"Weren't you supposed to have absconded the frontlines and returned to live or luxury back in Mendev?" I asked the smarmy heaven-touched, aasimar, Count Daeran.
This was more a way to burn daylight, Panaka had gathered many companions while in Kenabres and they were now resting in the barracks as we prepared to launch the 5th crusade. The only thing I know about him is that he befriended Panaka during the fight for Kenabres, he is Queen Galfrey cousin, and he is an oracle.
"Oh, believe me. I wanted nothing more than to leave this dreary vista behind me, but my dear cousin couldn't bear the separation between us after we had finally been reunited once more." The young noble says sarcastically, his noble grooming ooze from every minute word and body language.
"Are luxuries you can't enjoy and honors you can't be personally showered with worth your freedom and life? The brave fools rushing toward danger have ignorance as an excuse. But what do you have young count?" I ask, looking down at Daeran both metaphorically and literally.
There is no point in keeping the charade on the frontlines. My heroic stature has only improved with each labor, putting me at 255 cm (8'6" feet) and yet the young aasimar still managed to look down on me while looking up. Impressive.
"Oh my, to be subjected to the tender mercies of our resident god. I am truly moved to the point of tears." The count says, clearly not meaning a single word spouted. "So why don't you save me from such ignoble fate then? It surely is within your capacity and I certainly could use the entertainment in such a tawdry campaign."
"Me, saving you? Well, I certainly could choose so, but tell me count. Aren't tired of being chosen? I heard the humor about you, chosen by the fates to be born in the lap of luxury, to be marked by heaven. And when tragedy struck, chosen once more to survive where everyone else died, and finally chosen by Higher Power." My words rang over Daeran's head like judgment, his shield of aloofness and decadent mischief parting like mist to reveal the lonely boy underneath. "Oracular power, to be like a glove, perfectly fitted to the hand behind it… you have been 'blessed' your entire life. It is high time someone cursed you with a choice for once in your life."
Daeran had no come back to me, something all those who knew him seemed to take notice of. Yet there was a hardened survivor behind the front of well-groomed pedigree and decadence. "Nothing is more hateful than people who give prostrated speeches in the mistaken belief that their inner thoughts are of any interest to anyone but themselves."
He wanted to go further but another one took particular exception to my action. An elf woman wearing hags and bearing gruesome charred hands and a pure and [radiating] soul. The 'saint witch' Ember.
"Why would you say such horrible things? Daeran is hurt and you decided to help him by hurting him more? Opening his old wounds won't heal him, it will only hurt them more and lead them to hurt others in turn to find some relief." The young elf gently chastised me.
I just lifted an eyebrow in turn, while seizing her by her charred arm. "You say that yet why do you refuse to heal them? Heavenly Restriction, the light I shed in Kenabres would have mended you by now if you had just accepted. Tell me, is the power granted to you worth living your life as a cripple?"
Her new friends don't appreciate my invasion of her physical space but don't dare intervene… yet. Ember herself just stared at me without flinching away. "Because that is what fire does. It consumes things until only ashes remain. You could heal my hands and only my hands, but those are the least of what I lost." She declared to me with purpose and conviction. Interesting.
"Haha. So, am I a cruel villain then? A blacksmith of souls who treat this world and its people as iron to be forged in flames?"
"Well," Ember paused, hesitating for the first time. "No? You helped people of Kenabres-
"Yet it wasn't enough, was it? I heard about you too Ember. You certainly like to look down on the divine for not doing enough for mortals, but when I extend my hand to you, you bash it aside like I am a leper. How do you think it makes me feel then?"
"I –, Ember tried to answer but words failed her until found hidden courage to push forward. "Can you really call a success every time someone dies?" She asked timidly.
"… you aren't talking about failing to save mortal lives. Are you condemning me for scorching the demon legions with my light and killing Deskari?"
Her companions looked at her with expressions ranging from exasperated fondness to outraged. Oh, this is going to be good!
"Why shouldn't I? Killing is wrong. Just look at the demons, they do nothing but hurt and destroy and they live in fear and misery for it. People are the same too. If we all could just stop pushing each other down and start to lift each other then we everyone could be happy." She says with sincerity.
