Contrary to the implications of the otherwise. With how his father was, I wonder if this family got shafted only for doing their job. Sounds fitting; the heroes always get it rough in Rihakuverse, unless they turn on their hidden masters and overcome all reasonable and unreasonable obstacles.
As always, a blue horizon. The deep blue horizon of a mist-shrouded morning, the sky a callous gradient from black to bruise-blue, birdsong and a distant rumbling the only interruptions to the thick silence of this hour, a quiet thicker than the all-pervasive fog. A quiet like iron smog settling in the lungs. Even the detritus of the Inners is oppressive.
The inner monologue of a man who is definitively not at peace with his lot in life. Considering the dramatic difference between power of middle residents and the implied prosperity of inner residents, he has reasons to be so. Pity that his son closes his eyes on that... We could have gone very,
very far if Vanreir actually turned to our side.
He shook his head, blinking away his father's resentments. The contamination was worsening. For six hundred and seventy-six days, Vanreir had awoken at exactly this time to attend to his daily duties. He grabbed pail and cloth and began to scrub.
Is really contamination if it is correct? Well yes, but it sure is correct. I wonder if dear old dad was tugging at his heartstrings when we tried to diplomacy him. Choosing a different destination for the thrust of his spirit would've saved his life back then. Instead, he is dead, and his sister is all alone, left in the clutches of civilization that is fairly likely to fall entirely in the next month.
There were those for whom duty was a prison and habit its cage, but he considered both more as scaffolding, the bedrock structure on which a life could be built. Meticulously he cleaned his room, the light of his soul kept coiled and inert, and moved steadily onto his sister's.
Despite getting told to move out now, he still found time for his sister and his cleaning habit. Well, just straight-up jumping into murder reduces his strength considerably, I suppose. I yet again wonder if it is his natural habit, or influence of the father. Soul Evocation like that would've been so goddamn useful for Hunger's direct-minded determination to clear the Temple... Alas.
"Mm..." Erii was sleeping still, wrapped protectively around her plush pillow, and he maneuvered around her with quick, efficient movements, wiping down the weathered wood of the floors and carefully organizing her toys and knick-knacks.
A child is good for making one look sympathetic. And there is probably an entire civilization children like this.
Really not feeling good about this whole Moon Civ Destruction schtick. We are getting a lot of people shafted here. Still, we don't actually have the means to save these people, and Moon Civ itself shafts a lot of people as a matter of the course pretty much daily. From the middle residents to adventurers heeding the ring, there is enough shit for everyone to drown in.
"Brother?" She murmured groggily, slowly sitting up. She was growing more alert, even as his own body continued its slow decay. One day they would meet in the middle, and then irreversibly diverge. But not today.
I wonder if she is likely to become an outrider, should the things arrange so Hunger ultimately fails to enact lasting change on Moon Temple Civ. Shitty fates like that are the norm when Hero fails to overcome the impossible.
"Hush, small one. Go back to sleep." He smiled and placed a hand on her head. Today, he could still keep her safe.
"M'kay. Love you." She nuzzled his hand affectionately before settling down to sleep.
It is all on your shoulders now, my son. Everything I am, I leave to you. Let my soul be your guide. Let your soul be my tomb. And let this be enough, to awaken that which was promised. Please... let it be enough.
Soul Evocation allows to directly train rank. I wonder, if Vanreir simply powered up further, maybe he could have avoided the soul decay. If with time and enough talent, his soul could have adapted to this fusion in a synergetic manner.
Finished with his task, he walked past the now-empty master bedroom and towards the water closet. Their home was presentable, time to work on himself. A simple, linear routine was best. Fluctuation was the predecessor to instability.
A man in harmony with his nature.
In the distance, the Star-forges of the Inner Ring began their spinup, ceaseless clanging like a bell endlessly rung. They would not stop until well after the sun went down. Were the Inner Residents inured to the clamor, or did some miraculous artifice render them immune?
So there is some sort of a nightly cycle to the operation of arcane machinery of the inner temple. I wonder what they are working on day and night. Arcane defenses of the temple is one thing, but surely they are producing more than simply things they need merely to survive. What sort of the items truly powerful are interested in, I wonder.
One day, they would know the answer. One day, they would live Inside as well. Soon, if he proved himself. If he made just one more step forward. They were such wondrous rumors of the Land Inside, and yet the veil of secrecy was profound, so much so that even an Outrider of his exalted rank didn't warrant concrete details. Of all the scattered peoples who'd come together around the Ring, his House had had the most precipitous fall. Once a legend, now a cautionary tale. His father had lived Inside, but Vanreir had never seen past the cerulean shell that marked the Inner Perimeter, and by the time of his birth his father had been unable to speak of matters beyond the sword and his legacy. Nonetheless, he didn't resent those who'd engineered their fall. Why wallow in bitterness, when one could move forward instead? He would dispatch them, like any other opponent, when the time came. One policy for all enemies was simplest.
