Hmmph... this junior is a good seed [Cultivation Management Quest]

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The 43rd Legion

Legate Information:

Title: Legate
Name: Alcaeus the Strong
Dao: Self-mastery
Primary Style: Body-cultivation
Skill-set: Combat, Survival, Tactics and Strategy

History:

Alcaeus was born six hundred years ago. He was an ordinary villager born with a powerful physique and a strong manifestation of the clan bloodline. He was recruited by a now deceased foundation establishment expert of the clan twenty years before his first trials.

He faced two trials as Qi Condensation and his performance during them was exemplary. He was known to throw himself at the enemy in order to defend his companions and was hailed as a hero by those who worked alongside him. Through a degree of luck and natural talent, Alcaeus managed to survive his misadventures without major harm.

He was by his own admission quite proud of his feats and gave himself the moniker that he is currently so well known by. Despite his heroic ambitions, as a cultivator he was relatively average at the time. It was only at the age of 162 that he was able to achieve the ninth heaven-stage primarily due to time spent in the bottlenecks of meridian opening and dantian expansion.

His tribulation was uneventful and the first pillar he erected has been registered as Body in his own writings. The Dao he pursued was the mastery of the self and at the time, he considered the body an aspect of himself that he had mastered.

In his third trial, he once more attempted to save his fellows but stood against hunters that he had evidently faced before. They were knowledgeable of his skills and aimed to specifically cripple his body. Though he was rescued by a senior centurion, he was reduced to the body of a mortal and confined to bed-rest for over a decade before he regained mobility.

Even after regaining mobility, he was still unable to use qi. While the clan had covered his expenses, Alcaeus still sought to repay the clan and those that aided him. He began to work for the healer who had helped him regain his movement and performed odd jobs as a way of earning his keep.

In time, he managed to learn enough medical training to become an asset in more difficult operations and for a time, it seemed like he may remain as such but a junior he protected - Wilhelmina Taurus - wished to return the favor and acquired a phoenix tear that restored his body. His physique had still atrophied in the years without activity and it took him some time to regain his youthful vigour.

In the process of that, he developed the knowledge that would lead to the nutritionists line of medics who specialised in aiding body cultivation. It is known that he spent a large amount of time with Wilhelmina Taurus during this time and developed the philosophy of his second and third pillar - Mind and Spirit.

His philosophy was noted in several articles of his own publication where he discussed his exploration of the concepts. He was considered widely popular at the time and was offered a marriage contract with Wilhelmina Taurus who herself had become the new heir of the family.

Inspired by his work with healers, he worked with the Taurus metalsmiths in order to understand the Blood of Bronze and its effect on body cultivation. While much of the information is classified as Taurus secrets, parts of it are available in nutritionist literature and the philosophical musings that went into Alcaeus' fourth pillar of Bronze are recorded by the 43rd legion.

Despite a late breakthrough and decades spent in a crippled state, he had managed to reach the fourth pillar at 300. At the time, he was married into the Taurus clan properly and stalled in his growth. At the age of 350, he left the clan to explore his dao and was not seen again until one hundred years later when he returned as a Core Formation cultivator.

His final three pillars are unknown but are speculated to cover some form of external mastery rather than internal.

Philosophies:

"A strong body requires a strong mind to maintain it and a strong spirit to push it beyond its limits."

"Bronze is a metal - an alloy of copper and tin. The two metals are rarely found together. You require trade and reach to gather the materials and then skill is required to forge it. Still, it was chosen to arm our blood and bodies. What more do we need to prove that we are the best men?"

"It is well and good to know your enemy, but the enemy is always changing. First, know yourself for you are the only constant in every battle and then you must know the world for though the world changes, it is far more predictable than the enemy."

Legion Information:

Specialities: Body Cultivation. Military Strategy.

Structure: His legion has no recent history until he took control of it. Originally, it was a legion of body cultivators which is the reason it was given to Alcaeus the Strong. The legion he created was a reflection of his personal philosophy and all that served under him sought personal perfection in all aspects of their lives.