"Wow. You truly mean that, don't you? How delightful arrogant." I say with a smirk.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that even gods can't save those unwilling to save themselves."
"I know that."
"Yet you don't act the part. Don't misunderstand I agree with you, demons are people. People who had made their choice and kept to it for whatever reason or excuse they could fashion. Their realm is called Abyss for a reason – no matter how deep a person sinks, they can always go further."
"Should you just abandon them then?" Ember asked and that sparkle of defiance is back again.
"Let's make a deal then, I will spare any demon who genuinely repents."
Panaka's paladin friend, Seelah, bolted from her chair at my statement. "That is absurd! Demons are a corruption that should be destroyed! I believe in redemption – I was once a criminal myself. But there are limits!"
"Don't misunderstand, I am not chastising or mocking Ember. She can proselytize all she wants for the demons to her virtuous heart's content. But this is why I am being tough on you all. You all still don't understand." I turned toward the rest of the watching companions, some looking at me with defiance, others with naked interest.
"The primary reason demons are such a hateful existence is because they are a twisted mirror that magnifies a reflection of a darkness that exists in every human heart. They know every flaw of the human spirit and they will pull at them relentlessly. You will be tested like you have never been, making you doubt yourselves and what you believe in. Make demons from your hearts." I looked at every single one of them and pinned them with my stare. "Whatever you stand to lose by turning back doesn't measure up to risk by going."
It is clear they don't understand it even now. Unfortunately, they will.
-//-
"So, what do you think?" I asked my friends in my dream realm. The campaign is about to start and I have set the preparations for my glorious campaign against the demonic hosts of the Abyss.
"That you are an asshole!" Gojo interjects while looking at me with judgment. "Really, you casually drop a bomb that Alexander was a cultivator who
just so happens to be your senior? Let's push aside the historical implications of this news- no. I can't do it. I won't play along! The Raging Heaven Cult has thousands of members, everybody knows by now of your little reincarnation trick. It is the whole point of the Orphic faith, to begin with!"
I looked at Gojo's antic with concern. "Ok, that is unusual behavior even for you. What did crawl into your ass and died?" I asked while turning to Geto, but only got a really constipated look.
"Well, you see…" Geto started but then looked at Megumi and Tsumiki for help, who instantly looked away like they desperately tried to deny something.
"I don't get it."
"Yes, you do, you fucking asshole! Just admit it already, it was you! You are Alexander, ravaging the east like it is your fucking playground! And now you are simply doing it again against the first acceptable target you came across. And there is no way this tidbit doesn't get leaked as well!" Gojo says while looking at Yui Haibara, who for his part had stars shining in his eyes. How enviable, if I could just brush Gojo's fits of pike like this my life would be easy.
"Well, in my defense parallel universes are a bitch." I explain truthy, even knowing it would be in vain.
Gojo answers by lunging at me. Fortunately, Geto restrains him in an armlock like he is some rabid beast.
I turn toward Tsumiki and Megumi.
"Don't worry," My son says with clear eyes while radiating the aura and patience of a saint. "What happened in the past can't be undone but you can change yourself through your present actions. I have full faith in you."
"And I will use this heads-up to start writing the apology letters." Says Tsumiki, retrieving in her own little world as she weaves plans as the Kyrioi of the new Raging Heaven Cult. "We managed to cut a good deal with India last time. We might be able to piggyback the first apology. Besides, nowadays the Indus River is Pakistan so we might be able to avoid reparations by addressing it to the ethnicity instead of the country. And if everything else fails, I can always point the fault at Hera as the true instigator, it isn't even a lie."
Ok, I not only am completely lost, but I also might not want to deal with this Gordian Knot.
-//-
All cultivators stand alone when facing raging heaven. From this precept, the cultivation of uniquely excellent existences derives. Opposed to this the Romans affirm all roads lead to Rome, and the roads are their cardinal public virtue. The main advantage gained by one side is lost by the other but eventually, their path inevitably cross.
