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

[BadAtScreenNames]

Epilogue
Maria Final Omake​

Enough.

Time to end this.

She felt power rise in her, accepting the blow that would come from her hand. A mere consequence of fate, the only way to deal with the ant before her. She had not chosen, merely seen the end of this and accepted it as the natural order of things. More power rose in her, enough for a strike at nearly full strength.

Enough power to end the girl.

----------------

Manuel watched, and waited. Moments before he had thought to save Rina Callista, but her uncanny ability to avoid Lady Jiao's lesser attacks had changed that. Jiao would need to use a proper strike to kill Rina, and that would leave Jiao open to a counterattack.

If she had been the only Single-Pillar King of the Clan, matters would've been different. But a Foundation Establishment cultivator, no matter their talent, was an excellent trade for an advantageous strike on a Nascent Soul. So he waited for the blow to fall.

Then, out of nowhere, a woman leapt up.

Manuel's eyebrow raised. He had seen this young woman in a jade slip in a report.

"Maria?"

--------------------

With inarticulate rage, the woman below her screamed.

Jiao would not have normally taken notice of a Qi Condensation cultivator, except that her scream brought lightning and thunder from the sky.

A bolt of dark-blue lightning struck down, and Jiao suddenly realised she was in the middle of a tribulation. If she didn't kill the ascendant...

She struck down, a wave of force obliterating the Qi Condensation ant, the creature who had dared interrupt her! She felt a connection somewhere snap as her fist obliterated the soul that inhabited the body, every last piece of thing that had dared to interfere with her returned to the earth as it should be.

Yes, it was interfering with a tribulation, but what choice did she have? As to balance out her act, Heaven struck at her, a bolt of lightning with power enough to level cities.

Click to shrink...

They should be dead.

She knows this.

So does she.

They know it because they have watched their legion come apart, decimated by Jingshen Jiao, the hothouse flower herself, as she descends on them all. They know it because they can feel the warm, loving acceptance of their own death lapping at the beaches of their mind(s), waiting for them to step in and sink into a final, dreamless rest. They know this because they understand the mathematics of Cultivator warfare; Nascent Soul beats Qi Condensation, as surely as one thousand is greater than one.

The only reason that, as yet, they live, is the power of the world lord, strong, stable, lawful, that surges in disciplined currents from Legate Rina Callista. They are near enough to stand on its reinforcements. So they're alive.

For a few seconds more. If that.

The Hothouse Flower is still coming onwards. Throwing out blows that crack the earth and shatter stones like they're nothing, face serene as a monk. Eyes fixed on Callista. Jiao hasn't even registered them. Doesn't even notice they're here.


Maria and Lyssa are wearing one body, today. Maria's. Lyssa took a shot from a Jingshen spirit cannon in the face. They're as they were when they first began.

…We're already dead.

No.

Lyssa.

NO. There's a way out. THERE HAS TO BE A WAY OUT.

Can you see one?

Are you *giving in*, you fucking idiot whore? Are you ACCEPTING this shit?

What? No, I-

We have come so fucking *FAR*, you asshole! We got out of the pits, we – we made it to the desert, we fought-

I know.

We have a fucking *DAO*! We have a dao *reaching* for us, trying to-

Lyssa, please, just- I'm sorry.

…

I'm sorry. I get it. I do. You… you were the part of me that protected me. And now you can't.

There must…

There isn't.



Jiao is closer now. They can see how she moves. They can watch her ready another blow. The part of them that has, for decades now, served as a soldier is dispassionately working out the chances of Rina's survival. Low. Very low. Callista is good, but Jingshen is better. A full fledged Nascent Soul.


What do you think it is?

Maria-

Our Dao. If we made it. What do you think it would have been?

…

It always felt… angry, to me. When we got near it. And – sad, too? Like it…

Like it was disappointed.

Yeah.

Like the world was supposed to be better than this, and it wasn't.



Jiao's arm is still rising for another blow.


Retribution.

…Like Alexios?

I think so. A dao of "how dare you."

Shit. Yeah. That makes sense. How dare you.