At their heart, they are body cultivators but they also have nutritionists and smiths of living bronze. All of that was focused towards ensuring that the 43rd legion ran smoothly. Every smith and healer is expected to maintain enough fitness to participate in battle and every combatant is expected to know enough to take care of their own bodies.

The members of this legion generally lack any distinctive arts instead focusing entirely on the clan formations and when alone their own personal strength. This along with their focus on discipline and self-mastery has led to a culture that favors soldiers over warriors. They are highly militarised in battle and even during training, disputes tend to follow a well-established pattern of debate and formal duels.

Alcaeus has sought to create legionnaires who are strategists, philosophers and soldiers equally. He has encouraged a feeling of brotherhood within his legion and treated them as his own children. They were both his army and his family, and Alcaeus had shown a tendency to spend a large amount of his time in cultivating his legion.

Many of the less spectacular graduates of general training are often sent here in the hopes that they may flourish under his instruction. In general, he attempts to ensure that those under him at least reach a level of competence. He has largely succeeded in this endeavour and his legion is considered one of the most reliable in the clan.

Trial Strategies:

The 43rd Legion is the most active at the start of the trials in an attempt to hunt down the fifth sea hunters while they remain scattered. They deploy alongside the Shattering Glass Array and have perfected the use of the Two-Headed Eagle Formation to quickly close in on their targets and to escape if the enemy proves too powerful.

This generally takes place over the first week of the trials where only Qi Condensation level experts appear. This strategy is employed in an attempt to overwhelm individual enemies by using the Hoplite Formation to summon a Foundation Establishment level offence. This allows other legions the time needed to prepare and gives the clan access to information on their enemies based upon the records of the 43rd legion's clashes.

This information is invaluable in order to aim our kill teams formed from our best and brightest to ensure that they do not face enemies that are too powerful for them. Once this strategy is deemed too risky, the 43rd legion retreats behind our forts and other fixed defences in order to survive the rest of the trials.



The 96th Legion

Legate Information:

Title: Matriarch
Name: Wilhelmina Taurus
Dao: Family
Primary Style: Divination
Skill-set: Combat, Formations, Arrays, Curses.

History:

Wilhelmina Taurus was born five hundred years ago. She was once a young prodigy of the Taurus clan with a talent in both divination and curses. She was adored by her grandfather, the then head of the clan. In a combination of both lavish investment and natural talent, she was able to reach foundation establishment at ninety.

With her talent, she was quickly installed as the heir to the Taurus clan - a position that falls to whichever member of the clan is judged most capable of reaching Core Formation and is considered Acting Legate of the 96th Legion in the death or absence of their current Legate - known as Patriarch or Matriarch depending on their preference.

She faced her first Hundred Year Trial as a newly ascended Centurion with a large amount of responsibility. At the time, she proved unequal to her role and would have likely died if not for the intervention of a young Alcaeus the strong who was able to buy her enough time to escape. He was crippled for his feat and she blamed herself for his maiming.

She spent much of her time and influence in procuring a cure for his condition. She acquired a phoenix tear from the treasury of a golden-shelled crawfish living within the Qiguai Secret Realm that allowed her to heal his body. In the time spent in achieving this, she gained her first pillar though the exact identity of the pillar is not recorded.

It is known that during this time Alcaeus the Strong and Wilhelmina Taurus developed a strong friendship. They discussed much of their personal philosophy and though Wilhelmina's own philosophy is unknown, what is known is that she forged both her second and her third pillars at this time. It is speculated that some of her own leanings may be gleaned from Alcaeus' own influence.

It is known that for his fourth pillar, Alcaeus needed an expertise in bronze and he turned to her for help. Wilhelmina beseeched her grandfather on his behalf and her grandfather made a proposal: They would marry and Alcaeus would gain their family's knowledge while the Taurus family would gain a capable cultivator.

As Alcaeus' popularity among the common legionnaire had grown with his constant publication of philosophies, he became a worthy candidate for marriage into the Taurus clan. Records of the old Taurus Patriarch's personality indicates that his grand-daughters happiness would have also played a part in this.