His sigil hummed, and Vanreir suppressed a frown. The coordinators were well aware of how the light of his soul operated. They knew he was not to be bothered in the morning, regardless of the urgency of the task. An even, regular routine was necessary to stabilize the power within; for all the sharpness of his light, it could only ever move in one direction. He did not consider such a fault. That which was linear, was also stable. That which was simple, was also strong.
So Sigils allow distant communication. Another example of inner magical technology trickling down into the middle.
"First Blade," the sigil spoke, and he recognized the cadence of Chief Coordinator Thran, whose normally-jovial disposition was utterly absent now.
"How can I help?" He said. As he spoke he continued to move, shaving cream applied to the throat with circular whisks of his horsehair brush.
"There's been a major incursion. Your services are requested."
"Is it the Brutes again? I thought Gondar had dealt with them."
"No. The Fairbright."
Based on the context this is not the regular occurrence. I wonder what exactly stopped this guy from calling even later, considering that we and other R-types penetrated into the inner temple at a rather middling pace; it is highly likely that he would have had time to complete his routine and only then go out to hunt Hunger. If he did that, he'd probably still be alive, even. Oh well.
Shocked as he was, his movements did not stop. Fluidly, effortlessly he drew the razor over skin, allowing himself to enjoy the satisfying schlick of the blade as it scooped cream and hair from skin. There, all done. Faultless and bloodless as always. His hands had never been so steady before his father's death.
No matter what sort of shocks, blood loss, smashed bones and sheared meat, this guy just keeps doing what he is doing. It applies even in social context. That is pretty crazy. But since he is not the "thrust" part of the equation, I wonder if he always was like this, or it is merely influence of his father that he disallowed himself to curb for whatever reason. Perhaps such synchronization allows for greater efficiency of the merge and slower decay?
He flicked away the last daub of shaving debris and slapped a hand across his cheeks, examining his reflection coolly. Eyes of storm blue. Hair of storm grey. His body's discorporation had not yet become apparent, his secret unrevealed. Time enough for two souls to do what one could not. Give us just one year more. One year, and Erii would be safe.
This is curious. I wonder if Discorporation is what allowed such soul merge, or is merely an unwanted side-effect of it. Hunger did not notice Vanreir suffering from any sort of particular malady other than his soul being stitched in two; this guy hid it well.
"The Fairbright," he finally said, voice level. "Her stay of execution's been lifted?"
"The Inners decided they want no part of her. Make it clean, First Blade. The stain on your House has almost been lifted."
His eyes widened slightly. "Faster than I'd expected. It hasn't even been two years. Will this be the last, then?"
"No. But we've detected two other R-types in the region. Bag them both and the Tribunal has agreed to review your case."
"Don't give me false hope, Coordinator."
I wonder how exactly R-Type translated. What "R" stands for? It is obviously some sort of a stand-in for "Actually potentially dangerous" but precise term eludes me.
"Experience has shown your abilities to be anything but false, Sir Amarlt. Keep this up and you'll be Lord Amarlt by day's end. Your grandfather would be pleased."
"And my father," he said.
The Coordinator coughed uncomfortably. "Er, yes. And... him. Good hunting, First Blade."
Sounds like dad really fucked up... Which is incredibly strange, considering what dad is the core of the Thrust. Was he trying for some sort of a rebellion? Or, like a mirror of Hunger, tried to improve the lot of those beneath him, and suffered from backlash of those who desire for things to remain as they are?
Unfortunate. He was far from peak condition, with his morning routine interrupted so. Still, this calibre of enemy did not demand his utmost. A junior Fairbright, her power barely tested. Mighty as their bloodline was, it could not compare to the light of his soul, much less his father's.
I can't help but wonder how powerful he would've been if allowed to progress normally. Sounds like his dad grants some sort of a ramping-up conceptual effect that empowers him as long as he follows direct, to-the-point sort of plans.
Unfavorable comparison between the light of his soul and that of his father convinces me even more that all of Vanreir's troubles are simply from lacking Rank.
And Fairbrights are widely known, and widely respected, but the Temple thinks that they can murder a junior one without repercussion. Or that they can handle the repercussion. That bodes ill for us.