The Hothouse Flower's face seems to find deeper depths of stillness. Of calm.


How dare you.



Her blow begins to fall.


HOW DARE YOU.



Maria/Lyssa screams.


She is already dead. She is already dead and *this bitch* is going to kill her. Worse, she's going to kill Rina fucking Callista, the hope of the fucking clan, the first of the Three Kings. Like that's fair. Like that's a reasonable fucking response given all of the shit the Jingshen have tried to snuff out the Golden Devils, the latest in a long line of fuckers more interested in some variation of "fuck you, got mine" than making the world even one hint more bareable.


Well *FUCK* that.

Burn her burn her BURN HER-



She's felt the hovering might of her tribulation for years now, Heaven's wrath hanging over her, waiting for one wrong move. She takes a certain vicious satisfaction that her last act in the world will be taking that divine, impersonal hatred and making a weapon out of it.


They close.

Jiao's face flickers- YOU SEE US NOW, BITCH?! YOU PAYING *FUCKING* ATTENTION!? -and there is the briefest moment of realization.

Then-


Thunder, so loud it moves outside of sound altogether and they're deaf. Lightning, navy blue and crackling with celestial displeasure. And there's Maria/Lyssa, right beneath the bitch. She has two options – kill them, and watch heaven turn around and fuck her up in turn, or back off and gave Callista breathing room.


They know it's not enough.


But it'll do.


Jiao chooses. Her blow strikes home.


Die screaming.

Die slow.


They die.

---

Hey folks. So, as a few people have mentioned already, I'm not going to be writing omake for Maria/Lyssa or Auspicious Nine anymore, and I probably won't be voting or following the quest either. My life is getting more and more complicated right now, and I don't have the spare time to devote to this game. I'd just scale back, but honestly I really enjoy writing this stuff and I don't have the self control to be sensible about this. Nine has already been adopted by @Insane-Not-Crazy , and I look forward to seeing what they do with my douchey little mad scientist. Maria and Lyssa, however, deserved a proper send off. @occipitallobe managed to give her an excellent final stand; dying in service to the clan, in the midst of a titanic battle, and saying "fuck you" to an asshole? Oh yeah, those are my girls alright. Once I read it I knew I had to give them one last send off.

Good luck with the rest of the Quest, folks. Go kick Heaven's ass.

 

[BlueHelix]

"Matthaios Outi"​

Spoiler: Character References

https://www.pixiv.net/en/artworks/46452048

https://www.pixiv.net/en/artworks/48365545

Background

What is a curse, truly? What it truly boils down to is the affliction of misery, of harm, onto something or someone. Misfortune, injury, bereavement, anguish, the forms they take are innumerable and immeasurable.

How many curses do we suffer through our lives? A hundred? A thousand? A hundred thousand, perhaps, spread throughout our lifespan--they accumulate as we experience the world and all its blessings. We are "average." We do not have the heaven-defying luck of true geniuses, the fortune that can make and break nations--our karma, in the end, is thoroughly average.

Then, what of those who suffer, in the world's effort to balance out the luck of those so blessed in heaven?

Naturally, they are those who suffer all of the curses in recompense.

Nothing is truly fair in the Turtle World.

. . .

There was a boy who woke up in the ruins of a house, with no memory. There was no one alive around him--not a trace. Thus, he set out, with no particular destination in mind.

He was injured, arms and legs broken from a fall. But he got up, and endured.

The food and water he consumed was tainted, poisoned, inedible and inpotable. He retched and vomited and was wracked with illnesses, but eventually, he got up, and endured.

He was captured by Demonic Cultivators, beaten near to death, clapped into chains, and put to work. And he endured, and endured, and endured.

There was no particular reason why. He didn't have any particular reason to live, for he had no memory but misery. He had no goals. And yet, and yet--every day he still got up. To see the sunrise. To see the beautiful blue sky. And one day he thought--

"Ah, what a wonderful world."

That night, he slept, and in his dreams, and he took a bite from the dark shadow that had been following him from the first night he could remember.