In the wake of this, Wilhelmina forged her fourth pillar. Much of her focus went towards tending her caln's needs at this time but this did not seem to slow her down. At 250, she had forged her fifth pillar while her would-be husband had stagnated on his own. It is during this period of time when Alcaeus began to seek out sources of inspiration from outside of the clan.

Whatever went on between them is unknown, but at some point they formally severed their marriage contract as Alcaeus set off to travel. Wilhelmina spent the next fifty years in a state of seeming depression where she spent much of the influence she had accrued with her legion into vices such as drink, food and the company of others.

Her cultivation had stalled as Alcaeus left. There was talk during this time of removing her from her position as heir and only her grandfather's affection let her keep it. It came to a head in the trials where her grandfather was slain and she was thrust into a position of leadership. It was expected that her grief would destroy her but this time she was able to rally and achieve Core Formation with a Dao of Family.

She has since seen her family and legion through three trials. Though she has not taken any husbands even after Alcaeus returned, she has had many children whom she tends to favor as her own grandfather had once done for her. The nuances of her Dao are unknown but it has a predictably nepotistic approach to governance though with a surprising acceptance of the idea of adding people to her family outside of blood relations.

She also seems to have an ability to shift her age to three distinct states - an aged Crone which grants her a weakened form but heightens her curse and divinations, a mature Mother form that improves the effects of her abilities on her family and a young Maiden form which grants her strength and durability in return for weakening her divination abilities.

Philosophies:

"Blood above heart, but none above bronze."

"When I look at you, I see a web of life. There are the bonds of the heart that are so ephemeral and yet surprisingly strong. There are bonds of bronze that are so weak but surprisingly common but the ones I find most useful are ones in between. The bonds of blood and family that has both strength and number."

"What we seek is not destruction and separation. Those have their place in the world but the ideal world requires something different. Building and binding- that is what we seek. Fix what is broken, build what is needed and above all we prize the bonds between us. Never forget that the one who stands beside you is family."

Legion Information:

Specialities: Esoteric Arrays - Divination, Illusion, Manipulation of the Blood of Bronze

Structure: The 96th legion has been under the control of the Taurus family for millenia and its traditions reflect that. The legion maintains a fund that is added to by each member that allows them to ensure that any member who finished basic training is added to the legion.

They are assigned to one of smaller cohorts within the legion - each dedicated to a specific speciality of the family. Members work here and are taught the advanced skill-sets necessary for their art. Legion members are assigned their speciality during an aptitude test before general training and upon graduating are allowed to take a second name that better reflects their ideals.

Much of this is tolerated due to the family's traditional devotion to the clan as a whole and the usefulness of their family techniques. As long as it's led by an elder in Core Formation, the Labyrinthine Thread technique practised by the Taurus family can create a metaphysical web of qi that allows sharing of power akin to the clan formations.

Though it is famous for use in battle, it is highly vulnerable to the slightest tremor in the dao heart in comparison to standard formations that make it difficult to use in those circumstances. Primarily, its use is outside of battle during array creation and maintenance where it allows incredible feats of productivity that are often crucial in the wake of a trial.

Outsiders are generally recruited based upon talent and potential. They are then added to an appropriate cohort in return for loyalty and often further ties to the family through adoption or marriage. In its modern form, Matriarch Wilhemina has also incorporated a Specialist system. This system expands the legion's previous tendency to recruit individuals with talent in the clan's specialities into recruiting those that she considered promising but who didn't fit with her family's arts.

Specialists are kept separate from the legion's traditional cohorts and allowed to operate freely. In a large operation, they are attached to where would be considered the most useful and outside of it, they were also given a large degree of freedom. So long as they tithed a degree of contribution points to the legion funds, they were free to take any work they wished.

Trial Strategies:

The 96th Legion is the most active before a trial begins and in its aftermath of the trials. Before the trial begins, they spend their time creating protective charms or building powerful arrays for both their own defence and for any others who can afford their services. In a usual Trial, many of the resources that go to protect the cultivators of the clan are created by them and much of the clan's own defensive infrastructure is looked over by this legion.

