earth that knew the story.

It was a double ring of buildings, the outermost ones serving as houses for the different [Artisans] and if they were old enough to live by themselves, their [Apprentices].

That second situation, however, was rare. Most [Apprentices] tended to already be living with their tutors by the time their development began – considering that most of the crafts were passed from parent to children, remaining within a single household.

Other [Apprentices], those with no bloodline connection to those they worked for, tended to live with their own families in the other areas of the village – many times reluctant to leave their parents and siblings in what was a peculiar demonstration of Imp culture, especially for those so used to being evicted by the time they reached eighteen years old.

Nevertheless, [Apprentices] still lived on the Outer Ring – as it was called – but only those that were chosen as inheritors of their tutors. Few had the Class of course – [Heirs] and [Heiresses] were few and far between, the System oddly valuing more of the material aspects than the intellectual ones when granting the Class – but all were chosen to succeed their masters in turning Kiringar into a center of technological development.

A place that would grow with the art between the cracks of consolidated industries, such as the Succubi [Farmers] and Abbadonian [Forgers]. Smaller and less known, but still worthy of Levels – and, therefore, all the boons the System could grant with it – with far less competition.

It was a plan. An old plan, from back when Kiringar was but a camp of Imps fleeing their hunters, but that still persevered in the memory of Elders and the Council. A dream to grant the smallest of species a place in the world that they could secure.

So Impish. So prideful. And yet, the Inner Ring was a testament that it had worked – that it still worked.

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The center of Kiringar was made of nine buildings, each one an altar to a specific craft. And if one were to look closely, it was easy to distinguish which was which – especially when you found the markers carved on the doors.

The newest and largest atelier, though now it lies empty and dirty after being closed for so long, had a flaming wand marked on its door – sculpted with care to ensure one could see the levels of the flame through the different depths of the markings.

A wand pointing upwards, a flame on its tip, and… a small indentation at the bottom that marred what otherwise should have been a perfect depiction. As if someone had pushed the carver and their chisel struck the stone at a wrong angle, turning it into a small but perceptible mistake.

Once upon a time, Nifestu had considered it charming – an addition that turned the workshop into a proper, familiar place. He had, of course, scolded his son for running close to his tools at the time, but all he received in return was that same half-guilty half-mischievous smile the boy seemed to always have.

And that was only one of the Ateliers. The others had their own markings, of course, and their own architecture – as if the buildings were carefully manipulated to ensure the [Artisans] could get the most out of their crafts with all the comfort and rooms necessary.

In the end, the core of Kiringar was worthy of being called the gem of the village. And the Imps took particular care to ensure it remained that way – especially during the nighttime.

Few had any recollection of why it was done. Those that knew it, had only learned it through the old texts found deep into the Council’s office – lost between carefully tended hides that held most of the knowledge the village had accumulated over the years, along with other more bureaucratic documents.

But it was tradition. One that had grown beyond the scope of the [Artisans] and their care for their workshop and bled into the customs of every household, of every person – an idea taught from parent to child, much like the crafts in the Grey House.

As such, while Dominic and Trakia walked towards their destination, the elderly human saw the Imp’s persevering through the grief and despair by leaning on what all of them shared – tradition.

It began simply. The duo had just turned around a corner, Dominic noticing how the ikriats’ leaves had already reached their maximum brightness, when he saw the first Imp leave their house through one of the windows.

The man – they seemed like a man at the very least, although the sparse lighting and robes made it hard to tell – carried a bowl in his arms. A baked clay vessel that he tried to balance midair like a circus performer, making Dominic frown until he heard the sound of sloshing liquid inside.

Something… thick – sounding similar to the wall paint he had used when reforming Jules’s room alongside Robert.

The Imp flew upwards, his small wings beating with impressive vigor, supporting his weight far better than Dominic expected, until he seemed to reach his destination and perched on top of his house’s roof.

Dominic had already stopped walking by this point, and Trakia – noticing the fact he was no longer following her – sighed and walked back to his side. Silently, the [Priestess] watched the human stare at Linkai as he painted his piece of the Spiral.

“What is he doing?”

The [Death Doctor] kept looking upwards, his neck craning to see Linkai follow the already stained illustration with his fingers. Trakia looked upwards as well and answered with pride in her voice.

“The Spiral of Malign Spirits. Linkai is painting his arm of the Spell.”

“A… Spell?”

“Exactly. Why, you don’t know what a… oh – fine! It’s like teaching one of the children, for Sun’s sake!”

The [Priestess] turned around and searched for a moment, then pointed at another house – and Dominic saw the same thing was happening over there.

“You see that? Every family has an obligation to ensure that their part of the Spiral is stable enough so that the Spell works – hold your tongue Dominic, let me finish.”

A question was swallowed as Trakia stared at him with her eyes burning scarlet. Dominic wisely chose to remain quiet.