Eventually, a man places all below himself, the road toward raging heaven is wide enough for a single person to cross. Eventually, a man's reputation becomes a beast none of his fellows can dare to ignore or cross. It goes by countless names yet can be found in every civilized city of men, so the Greeks in their superb wisdom refer to these men by the name they know in their heart to be their true title. The Tyrant Realm.
I have been dabbling on this path for far longer than others. The nature and complexity of sovereign souls is not something easily tackled… and yet every man knows in his gut as soon as he sees it. Ravenous Authority that subjugates and consumes everything in its path.
The Iron God of Chains, Unity.
The Lord of the Locust Host, Deskari.
Yes, I know what a tyrant is. But do I know what kind of tyrant that I want to be?
The mind fashions a question, the heart burns as fuel, and the gut instinctively answers how it is to be deployed. The basics of the tripartite soul and its relationship to the body.
It is said that a raven carries tribulation in its talons. It has ever been so, since the last of the bright birds brought the sun god word of his lover's infidelity and were scorched black by his grief. One midnight messenger is tragedy enough. Any more than that is nothing but a curse. After a certain point, a pile of tragedies becomes its own cruel comedy. A gathering of ravens is nothing less than an unkindness.
By defeating Deskari I have become more than a nameless raven but a true legion. By exploiting the reversal trait I learned from jujutsu, I can use the labor against the Iron God to forge bonds instead of severing them. By combining the two I can seize in hand every single one of the bright souls flocking Kenabres at the news of my crusade. And as chaffing as it is for Queen Galfrey, this is mine. She is hardly in a position to turn down divine assistance.
Even then, this isn't enough. Magic is so common to Golarion that its people think frog tornados (frognadors?) are a natural phenomenon. Yet even they can sense how wrong the Worldwound is. It truly lives up to its name, it is a wound. The very soul, air, and water are tainted by the influence of the Abyss like an infected wound. Storms of blood, earthquakes, and droughts are the norm. And all living beings hardy enough to endure just suffer the insidious touch of the Abyss being twisted and corrupted into monsters.
Yet Hope sprints eternally. All wounds can be eventually healed. The Worldwound can be mended… by a firm enough hand. Time to render true unkindness upon the Abyss. I will teach demons to curse my name.
As the armies granted to me get ready to leave, I cast down my light, touching every single soul supposed to be under my care and rendering them an ultimatum by the tip of the sword of my intention. This was their last opportunity. They were to surrender themselves to me and I promised to lift them higher than they ever dreamed possible. Or they were to leave now, for breaking the letter or the spirit of said oath would see them cursed not only by me but also by all new brothers and sisters.
It was rash, but now that Deskari is dead my main enemy is Baphomet. The insidious master of the Ivory Labyrinth has doomed more than one crusade in his web of intrigue, paranoia, and betrayal.
The spies and infiltrators were quickly rooted out in the face of my ultimatum. Some threw themselves at my feet and implored for mercy. Some even were sincere too. And a few even betrayed their former allegiances to leap at the lifetime opportunity. Those were readily spared. The remaining were either left behind or guided to Pharasma's judgment.
A tyrant's judgment is swift and self-serving.
Armed with Deskari's first-hand experience of carving a realm for himself to rule out of the realm of the Abyss, I marched, I saw, and I conquered.
The flock of marching ravens garmented in midnight veil was only a declaration of intention to the denizens of the Abyss. With exponential performative excellence brought about by true cooperation, I turned the united hunger of my unkindness toward the influence strangling the decimated lands.
Yet this alone wasn't enough. As a disciple of the Augur, I know how to charm and enthrall the very earth and its bounties. So why not with a marching song? As the wheel keeps on turning, I march on with a song of liberation in thousands of lips.
The protean realms of the beyond like the Abyss and the First World are ruled by the disorder of Chaos. Where, when, why, and how are suggestions rather than constants yet this is what made them malleable to those with sufficient strong will.
Why revive the dead nation of Sarkoris when I can do better? With the helping touch of my muse, I imprinted the higher aspirations of my soul into the land, turning the world silver bright. And the Abyss is footing the bill!