In the aftermath of the Trials, their skills are called upon to repair our defences. Their arts are relied upon in order to ensure that our enemies in the Third Sea do that take advantage of our weakness. The Labyrinthine Thread allows them to work together and excels in making many items of the same type or a single item that incorporates all of their skills. The former is helpful before the trials and the latter is helpful after.

Many of the diviners of the clan volunteer to track hunter movements and are often the ones who collate any collected information into a more usable form. Barring specific members of the clan who specialise in it, the 96th Legion are not combatants and members of the clan tend to hide behind defences of their own making for the duration of the trials.



Ties between the two legions:

Perhaps elsewhere in the third sea, the meritocratic and militaristic 43rd legion would not be able to work with the nepotistic and traditional 96th legion. However in the Golden Devil Clan, the military is a traditional calling. They work together well due to the strange but strong friendship between their legates and the philosophies that those Legates shared in their youth.

On an organisational level, the 46th's more combat-based approach synergies well with the 96th's support capabilities which often allows them to cover each other's blindspots in normal operations.

Though the clan is the one who pays for them, it is the 96th legion that creates many of the items that keeps combatants alive during the trials. It is also the 43rd legion who thin out the enemies so that the 96th legion defences aren't overrun by sheer numbers. Finally, the information collected by the 43rd legion during the battles against the Fifth Sea Hunters is put to use by 96th Legion diviners.

Over the years, both legions have worked together long enough to have strong histories of support and should they be deployed during any military action, pairing them together should be strongly considered.

Unnamed Anastasia Omake: 04-03

It was said that the Golden Devils had hundreds of words to describe sand. Oceans of dunes, seas of tan – indeed, the poetry of the Organ Meat Desert featured the clan's most expansive resource in ten million variations.

Once upon a time, in her sophomore year, Anastasia fancied herself a budding epic poet, and studied the clan literature. The most ancient Quest of Illium, the Song of the Comic Divine, and the more recent Saga of the Lyrical Sword: all read, all analyzed in an attempt to tell a new story.

Yet, the main result was hubris. How can a mortal, no matter how talented, compare to that of the centuries-old masters?

This dream was forgotten and suppressed. It wasn't a complete waste, though: Iphi liked her poetry.

Sand. Wind. *Boredom*.

As an extra bonus, it made for an excellent meditative exercise on the march. Let it not be said that she'd ever run out of sand-words.

There's a rap on her left shoulder, felt through the padded pauldron. She turns and the curse eater signals – not in the familiar tactical signs, but rather in the desert lingua franca of wild arm-waving. Still, she got the point.

"Incoming!" he says. "From over the ridge!"

A few coded taps later, Ling Li knows as well, followed by the rest of the squad. Shields raised, swords ready, the nine travellers prepare to meet their foe.

Snarls leap from the reverse slope. "Bloody Hounds!" called Zhang. "Close ranks! Formation: Spined-Circle!"

Fangs and claws crash onto shields, but the line holds. Repulsed, the beasts of crimson step back and spread out, wary.

"Slow advance!" came the order. "Stay sharp!"

Neither side suffer much in the opening blows: only a little fatigue, for the shield-line. Thirty meters became twenty, fifteen, ten, then five. A series of whistles from over the dune and the hounds spin around, dashing up the slope—

–jumping over their heads.

"Cover!" Iphi calls out, from the center.

Spinning around, moving to intercept. Zhang's already whirling in his rightmost position, bashing a snout, then stabbing center mass. "There's a handler," he shouts. "We need to take them down."

A quick glance over, and indeed, there was a fourth-heavenstage cultivator behind her, the source of the pack's tactical coordination.

*Slash* – it's now half blind. There's a nice crack when her armored follow-up kick impacts a less-armored jaw. It falls, but the next two beasts force a hasty half-jump back, using the motionless body as high ground.

"Hold the line!" Iphi shouts,

A loud shriek of pain comes from behind her with heavenly-comedic timing: the exorcist standing outside the circle, with Iphi's *pugio* deep inside the bloody handler's mount.

The wolves lessen in intensity. Zhang's sword flashes with Qi – left, right, down-swipe, thrust, flicker-cross – and another falls, dead from ten million cuts and decapitation alike.