Of course, bad things still happened to him. He was beset by an endless amount of curses, yet there was never enough to truly kill him. He ate, and ate, and ate, and the curses began to sustain him. Bad karma begat more bad karma, and as he ate more and more things began to be attracted to him. Ghosts, apparitions, grudges one and all, and he ate them as well. He accepted them,they all were poured into the flame of his soul.

He had adapted, and grew better and better at consuming them, drawing them out of the world and into him. Until they grew too much for a mortal frame, and drew his soul to the stretching point--until he broke through, the flames burning a shining bronze, the body becoming durable from its experiences.

He continued on his meandering journey, eating the curses of the land, and becoming a vessel of them--akin to a cauldron with ingredients tossed in, ever-stirring, ever-heated. His newfound power of cultivation allowed him to do a twist on the typical convention. If he was a forge, refining out impurities, he inhaled negativity to use to pump the bellows. As such, when he released what he had consumed, from ore to miasma, the end result was "purified," positivity and treasure released back into the world. He retained the blackened curses to fuel the flame of his own soul, tempering his very core. Through this curse-eating method, he had great success in exorcising ghosts and the like in the areas where he managed to find himself, until one day, he found himself working alongside some of the Golden Devil clan on a job gone wrong, and was discovered to be kin--a mutation on the common Blood of Bronze, but kin, nonetheless. Naturally, he was given an offer to come home, and accepted it. On the journey back to the Clan, he was asked for his name--and he answered that he had none. So, then, he was named by a disciple of the Clan, until he could one day decide his own, and he took it on for ease of use, if nothing else. From then on, the boy was known as "Matthaios Outi."

Overall Concept: A Furnace in the shape of a boy. Parents had an even greater portion of the Golden Devil's misfortune than the norm, and simply disappeared one day. They passed on this misfortune to their unnamed son. Said son suffers the weight of bad karma, but instead of rejecting it, accepts it, and is able to make something out of it, essentially using them as fuel and raw materials to produce something.

Starting Perk: Boiling Blood of Bronze: A mutation of the traditional Blood of Bronze. Someone that by tempering others, tempers themselves. Able to consume "impure" materials and then produce "purer" materials from them, with the ability to purify even more tainted consumables or to produce even more refined products rising in cultivation stage.

Started Cultivation - Turn 5

Cultivation - 7th Heavenstage
Cultivation-Year Equivalent - 45 Years
Health - Currently healthy.
Impact - +8

Inventory:

- Five-Elements Disharmony Curse (+8 Impact)
- Necklace of Screaming Bells (Lifesaving Treasure)

Completed Omake:

Rise and Shine: A boy is in a bad spot, and his first meeting with those of the Golden Devils in official capacity. 1204 words.

Desperado: A boy makes friends, for what it's worth, and they make plans together. Let's see if they survive–the dice are rolled. 1507 words.

Sundowner: A boy runs once more, but not alone. Twin hammerblows descend, the game is closing. 2010 words.

Bodies of My Brothers: A boy, crippled, beaten, and half-mad begins a journey. His virtuous heart can allow no less. 801 words.

Sightseeing: A boy recovers from some bad decisions and after a dream, watches the sun rise. 1809 words.

Turn 5 Fate - Matthaias' ordeal with the Trials was seemingly driven by Heaven's desire to kill him. He fought in many battles, his curse consuming constitution an immense boon to his fellows as Hunters leveled terrible curses against those he was guarding with his squad. In this he was extraordinarily lucky, for within his dantian a transformation took place, the curses building up and consuming each other nearly faster than he could process and negate them like a jar of cannibalistic scorpions. In that delicate balance he created an incredibly powerful curse dubbed the Five-Elements Disharmony Curse (+8 Impact) which provides him with even more incredible powers of curse consumption, enhancing his constitution and his body's sheer hardiness, and giving him the ability to rip apart the bodies of his foes with a simple touch if he desires. The combination makes him invincible in Qi Condensation, a now incredibly formidable foe.