The cursed land recoiled at my audacity and storms of blood tried to rebuff my advance, flaying winds tried to scatter my followers, and magma eruption tried to scorch away my company. Yet under the aegis of my bright and defiant soul, the young souls under my care found hope to keep on even as their bodies begged for death. Why wouldn't they? It is the uncertainty that kills a man, each step they took was a victory against the Abyss.
Cooperation in combat is an exponential force, supported by their brothers in arms they refined themselves within and without. Guided by my hand, every step they took was surer and more precise than the previous one and will be surpassed by the one that followed it, adjusting their posture in a dozen small ways, orienting them towards victory.
Mythical power certainly helped speedite their training. Settling heavily on my guts, allowing me to draw miraculous power without burning my spirit down to cinders. At the cost of hunger. By taking for myself the burgeoning weight of my followers and their tribulations with my own spirit being weighted down and withered.
It is like I have an endless hollow pit where my stomach used to be. Yet it was worth it. Wherever I passed, the Grim vistas of the Worldwound were replaced by a stark world as bright as polished silver. A defiant miracle only I could perform and the land itself knew its new master, standing defiant against the forces of the Abyss. Besides, I didn't go without a meal for long.
The denizens of the Abyss didn't appreciate my renovations and were more than willing to express this displeasure. First, the Deskari's orphaned brood, vescavors. They had yet to understand what I was doing. The moment they entered the range of my influence it was too late. My hunger set upon them like the creeping hand of the grim reaper. Despite the combined radiance emitting from me and the five thousand souls under my banner, we still drew everything in like a star collapsing into a black hole due to critical mass.
This was my updated Domain Expansion: Courses of The Stars. My domain had always been particularly sophisticated and powerful, and one of its key features is that it targets everyone in range, including myself. This binding vow allowed me to selectively select which side of the scale those in range would fall on – life or death. With my muse's inspiration and guidance, I had adjusted things so as to lock in on those bearing the quintessence of the Abyss.
The demoniac locust storm comprised millions of ravenous creatures bringing with them the eternal hunger of the abyss fell on us like the mantle of night yet. Yet the combined power of the five thousand men behind my back I crushed the biblical plague in a blue-green sphere that suffocated and compressed the very space it touched. The swarm scattered in an attempt to survive and sow chaos inside the ranks but my all-devouring light weakened and consumed them second by second and the soldiers fought with precision and surety at odds with their experience and standing. The ending was the same – I drank the bounty of their soul taking away their vitality and future and revitalizing not only my forces flagging strength but also restocking my heart blood stocks. A parting gift from Deskari. Devouring was his only virtue, and making it mine elevated me to even greater heights.
In the end, even the chasm in our way was reshaped by singing stone into a smooth stone road leading to our destination. The battered spirits of old Sarkoris who were once worshiped by the Cimmerians before the Worldwound had not yet been broken. The land itself threw its loot behind me, showering my company with blessings. Kingdom and subjects singing a marching song dictated by the rhyme of my beating heart.
Cultivation gives celerity to a man's strides and allows them to go without sleep and food for longer the higher their standing happens to be, but the men under my care were still unrefined. That is why I took their fatigue, drowsiness, and more important of all, their hunger. Each day we marched was like a decade for me. A decade without rest, sleep, or eating, pushed my heroic constitution to its limits and beyond. Once again, I fell on the next best thing, my batch of nectar (replicate) I created just before departing.
When the Abyss finally delivered to me a troop of flying gargoyles I few ravenously over them. Bringing them down to the earth with the pseudo gravity of Rher's suffocating space combined with Xeno's Logos. My men tore them apart like a pack of vultures. It wasn't enough and by a long shot. Fortunately, the deeper we penetrated the Worldwound the more resistance we found.
Howling bands of demons ready to test their luck as soon as they found some geographic feature or magical phenomenon to push things in their favor. Sects of demon worshipers searching for revenge or glory. Cabals of intelligent undead protecting the one place they can prosper in. They all were crushed by the turning of the wheel. My troops brushed off curses like an old dog shakes off fleas as we marched toward Drezen.