No longer surrounded, the formation breaks apart into kill-pairs. It's but the work of sixty heartbeats to finish the final outnumbered ten.

Anastasia nods to Zhang. Zhang nods back, and wipes down his sword.

"Iphi, I'm thirsty," Anastasia jokes, whispering into Iphi's ear.

Uncapping her canteen, Iphi takes a sip, and hands it over. "Hello thirsty, I'm Iphi."

A day later, the next attack arrives.

A/N: What is sleep? Ha. I might flesh this out in a part two later, when there's less metaphorical fire alarms at midnight.

Sundowner

Dust storms are curious things, don't you think? When one thinks of a storm, one thinks of the rain, pouring in by the floods. Of the thunder, and lightning, rending the earth and sky alike. Of the wind, breaking constructs of man and nature in twain.

A dust storm is nothing like that. It is everything like that. There is no rain, in this desert, but for every countless drop of rain, there is a grain of sand. There is nothing to crush, to break in this desert, for all has become sand in ages past, but the winds reshape the very land into dunes of its liking. And for heaven's fury? What could be a better indication of disfavor than the very state of this wasteland?

Look, look, at those nine, running, scurrying like rats. They put their all into heading into the eye of the storm, seeking safety, seeking sanctuary.

By any right, by any truth, to shelter from Heaven's wrath is the correct action. It is the accepted action. It is the safe action. But oh, not so, in this accursed land, for Heaven's wrath has already descended, and thus there is only one action left, for even living in this land is to defy Heaven. And yet, to be pushed into a corner, to be forced to defy fate against all odds, isn't that the essence of a cultivator? To struggle, to strive, to succeed against strife to go against Heaven, that's what cultivation really is, isn't it? That's what it means to be alive, in this forsaken land of the forgotten of gods.

---

The Blood Path felt in his senses was always oddly uniform. Every cultivator, in the end, was supposed to be unique—they might be similar, but in the end, as they traveled the path unending, they had begun forging their Daos. Without a doubt, they were nowhere near solidified in merely Qi Condensation, but what was them was theirs, and no others.

In contrast, the Blood Path was just… that. A bloodsoaked horde, howling, screaming, grasping for more blood to feed their misbegotten souls. The Heavens had swung their blade, after the Chef had swung his, and that was what was left, as they were locked into road paved by the bones of millions. There were twists, turns, branches—here, a sect would sup on the meat of children, there, another would rip the blood out of mortals without a touch but it all led back to the same road, in the end. Perhaps there would be others, who would find another way, but so far as he had seen, it all ended the same—bar the Chef himself, all that would consume others for power would in the end, be consumed in turn, like a bottle of gu poison, and the rest of the Sea suffering for it.

And so, in uniformity, begot familiarity—so many of these Blood Path packs wandered these wastelands that he didn't need to spend time to familiarize himself with the curses of an individual, for all had the taint irreversibly stained upon their souls, the moment they consumed an innocent. This had suddenly become rather relevant, as a mass had detached itself from the mass of blood on the edge of his senses, surging forth at triple their speed. A scout group, perhaps—to harry them, bog them down like dogs of a noble's hunt. Blood Path cultivation disallowed many methods to powers, but cruelty paved many ways to power—and taming, or rather, "taming" beasts didn't take too much work if they didn't care too much about the beast themselves.

He sharply motioned with his arm—he couldn't speak, not at this speed, not with his scarf, but he didn't need to. He was but a novice, but signals were a universal language in this desert—and well, by the time you couldn't see the signals, you just as well couldn't hear worth a damn, either.

Acknowledged, they got into ready positions, with the first of the hunting "hounds" closed in. But oh, even in flight, a few rushing a group could be little else but bait for an ambush, and the claws of the trap snapped shut.

The spears glinted, and t'was little the dogs could do but slow them down but a pinch.

Yet, yet, yet, slow them down they would, and thus their mission would be accomplished. The winds were slowed now, behind the shield walls, but the flames they fed were hot.

. . .

"Bloody hounds, close ranks!" the stern-faced boy Zhang said—and clang they went.