With this power he quickly rose to the 7th Heavenstage in the blink of an eye and then turned the tables on the Hunters, striking out with his squad of companions and tearing through them like a desert sandstorm. They defied those who would kill them, though not without losses, and near the end of the trials Matthaias retrieved a Necklace of Screaming Bells (Lifesaving Treasure) from a camp of Hunters after slaying and banishing them with his companions. The bells will scream violently like howling winds when its owner's life is threatened, providing warning and briefly stunning his enemies with immense pain in their meridians, before a gust of divine wind picks him up and flings him over the horizon to safety.

I'll update the rest of this sometime.

 

[BlueHelix]

Rise and Shine
"Matthaias Outi"​

Waking up is always a fun experience, here in the desert. There's always just so many points of failure that you can always definitively say that "hey, you're fucked", but there's only so many ways you can be fucked at one time before you're dead.

So if you're awake, that means that you're not quite there yet! Small victories, eh?

Absolutely none of this passed through the mind of the boy who was actually waking up in this quite literally gods-forsaken desert, naturally speaking for two reasons. The first reason is who the hell actually thinks like this in the morning, even when you've had a good night's sleep, in a decent bed, without being run down by a pack of monsters in the shape of men?

Oh, right, reason number two: the pack of monsters in the shape of men.

The legacy of that one really angry cook – Blood Path cultivators will want to kill you for like, any reason. Really, no reason at all, they're just really, really bloodthirsty all the time, one wonders why—oh, right. Well, the name really just tells you, in all honesty. So let's not get into why they're chasing the boy – let's assume that his very existence offended them, which is fair, considering his life so far – all you, dear reader, have to know is that they are, and this is where the story starts. Where a boy meets a girl, a lot of people die, and lives change, for better or worse.

Let's not kid ourselves, definitely for worse.

. . .

Pat. Pat. Pat.

The water dripping in the cave, as planned, woke him up when his exhaustion was minimal enough to allow him to wake up.

How many stolen hours of sleep did he manage this time? 1? 2? Irrelevant, need to get up. Brush sand off self and clothes. Grab satchel. Eat something. Take a sip of precious water. Can't eat too much, will upset stomach when running. Must eat enough to sustain self when running. Cannot draw on grudge flame now, must conserve. Endure, endure, endure.

Check the horizon. The east is burning red, as it was yesterday. And the day before. And the past week that he had been running.

Good. The sandstorm is still there. Most likely cursed, as he expected. It's his final hope, to shake off the pack of Blood Path walkers chasing after him.

He still does not know why they do, but they are. He accepts it. He does not like it, but knows pondering about it now will not do anything. Assuming he survives, it'll be an interesting topic to think about as he walks to the next town. Assuming, assuming, assuming.

. . .

Hah. Hah. Hah.

Everything burns in the boy. His fragile bones, shattered too often. His quivering muscles, tearing themselves apart to keep him moving. His heaving lungs, doing things no mortal organs should do to fuel his ruinous run.

Good thing that he's not quite mortal, if barely so. For nothing compares to the burning in his soul, searing away at his right to existence. The black flames, barely leashed, sense that something will change. Animals always do have that sense that humans do not quite have. Soon, they feel, they will finally get another chance, to consume him--or perhaps, to be fed, once more? It's been a mere fortnight since the last external curse he consumed, on that job with the farmer, but, what are curses but not greedy, ambitious, and overeager?

They're right, of course. He can sense the Blood Path cultivators, mere kilometers away. Their bloodlust, their corrupted souls, their hate and despair and anger and--in any other circumstance, they would almost be blinding in their blazing weight of existence, a curse on this Sea.

This is not any other circumstance.

He does not enter the sandstorm. The sandstorm consumes him. There is a difference. The former implies that when he got within eyeshot of the roiling mass of sand and wind and general disdain for life, he had agency, or choice. Such a concept is laughable for a mere first-stage Cultivator as him. Nature, even when dispassionate and caring not for those in its path, moves on, moves forward, breaking and making as it pleases. In this accursed wasteland? With him? Oh-ho.