“It was designed by the first [Painter]. A Spell made in the image of the Star’s gaze – built to ensure that her workshop remained unsullied by the Fear-Full Woods very presence, something the original settlers did not know about this place.”

Trakia took a deep breath and exhaled sweet-smelling smoke. The coils of it rose in the air, following a design she made with the tip of her claw – drawing in the air as if it was a canvas.

Dominic’s eyes opened wide at the scene, watching as the [Priestess] created a representation of Kiringar out of smoke. A model of the village as if seen from the sky.

She pointed at certain parts of it, and Dominic watched the drawing of the Spiral of Malign Spirits redden – restrained embers that flowed on every ceiling of smoke. And the center of it fell perfectly in the middle of the Grey House.

“It acts like a type of barrier. For some reason, enchantments and alchemy made here become sullied. Corrupted. So she devised the Spiral to ensure her work would proceed undisturbed – after that, we took to expanding it for… are you listening?”

Dominic, against his better judgment, got a little distracted. He would blame the fatigue, of course, but Trakia’s calling set his mind on alert once more – though he didn’t know how many more awake hours he could push through with the already dwindling fascination for the new world he was in.

Still, he reigned back his focus and nodded. Trakia sighed but continued.

“Anyways. Usually, a family has to repaint their arm of the spiral twice a year – as the paint is quite durable.”

Dominic understood, wishing to ask Trakia what the Nightmares were – since Kurian told him she’d have the more comprehensible answers – but Dominic looked up again and could see five different families painting their roofs, some with company, others utterly alone.

And the movement of so many Imps performing the same ritual now felt strange. A displaced tradition, as if they had been decorating their house for Halloween in the middle of July.

The [Death Doctor] looked around and noticed that other Imps were staring as well. Few – as the streets were getting more empty by the second – but that only marked the painters’ actions as odd even to them. Dominic focused on one of the flying creatures, trying to confirm a suspicion.

His eyes locked on the creature’s face – and what he saw was so distant, and yet so painfully familiar that the elderly human had to gulp.

Vacant, glassy eyes, filled with unshed tears and yet as dry as any desert, – empty and muddled with thoughts only their owners would know. Mechanical movements of people trying to firm their old lives and the memories of it in ever-moving sand.

“If they only have to do it twice a year, why are there so many families doing it tonight?”

Trakia bit her lower lip, eyes distant. She turned to Dominic and sighed. Her eyes didn’t shine scarlet, but he didn’t need magic to see how in turmoil her emotions were.

“I think… I think it soothes them. The days we paint are celebrations. Happy memories for most. They are just – remembering.”

Like Christmas. How odd it still was to receive these tidbits of information, making Dominic know that the Imp’s were just as advanced culturally as his kind.

It made him happy, in an explorer kind of way. Similar to how he always felt more energized after talking with natives during his travels or being invited to share their culture. An anthropologist’s dream.

Ha. He didn’t have many friends from the social sciences, but Dominic was certain any of them would give an arm and leg to study such a new culture as the Imp’s.

In the end, he could only nod toward Trakia, dismissing his thoughts.

“That’s nice. It’s… a worthy task. At least it will keep their mind busy. That’s better than feeling sad, isn't it.”

The Elder Imp looked at him and nodded. No longer wanting to see the numbness on some of the other Imps’ faces, the [Priestess] continued on her path.

Dominic didn’t know if he had truly heard the whisper from Trakia or if it was just his exhausted mind playing pranks on him – but it sounded like her, low and heavy with responsibility. With the burden of someone doing all they could and finding their efforts wanting.

A single word, solemn and raspy.

“Maybe.”

***

He was trying.

If there was an observer, carefully watching Dominic’s entire well-being and actions, they would agree with his assessment. The [Death Doctor] was aware he was pushing himself beyond reason with all this walking, and even if the healing potion Trakia had given him was strong enough to rid his body of its aches, it did little to restore his stamina.

The elderly man was tired. Fighting to stay awake and narrowing his eyes every time his cane hit the soft earth, setting a rhythm to his steps as Dominic and Trakia pushed forward between the houses of Kiringar.

They were walking… northeast. Maybe. It was hard to tell without a sun to confirm, but Dominic had noticed the slight inclination to the streets – mostly because he had dazed off on his feet and ended up stabbing one of the ikriats with his cane, having to retreat to the middle of the leaning street once more.

The [Death Doctor] wished he had the mental focus to appreciate Kiringar’s nightlife – sparse as it was. As he was now, Dominic scoffed as he compared his current state to when he had traveled to Japan, his biological clock completely broken for days and leaving him so exhausted he had barely enjoyed the trip.

It was a battle and a half to keep his feet moving, to the point he felt compelled of using [Undying Heart] once more just to feel the strength his supernatural powers now gave him. And yet, he didn’t do it.