Carmine canines they were, monstrous parodies of the dogs nobles would use to harass animals to exhaustion. Red-tinged ichor constantly dripped out of their slavering mouths, and—there it was, their handler, riding the largest hound in the middle of the pack.

Textbook, in all honesty. And as such, received a textbook response.

Spears out, shields locked—the vanguard of the pack slammed into shield wall, breaking themselves on it.

However, things weren't that simple—the survivors leapt back, preparing themselves for a second assault. And naturally, rather than continually hammering themselves against an unshakeable anvil, making everyone's life easier, they took the choice that would ensure at least some wounds.

This close, he could see it. The muscles tensing, the jaws, clamped shut. The handler cracked his jade-lined whip, and they leapt.

It would be a comical sight, in any other context, two dozen and one dogs leaping through the air.

"Cover!", the commander shouted, voice cutting through the roaring in his ears, flame-haired ponytail whipping about like the bloodied tassel of a spear.

Shields rose, locking into a fashion he would later know as chelóna, the turtle—fitting, all things considered.

Like falling stars, the hounds impacted against the shields. One-two-three-four-five-six-seven—
And they gored themselves against the driven spears, just like that, scant survivors mopped up like a smudge of dirt on a weapon — wait a moment, where was the last one?

That flash of thought saved his life, as he dropped low to a squat. Turning around, the handler's mount, half-blinded already from someone—Anastasia?—slicing it a weeping grin across its face, filled his view, leaping at him.

Quick as a flash, he threw his arm up, borrowed knife in hand—a gift from Anastasia, as apparently his own wasn't "up to par." And with a wet noise, the viscera of the beast fell out around him, as the Blood Hound opened itself up against the small blade, akin to a fish being gutted and filleted. A predator, turned prey.

"Auuuuuuuuuuugh!", a scream, filled with hatred and anger erupted behind him—but surprisingly, it wasn't from any of his comrades. Rather, the screeching noise came from the handler's throat—perhaps he actually cared about his "pets"?

Ah, no. A death curse, it seemed, as he walked back, towards the packmaster. He raised his hand, already reaching towards where the darkened energy was making its way towards him, as he had done many a time before—and then it was gone, disappeared from his gasp.

The commander, Iphigenia, stood before him as the crazed Blood Path cultivator fell over, sword thrust through his chest. With a kick, she freed it, and flicked it to the side, leaving it gleaming bronze once more. A twirl, and it was sheathed.

The group reformed after mopping up the rest, with Anastasia going behind her commander this time, seemingly in serious conversation.

And then they were off.

---

Something was odd, but he didn't truly understand until after their second battle. Unsurprising really, considering what had happened.

Slowed as they were after the battle—scratches and wounds that normally wouldn't be worth mentioning, savaged further by the speed of travel and the scouring sand streams. Thus, the gap was closed, bit by bit, until another group was in range, and sprinted to where they were, nary a warning—but thirty instants known before impact.

A shout, a command, an action—all of that disappeared behind the roaring in his ears, because he knew that this was not something they could fight head-on, but what else could they do?

The shields rose, the feet braced. Alala! Eleleu! Shouted the eight in their ancient tongue, banging their weapons on their shields—and then impact.

And what an impact it was. Twelve, twenty-four, thirty-six hounds soaked in blood could do naught but die in the face of eight Golden Devils braced and readied.

Four Blood Path Cultivators gorged on blood at full sprint bowled right into them and kept going.

The center held, of course it did. Their ancestors had held against the countless armies of Heaven and Hell itself, the "Natural Order" trying to correct "Fate" from the Seat of Primacy, the Blood Path cultivators could not hope to shatter their vaunted Aegis.

Yet, yet, yet, even if the wall held, the wall stood on sand. And so even for all their bracing, they were pushed back, for momentum was most definitely not on their side. Hold, hold, hold was all they could do, and pray that this charge would tire their opponents out faster than holding would.

So he decided to help. Standing aside, he held out his hands, doing his best to shoot out a cloud of miasma, held in place unnaturally despite the suddenly increased whipping winds.

Exhaustion. Fatigue. Weariness. Curse. Curse. Curse.