But this is fine. This is what he had hoped for--

Oh. Those Blood Path cultivators are still chasing after him.

The boy grit his teeth, adjusted his clothes, mask, and eyewear. The sand and wind whipped around him, seeking any gap to tear strips from his flesh, but he pressed on. Continuing on meant near-certain death, while stopping meant certain death, and when put like that, the choice was obvious.

One step. Two steps. Three steps--wait a moment, were there other people in here?! A group moving with the weight of heaven's wrath over them, yet their souls still shone through, unlike the red-mouthed savages. Nobody sane would go through this landscape willingly if they knew what was going on – he had to go warn them.

---

He heard her more than he saw her, truly speaking. Could barely see a damned thing, as he walked through the blood-gold veil.

A yell. Impact. Bounce, and skid. Akin to a skipping stone, truly. An armored figure, in a different fashion than he had seen before, laid spread-eagled out in the dunes. Not good. They needed to get up; the Blood Path cultivators were about to enter, and he had no idea how they were tracking him—

He rushed over, fast as he could in this turbulence: crouched, knees bent, had to keep the wind from picking him up like they did the girl. Gritting his teeth to keep the worst of the debris out of his mouth, he did his best to speak loudly as he approached.

"You need—get up now! Sandstorm—cursed! Blood Path approaching!" are all that manages to escape his parched, sandpapered throat, the gales carrying off the rest, the whistling wind sounding like mockery.

The girl got up, thank whoever still looked kindly on him, and faced him, some kind of shimmering cloth covering her face.

"You don't look like Blood Path," the girl enunciates with a bell-like voice, ringing through the dunes.

"Not Blood Path," he quite literally grits out, doing his best to not choke. Be a sad way to die, after all this time.

"I can take you to my squad. We can get you patched up while we wait for the storm to die off." The fellow cultivator tilts her head towards the lee-dune, sandwiched neatly between the cliffs, behind them.

A . . . squad, huh. A military force then—a gale near bowled him over, and the thought was almost physically pushed out of him.

"Blood Path—chasing me," he gasps, in his best effort to be heard over the howling winds. "Followed me into storm."

The soldier's face hardens. "Where's my pack, where's my pack," she mutters. "No time."

Raising her voice again, she starts running. "This way!"

He nodded, and started moving once more. Legs began pumping, feet began pushing.

Near-death, or death. Near-death, or death. Near-death, or death–

The coin of fate kept on flipping.

 

[BlueHelix]

Desperado

A scoundrel, a wastrel, a legend once said: "All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players."

There's a lot of things to be said about that, but for now, let's indulge them, shall we?

The scene is as follows.

One sandstorm, definitely cursed, has only gotten more rancid in the years passed. Did not age well. Winds of destruction, sand that scours.

On stage, there are nine actors:

Eight baby Golden Devils, halfway through basic training, would be wet behind the ears if it wasn't for this damn desert.

One lone cultivator, beaten down and harried, also a child in the terms of this world.

And finally, entering stage left:

Twenty to thirty feral Blood Path cultivators. Possibly as thirsty for blood as the desert. Definitely willing to murder everyone on stage–but that would make for a bad play, wouldn't it?

Ah, get to your seats quickly! The intermission is over, the curtains are opening!

---

Blessedly, somehow, the winds are lessened here. Between cliffs, the wind is naturally still a torment, but less so–mundane daggers, versus flying swords. The girl holds up a hand, and he nods, standing just inside the sheltered dunes to wait. She walks over to someone–most likely their commander, flanked by three helmed soldiers.

Wait a moment, a hug–?

The girl nods in his direction and waves him over, evidently giving a signal they were safe where they were for now. He finally sits down, resting properly for perhaps the first time in a week, and pulls out his waterskin, slipping it beneath the sand-scarf wrapped around his face and neck to finally wet his throat. As he does so, he opens his eyes, and looks at all of them.

He can feel the stares burning at him from the other soldiers, oddly uniform in armor, so he hastens to speak. However, they most definitely are not the same in spirit. The commander–a girl as well, he sees, at the head blazes far brighter, the one who brought him here is diffuse, a girl standing at the side reflects like the moon, the boy in the back is rigid and stiff—

The boy claps his face with his hands, and then answers the unasked question.