Dominic was aware of how he felt after the effects of his Skill ended. Exhausted and spent, as if the Skill’s fuel was a resource he could not see. Not food or he would feel more hungry than he did right now. Not water, for he felt little thirst after Trakia gave him her canteen.

Something – new. A new resource that circulated in his body. A balancing limitation that differed from the obvious magical energy that fueled his Spells.

His mind wandered and he ended up stabbing another ikriat. The sound of the bulbous growth splitting open elicited a grimace from Trakia, who had been walking between the buildings with a grim focus all the while – ignoring the movement of some Imps flying around their roofs. Dominic tried to give her an apologetic smile, but he couldn’t tell if it worked.

Dominic’s very willpower seemed fraught and tender, like a strained muscle on his psyche that he had already been pushing far further than he should.

An entire day of dying, then resurrecting, then almost dying again and again to creatures that should have only existed inside someone’s nightmares left one far more exhausted than the [Death Doctor] would imagine before experiencing it all. Not counting the System and all the chaos it brought as well.

All things considered, this was a close contender to the worst day of his life. If he ended up breaking a decades-long friendship by the time it reached midnight, it would secure the first spot with ease. Until then, though? It was emotionally only a silver medalist.

Which, on second thought, wasn’t something he should brag about.

Nevertheless, both elder and [Elder] continued on their walk, silently leaving Kiringar’s outer ring of buildings.

And it was at the edge of the village that Dominic saw another part of Imp culture. An answer to a question he should have asked himself when he saw the difference in innate power and size between Imps and the other inhabitants of the In-Between.

How could they survive in this place?

The answer lay in multiple rings of runes and taught strings, hidden under the veil of night and boosted by Skills and Spells that made them far more dangerous than they should be.

Traps. Dozens of them. Carefully placed around the edges of Kiringar as a second layer of protection after the wooden walls rose in front of them.

And after that, an open expanse that should have been empty if the Imps were vying for their safety – allowing those within Kiringar’s center and walls to view any threat already within its walls.

And yet, the [Death Doctor] saw the four massive tents in a squarish formation, surrounding a bronze brazier as tall as he was – burning furiously while smoke curled protectively around the tents – and knew something was wrong.

The smell of ash served as the herald of what he was doomed to face.

***

“Here. Clean yourself first.”

The duo had stopped outside one of the tents, this one being the only one without any moaning sounds coming from within. Here, under the cold night, was a small dug well and an enclosed area made for cleaning one’s body.

Dominic took the old rag Trakia had offered him and wondered if he had faced worse bathing conditions than this one. Not even in the hospitals was there such a lack of privacy – and the nurses were literally right beside you most of the time.

But the fact Trakia was so insistent on him cleaning his skin of the White Stalker’s blood only made Dominic more certain of his suspicions. Undressing, and wondering what would happen with his dirty – but still expensive – clothes, he turned to Trakia.

“Is there any soap?”

“Inside. Try not to waste it. And give me those clothes already – I’ll see if Linkri is around to make you something wearable. Though… Well, I’m sure she can do about undergarments.”

The Imp left with his clothing before Dominic could understand what she meant at the ending, though he felt certain she had not seen his bits. Nevertheless, after tilting his head a little in embarrassment, the [Death Doctor] did his best to clean himself.

Granted, using a mug to bathe wasn’t the most comfortable of methods, but the cold water felt divine on his skin. An odd mix of soothness and alertness due to the low temperature and constant night breeze that made him a lot more relaxed.

Surprisingly enough, however, was the fact his Vulnerability to flowing water did not translate itself to the shower – which was one of the largest worries in Dominic’s mind. Well, praise be the Lord Almighty for small mercies.

And yet, the smell of ash hung in the air. Not even the herb-scented soap was enough to make it go away – or the rivers of smoke coming from the brazier.

It was a miasma. Hanging low on the atmosphere and making the already thicker air of the In-Between harder to breathe. And worst of all – there was no fire.

His eyes turned to the tent beside his shower cubicle, and though he could see two to three Imps moving around through the gaps on the cloth walls, Dominic could see that this one served more as storage than – whatever it was that this camp served for.

Dominic… kept balking at the idea of facing what the tents might house. He could tell, after seeing Trakia’s Spells and Skill affect Kurian, that the burning brazier was doing the same thing to whoever was inside those tents. The smoke brought that haze that made jaws unclench and eyelids drop.

They had the same feeling. Though more targeted. Detailed enough in their confection that Dominic was not affected by the spillage like back in the Temple.

But, as he scooped the last of the water from the bucket and used it to rinse his hair, the older man couldn’t understand what would make such a large magical work a necessity. If it was anything similar to the Spiral that Trakia had explained to him, then this would take a lot of effort to maintain.

Silently, the elderly man passed a hand through his skin in an attempt to remove the excess water and waited for Trakia to return with some clothing. In time, he knew he would see what was going on inside those three tents.

And Dominic would face the consequences of his promise.