A pause. A gap. An opening, and it was taken. Iphigenia, the squad commander kicked her shield forward, leveraging the blood-drinkers' momentum against them, and ran forward, grabbing another spear with her suddenly free hand, thrusting them into the blinded eyes of their enemies, halving the pressure. Shields lowered in the borrowed moment, and weapons flickered out, bruising, hamstringing, crippling. A stolen second became thirty, a minute, and then five. Time enough to disengage and run again.

. . .

They had continued running, bodies left behind them. Yet, the crushing crimson curse had not decreased—no, rather, they had maintained or even increased. It made ill-sense, if they killed those cursed thus it must go down—but then he remembered, that age-old adage taught to him in one of his earliest memories.

"If you can't use it, lose it."

They hadn't disposed of the bodies. And oh, if these savages wouldn't hesitate in gulping down the corpses of children, what of their dead comrades? Naturally, the scraps would go to the storm, after all, waste not, want not—in a way, it was one of their comrades! Blood, blood, blood, it all came back to blood. They could consume nothing else in any way that mattered. So of course, they would sacrifice their comrades—if they even considered them such—slowing their prey down, and when cut down, would be free fuel. Two birds, one stone. Perhaps that was it—to travel down the Bloodsoaked Path in this wasteland would be to see other beings as naught but sacks of blood—does a Beast Cultivator care for the lives of the Beasts they slay? Madness, without a doubt, but what does it matter if it works, on this furious road to hell.

This was how it ended—halfway to their destination. By now, the pack of Blood Path cultivators had been cut down to half their size, but had more than doubled their speed in twain. Two hammer blows had fallen, flattening the steel in their prey, and the third approached, near-inevitably. The storm became evermore furious, the streaks of red in the sand becoming ever-darker. The situation was untenable, and so finally, they were left with no choice, but their last resort—leaving someone behind.

Of course—he did not hold it against them. By any metric, Golden Devils would be the better "bait" than his singularly cursed self, truly, he would be safer if they left him behind to use their formation. It wasn't perfect, but it was the only plan that had a chance of success happening.

But still, he felt a tugging in his gut, when he saw them activate their formation—the Aquila, Breath of Dawn, designed to bear them on the wings of Golden Eagles at great speed.

Wait, no, he was being dragged along too—

Qirong felt his way along the dark tunnel. It was cylindrically shaped, the sides smooth, fused rock. No protrusions or lights. He was certain no mortal labor had been used in its construction. Mother's sole work, most likely.

He didn't have the time to measure the distance or feel for vibrations. Mother had told him to hurry if he was to escape. Everything with her was a test, even when she was saving his life it was likely no different. If he wasn't keen, he'd fail. Hurrying could mean that he had to leave before Mad Dragon arrived. Or it could mean the window for his escape was while she had Mad Dragon distracted, no sooner and no later. She hated hesitation though, so whichever the case, he made two assumptions. He had to go as fast as possible, and the tunnel was a perfect cylinder along its entire length.

He ran. How fast was he going? How far were the worm pits from the armory? After a few minutes, he felt the air flow over his body abruptly change, and in the next split second he slowed, changing what would have been a knockout collision with the end into a merely bone-jarring one. It wasn't a turn, rather, a dead-end.

He felt around. One depression shaped like the amulet his mother gave him for controlling the wing-worm. Obvious how that worked, but what else hadn't she told him? There were full-body leathers hanging from the side wall, including a mask and goggles. They smelled like wingworm. He took one set, struggling to fit in the oversized coverings in the dark.

When he was done, he put his ear to the door and fingertips to the walls. Hesitation was deadly, but he hesitated anyways; he felt no vibrations. Was it too early? The stone had to be thick if not even the thunder came through. No, wait, there was something finally. Very distant, maybe, coming through the door equally as strong as the walls. Too strong for thunder?

As soon as he placed the amulet in the hole, the door crashed forward violently, and late evening light poured in. The foot-thick door was on the sandy floor of one of the labyrinthine side corridors of the worm pits. Stormy skies were visible above at least fifty feet of vertical rock walls. He picked up the amulet and hurried to the wider main pit to the left. Wingworms swarmed here. They were free to leave, but food, shelter and good smells were here. They were huge, adults like blocky six-eyed flies, three yards tall and ten long. Most hunkered down, frightened by the distant noises of storm and battle.