"There are two threats here. First, the Blood Path cultivators, numbering at minimum a dozen, but at maximum fifty. None are above Qi Condensation, but I'm fairly sure one is at the Ninth Heavenstage. I'm fairly sure they have some kind of tracking Art, as they've been unerringly following my general direction, so assume at the very least visibility will not hinder them in this storm."

He takes another sip from his waterskin, unused as he is to actually talking to another person, much less a group of people.

"Secondly, and most likely most importantly: this storm. It's one of the worst curses I've ever seen, barring those of the divine. With the amount of death this patch of desert has accumulated, I would say it's almost alive, seeking the slow death of those within its grasp."

"We have time, then," a severe-looking boy declares with confidence. "We should retreat at best speed towards the Outpost, and let them dash against our arrays." As he finishes speaking, he dashes his palm with his fist, in some show of bravado.

"That would be the standard response," another speaks, a girl sitting next to the leader--if not a second-in-command, still trusted, a trusted figure to those under her command.

Inhale. Exhale.

He is calmer now, but that does not mean that the fear that sparks along his spine is not there when the thought of that course of action taking place. Yet, that would not be productive, so he locks it down, the face that he put on when he did business sliding into place.

They could survive the Blood Path cultivators on uncursed ground, and they could survive the sandstorm barring any further complications—it was his plan, after all. But both, at the same time? Professionally speaking, it was insanity.

Which is why he told them so.

"The curse is unnatural, artificially made, designed during times of and for conflict. It is meant to deliberately draw out the qi of those trapped inside over a prolonged period of time—unlike natural ones that are hungry ghosts, devouring what's in front of them with no thought to the future." A hundred ghosts. A thousand ghosts. He remembers, walking through places those of higher realms would fear to tread. Why? Perhaps he knew, in his hearts of hearts, that he would join them soon. He pauses. He continues, his audience oddly rapt. In his element, he continues.

"This grudge… it's not old enough yet to develop its own consciousness, so it's safe enough to traverse so long as you briefly stay within and then leave or have alternative resources, but escape from pursuit is what it's designed to prevent. Bloodshed is what the storm wants, and that's what it will get, one way or another. The only way to resolve the situation as I see it, is to either evade the Blood Path cultivators long enough for them to leave, or to stand and fight, in the eye of the storm or some similar ground, and break the storm enough to let us go."

Or, he quietly thinks, they could leave him behind. The tracking spell they most likely used was only on him, these legionnaires could leave–not easily, but it would be doable without being hounded by enemies.

The boy who spoke earlier scowls, twisting his face, making to respond, and he worries that his fear would be given voice and prepares himself. He notes that a white-haired girl glares at the boy as well, and begins categorizing them as potential allies and foes.

However, it wouldn't be necessary, as the commander slams the butt of her spear into the sand, uniform in appearance with the others but somehow more, and all become still and silent.

"Retreat is out, then." the commander of the squadron answers, defiant. "What can you tell us about dispelling curses?"

The girl who brought him here straightens suddenly, confusion writ upon her face. It is echoed across her fellow soldiers, clearly not expecting this response.

He gives a thin-lipped smile, relaxing a hair.

"Curses, grudges, ghosts, they're just like anything, anyone, at the very end of it. They're driven by a source of some sort, a purpose—to exorcise a ghost, you kill it, or you give it offerings. Grudges, you resolve the issue, or once again, purge it with blessed artefacts. Curses, curses, curses, they're made, they're artificial. Break the frame, break the curse." These are facts that every child knows, in the land of the dead. It's not easy, no, it never could be. But it's simple—all the ceremony, all the pomp and circumstance, it all boils down to those very simple goals. He aimed to get in and out alone, when he was escaping. But. . .

"Give me a day—no, even less. Give me a bell's worth of uninterrupted time, and I'll be able to punch a hole right out of here, at the eye of the storm."