I even got to add some convenient meat shields for my troops. Zacharius, once a holy crusader revered to this day, now a powerful lich capable of giving even me pause… if I was by myself that is. Zacharius was leagues above the pickle wizard I once enslaved but my mythical powers make me an absolute master of the dead. Once they fall into my grip there is no shaking it and backed by my troops, he had no chance. He and his dead brothers in arms once more will join the crusade.
Yet even I had my limits and the men's nerves were starting to fray by the days-long ceaseless march and how quickly we were closing in on Drezen. They had done well and the conqueror's path lived to its name, granting danger and reward in equal danger. Between the fight in Kenabres and the campaign, many promising souls were between the sixth to eighth rank of the civic realm. It was time to grant their worthless flesh time to catch up with their spirit.
Besides, another thing concerned me. Panaka's mythical powers have grown again. The wound on his chest floods him with the power of the abyss yet at the same time it kills him. He is also far more susceptible to the corruption of the Abyss, he might experience demonification if things go.
Things are far from hopeless despite my grim conclusion. Whoever did this made sure to purify the power like distilled water, so his mythical power is extremely malleable. And there is also the fact he has a second soul inside him. Maybe ascension is really what he needs, cultivation not only multiplies the soul but also orders it. And I have an idea to mitigate this.
-//-
I am not the kind of person prone to leave things down to luck. More than that, I am an expert in the subject of the soul. Panaka quite liked my sword too and I still have Riftcarver, Deskari's scythe made from his mon's bones that he killed… this might just work.
The link between body and soul makes it so they become a blueprint for each other. Jujutsu isn't unfamiliar with spirit beckoners capable of channeling either or both of those aspects. Panaka is taking to the soul grafted to his body rather well. This is good and bad, good in that this means the second soul is unlikely to grow into a heart demon. Bad in that this soul belonged to the Abyss, no matter how well it had been processed, the person involved did not want to compromise its integrity. There is a pull like gravity, pulling Panaka's soul toward the Abyss and I am afraid direct intervention might the fragile equilibrium of his spirit. What he needs in a fetish to bear the brunt of the Abyss corruption in his place.
Riftcarver is capable of tearing holes between planes and creating earthquakes by striking the ground, being the essence of separation. Breaking Riftcarver was interesting. It was much like breaking a cultivator's Ego. Since I am the one that killed Deskari this task was easier, but not by much. I channel my pneuma into it forcibly breaking it much like one kills a cursed spirit, using reverse curse technique to reverse its evil quintessence into good aligned one.
A part of its broken fragments retained its natural properties of [rifting] but another had the inverted property of [merging] like a reverse cursed technique. I then summoned my worthless student and demanded about two litters of his blood. He whined it would kill him for a while but when I explained need it to make a weapon so he wouldn't die when out of my sight, he relented.
I used it to imprint his body information on the fragments of the demonic weapon, with any luck it would attract the abyssal corruption staining his soul and serve as a vessel for the power of the abyssal soul glued to his own. A long sword I named [Rebellion], and yes, it is a reference. It even fits the demon slayer theme.
This was also a good opportunity for me. My two main weapons serve as amplifying for my Dionysian mysteries but I never made anything for my Rher's based mysteries. Mostly because I hated him. Even so, I promised myself to not let the bastard dictate my face a long time ago. That is why I made another blade for myself with the fragments of [rifting] that remained, this time using my own blood. Considering I lived over a decade in Japan it is a shame I never got to express my inner weabo, that is why I made it a katana and baptized it as [Serenity].
-//-
[AUTHOR'S ROOM]
I had been preparing this for some time now. It would be a waste to never use all Zagreus's work on his domain expansion. It might have come off as a spiritual workaround, but that is why it is. Greeks cultivate unique existences and Zagreus is basically the only person capable of doing what he did the way he did. He used his Muse's unique power, and his labors, combined with jujutsu knowledge and Deskari's stolen wisdom to pull it off.
About the KKJ interlude, Dyonisus' memories of the Orphic rites are rather vague and nonsensical. This is partly due to the madness theme and partly due to Zeus erasing memories. I myself thought Bakkhos was Alexander the first time I read through it, but doing research showed me that it was not. Zagreus children instead had come to the conclusion Zagreus tried to conquer India not once, but twice!