Seven decades had Justinan Amarlt trained to erase the disgrace of his youth. He'd never succeeded, but Vanreir was his legacy in form and in truth, the sword of their composite soul unfurling in perfect unity. Justinan the Blade. Vanreir the Unerring. They were hilt and tang, bullet and blasting-cap: helpless apart, but together unstoppable. Artificial as it was, they were the Unerring Blade returned, the Amarlt inheritance resurgent at last. As had been promised, if the successors were true and the hour was dire. Look through the cycle, and where I am needed, there you will find me.
Sounds like the saying is merely yet another variation of the Cut Through meme; just look hard enough, you'll Find A Way/Cut Through. False significance given to the prophecies, when the real way to success in Rihakuverse is to put your nose to the grindstone and find a way to power up.
Sometimes he wished that their forebear's standards had not been quite so high. Sometimes he thought that his father's life had been too high a price to pay, simply prove the sincerity of their cause. But he cast such thoughts quickly out of mind. Sincerity was simple, that did not mean it was easy. For a disgraced line, even this minute Return was grace undeserved. His father had bent everything to their restoration. Some would say he had gone too far. They would never understand the nature of a Blade. This, son, is the essence of our Thrust...
Notably tho that the father did not pursue return of his family to grace because he considered that he had done something wrong, based on the glimpses of mental contamination; he simply loved his family that much. Such a shame for Vanreir himself to be a lapdog of his ultimate enemies, but it is kind of a tendency of the universe at large in Rihakuverse; hidden masters exploiting heroes to keep the wheels of the world grinding lives of the weaker into paste.
Playing along is a losing proposition; you gotta Find A Way to actually success, not merely delay the inevitable. Or Cut Through, I guess.
Lightly he took his sword from its rack and stepped out the door. Dawn's first rays graced the horizon, the gold commingling with the blue. He spun his blade gently, crystal-steel trapping and refracting the light, sunbeams shattered into a dizzying spray. They painted the cobblestones and the world-worn walls of the Middle District and slipped futilely off the Inner Perimeter just beyond, its matte-blue opacity obdurate and unchanging.
I wonder if Hunger could actually cut through into the inner perimeter right now. Not fight any of the actual defenders, but just... Actually get inside. Overcoming magical artifice created through the direct power derived from the Ring is probably hard.
Erii would be behind that sturdiest of walls soon enough. She was able, empathic and wise, already skilled in political maneuver. One day, she would ensure that House Amarlt could stand on its own legs once more, without the First Sword of the Outriders looming over its foes. On that day he would relinquish his father and join her for whatever years he had remaining. Until that day, there was only one thing that he could do.
And she is also a scion of a disgraced family that would be left without the support of her martially-capable brother. The inner temple is just going to grind her into paste-like it ground their father, if the context is any indication; it is yet another society of cut-throat sharks struggling in the small pool, never looking outside.
Gabrielle Fairbright fell without incident. The blood of ten thousand heroes sang in her veins, choirs of the Astral had descended to shield her, her blade of legend had blazed like a second sun, plain become glass before its incandescence; and yet none of that had saved her from the ordinary thrust of his blade, which with unerring force struck true. That was his pride and culmination, the sole point and purpose of his existence, for which his father had given his life and his mother had died in despair. Strike a thousand times, or make one strike that tells.
Even a pale shadow of Oddysial's motto is a terrifying force that overcomes the grandest destinies and gravest prophesies. Gabrielle might have been a destined hero, but Vanreir is a pale rip-off of a pale rip-off of a pale rip-off of the guy who broke the multiverse to his will, so it is unsurprising that she fell easily.
I do not know if you will understand.
In the end, language can only reduce things so far.
This, son, is the essence of our Thrust:
Pierce through. Even if it cannot be pierced.
Pale imitation of the Forebearer. Still enough. Pity that it got warped to the evils Accursed typically fight, but sometimes people just lose.
Panting, he leaned atop the blade like an old man with a cane, eyes roaming his body to assess the damage. His right arm was burned, his left arm a seared ruin, one eye gone, the lung on his left side unresponsive. A small price to pay to see a Fairbright downed. Though his body was a ruin, the light of his soul hummed merrily, eager and undiminished, its appetite whetted but far from sated.
I thought earlier that this is just him being this badass, but apparently his utter resistance to anything short of actually dying is a Soul Evocation effect. Sounds like Soul Evocation has all the potential of Graces... Except, unlike with Graces, we lack the EFB to get ALL THE GRACES, so the sheer potential versatility is just not there.
It was the nature of a thrust to go too far, to over-penetrate. That was how you made certain of the kill.
Well, actually you work to ensure that you do not waste the damage overflow on the useless targets, but that also works, I guess.