The commander grins, a sharp slash carved across a statuesque face. "I like you. Good spirit, here."

---

They begin preparing, a plan formulating. But, in that duration—he learns their names, the eight.

"O mysterious wanderer: what's your name?"

"Li Hua," he responds rapidly, the words well-used to his tongue. In turn, he asks theirs, and learns.

Iphigenia Fei. Zheng Zhang. Delia Zhao. Ling Li. Lysandre Xiang. Xinyu Liu. Stephanos Ioannidis. And finally, the girl who brought him here—Anastasia Outi. After that round of introductions, however, the commander asks—

"Li Hua isn't your actual name, is it?" the commander, Iphigenia asks.

He grimaces. No wonder she was the commander of such a troop at a young age, she was sharp as all hells.

"I have no name that I prefer, to be honest, I do not remember enough of my childhood to have any attachment. Undoubtedly, I was named at some point, but I do not have any particular recollection. If you wish, you may call me 'Li Hua' like the merchants do, placeholder it may be it is what I am called the most," he responds, almost absently.

"You deserve a better name than that. Matthaios, perhaps. You seem like a Matt," Iphi muses.

He pauses. It wasn't a bad name—-it felt strong, in fact. But it didn't quite sit right on him, like a too-new cloak sliding onto a dirty desert tunic. He shrugs, and the matter is dropped.

Not long after, everyone rises–he, the last, following the cue.

"Red Squad, we will march to the center of this storm, and let the enemy bleed themselves out in pursuit," the commander, Iphigenia, shouts.

She pauses, fist raised, expression fiercely determined. "We shall defy!"

Something charges in the air as she says that, and so, he echoes, for the first time in forever filled with belief.

"We shall defy!"

 

[BlueHelix]

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—

 

[BlueHelix]

Bodies of My Brothers

It felt like burning. The searing, blazing flame, that burnt in every heart of the Golden Devil. Ambition in his eyes, the Five-Elements Disharmony Curse in his soul, and at his belt the Necklace of Screaming Bells and other little treasures. His fortune was on the rise—he had to make use of it, how could he not?

Not with countless Golden Devils a-moldering in their graves, their souls marching on somewhere—but not here. Not training, not eating, not laughing, not living—and for what? Some damned Trial and curse handed down by some gods above, so another clan could burn and rape with impunity and what was a Great Way worth—

Some would call it odd, seeing him so incensed. He was quiet, small, rather relaxed, most of the time, it's true. He bore his own burdens with long practice, for the countless ills of the world was an old friend to him—in a way, it would've been odd to not deal with misfortune.

But, but, but—just because he was an old hand at his own suffering, how could he stand by and let others live with it? He was no fool, thinking that things "weren't so bad" if he—or others— could live with it, he knew full well that just because you could live with something didn't mean it was good, familiarity bred contempt, after all. It was why he had helped, where he could, rather than wandering off into the desert as a hermit.

He wasn't a wanderer, now, though—he was a Golden Devil, for whatever it was worth, and it was worth, it was bought at the price of Iphigenia's life, however much Anastasia assured him otherwise. He had a name, even if it was "no one," for what name could be more fitting for him? And so that was how he entered the Trials, hoping to live and pay back those gifts.

That was not how he left.

It was the laughter, the damned mirth that the Enemy had, that grated to him. It was like they were out hunting, having a celebration, as they killed and raped and pillaged, harvesting their bodies like one would hunt spirit beasts—and even spirit beasts were granted the dignity of not having their corpses laid out like so much garbage. They laughed and smiled and giggled like children as they thrust fists through hearts and tore limbs apart. If his clan was a clan of Devils, what could they possibly be, their so-called righteous punishment?

And so, when they became bored of ripping his fellow soldiers apart, they began casting their spells, wanting to have a little less burden on their poor, little, tired-out selves. They began casting curses, trying to amuse themselves as his friends died in increasingly horrific ways.

Curses.

He must've frightened Anastasia, honestly, given the look she gave him as he began bursting out in laughter, as he cast his spear aside, as he ran towards the front lines, pushing people out of the way at a speed entirely unnatural.