Qirong did not pick and choose. Avoiding stamping on the underfoot grubs, he ran for the nearest adult. When he was ten feet away, it turned violently fast to face him, twitching its mouthparts. He felt no mental connection. He wanted up. It extended a leg. He got his feet on the leg, and the wingworm practically threw him onto its back.

He grabbed onto convenient nubs on top of the wingworm as soon as he noticed them. He wanted to fly, so a dusty storm of wind cam from the bug's beating wings. They cleared their dust-cloud and shot out of the pit into the evening sky. Qirong willed them back closer to the ground as soon as he had his bearings again. Rocky hills gave way to open dunes. Flashes of detonation behind them lit up the scenery for fractions of seconds before disappearing, then re-appearing again and again, casting razor-sharp shadows. Mother had probably led Mad Dragon to the south, judging by the delay between flash and report.

Whenever Qirong stopped thinking about it, the wingworm would climb away again. Qirong only relented in this battle when the darkness became too thick to for him judge the ground. He navigated by the last light from the Sun, until he could bless the stars for being out and tell the way by them instead. They were fortunate they were past the storm clouds now.

He didn't know much about his destination. He'd never been to the occupied lands. Hopefully paper learning and hearsay was enough not to get shot down flying across the Bronze border. Before Old Cannibal and Child Corpse Gulper destroyed the place, they'd traded cattle up there. But of course, everyone did. Drinking Blade's fief had exported dyes, and Cheek Flayer had sold spicy grubs and prized armorsmith slaves. All gone, the ashes in the hands of the Bronze in some scheme of Old Cannibal's. For now.

Bronze defenses were a nightmare. That's why mother had always hunted in their vassal empires instead. With the truce on there would be more room for error, but still... Hostile cultivators were attacked by the spear array. Members of hunting parties, mortal and transcendent alike, were kill-on-sight for Bronze warbands. What they never let the slaves know is that the Bronze would give refuge to escapees, even to the most degraded cattle. Despite the futility of attempting the journey through the wasteland, the idea could take root and lead to a lot of dead mortals out there, instead of on the fief where they were useful. Was any part of this lore a lie? He didn't know.

He wasn't a cultivator, so the spear array part was solved. The Bronze didn't eat humans, so no worries about being cattle if they captured him. Threading the path between looking like a hostile, being enslaved at his destination if he looked too pitiful, getting captured by Battle Blood Cannibal hunters, and actually perishing in the wastelands though... and that assumed he wouldn't miss the landmarks at night and blunder over still mounted, looking to all the world like an invader. To him, that path looked like landing the bug a few miles short and leaving the worm-gear. Once the Bronze apprehended him, he would act like one of the child slaves that had been favored too much; making glassy-eyed stares, fearful of touch, and keeping dead quiet. That was the only excuse he could think of for his excellent physical condition. He didn't think they'd like the truth.

Right now, there were no landmarks he recognized. In the northeast, Crimson Nectar's manor had barely avoided the devastation. The arrays there should glow at night in unique patterns he should recognize. To the west of that, Laugher's Gash was a system of canyons that should be unmissable even by starlight, the new border just north from there. If he ended up west of Laugher's Gash, he was more lost than he thought. He had no idea how close he was, but based on the stars he assumed he'd hit one of the two tonight.

He realized then that the explosions had ended within a few minutes of his escape. Mother, clan name Berserk Slayer, was most likely dead then. He no longer hailed from Berserk Slayer's fief. It was Mad Dragon's now. Sleep nearly claimed him as he mulled over being an orphan. Unclear thoughts passed by like the dunes, uncounted. Then a brave thought struck him. Mother had had many children, but most failed. Ten years a survivor! He was a prince who had earned his nobility in this world, a living son of Berserk Slayer! He'd made it through trails more harrowing than this. That thought shook Qirong awake again, as he and the wingworm flew on through the night.

@occipitallobe @Alectai @BungieONI please index this omake for turn 6.