One, a charming little hex to cause blood to boil. Another, a darling little spell to cause bones to powder. A third, a fourth, a fifth as they kept on casting and casting and casting at this little doll who wouldn't dance at their tunes.

And then they died, in their blind focus, as he soaked up more and more and more, they died in their arrogance—but that was a tale for another day.

Matthaias looked up, at the countless ghosts surrounding him, the ones no one else could see, as he spoke to them. His trip to the secret realm had done little for him, materially, near-crippling him and splitting his skull open. Thousands upon thousands of little grudge-ghosts, each representing a curse he hadn't resolved, curdling inside his soul. But if he was insane, that too, was fine—one needed a little bit of insanity to continue to defy the heavens even with the hammer of heaven laying over them. It had struck him down, undoubtedly, and yet he rose, not quite moldering yet.

If he was mad, so what? He would embrace it, master it, and in time, it too would be eaten in the forge of his soul, his virtuous heart would not allow otherwise. And so, he continued speaking, entertaining the ghosts of his enemies and the restless dead, as they slowly began burning in the heart of his soul. He would circle back, every so often, getting the bare minimum of medical attention, and checking up on Ana—but his soul felt the beat denied to so many others. And thus—even if Heaven itself would come press its palm down on him, he would accept it—and burn it, for what was Heaven itself but a curse upon this realm?

A/N

So, yeah, I kinda forgot this quest existed, whoops? Semester's been brutal, this omake may be even more lower-quality than my usual fare, but considering some great wild shit is going on, might as well hop right on during finals week, am I right? Probably gonna finish Matt's journey into the Golden Devils sometime, but MOTIVATION is a little easier to slip into when you yourself are being stuck into a crucible of college's cruelest designs. Thanks for having me back, time to find that spreadsheet link to request that bloody LST, holy crap Matt how are you still alive.

 

[BlueHelix]

Sightseeing

He was falling, falling, falling, why was he falling?

Lightning flashed, but it was wrong—jagged streamers of turquoise and viridian and fuchsia, an iridescent feast full of poison. It was wrong, wrong, WRONG—

—he blinked, screams echoed into his ears as other cultivators who weren't so lucky as the others who managed to stay aloft—

—scales flashed from the corner of his eyes as they opened again—

—red agony burst from his skull as the furnace of his brain finally gave up processing what he was seeing, but he could never forget—

Matthaias woke up. And then promptly started hacking, a spray of ichor painting the rocky wall crimson. Good thing he laid on his side when he collapsed—better to risk aggravation of injuries than asphyxiation via his own blood—more immediate risks and all that.He pulled out his kit, rifling through them to find some tools, and immediately quaffed the vulnerary he had packed, thank goodness. Now that he was in no immediate risk of death, the situation was nostalgic, almost—fairly heavily wounded, in a cave, and a dust storm on the edge of the horizon. Fortunately for his side, however, the only thing chasing him these days were the visions only he could see, half-mad as he was. His skull was mostly patched up, that rush job he had put together with a poultice and animal skulls was gone, now—small mercies, he supposed, considering the Celestial Chickens had nearly caved his ribs in not two days ago. But silver linings and all that—the weather was truly lovely, last he remembered.

Thunder screamed into being, the horrific afterbirth of the shrieking not-lightning coursing around him, and the ground burst no less than two handspans away from him. Glass craters surrounded him, legacies of destruction. Behind him, a wet sound—and something warm soaked his back. His legs stumbled, but he had to keep moving. Keep going, keep going, keep moving forward. Don't look back, his mind whispered, the instincts of a desert rat screaming. Don't look back, don't look back, don't look back.

Still, he berated himself—it was damned stupid of him to be out here while still badly wounded. He hadn't learned from Qiguai properly—defiance was all well and good, but that wasn't an excuse to not be aware. He had spent six years in that hellscape, fighting his way out, failure in something as simple as risk management was unforgivable. If his injuries didn't get to him, Senior Brother Hepius certainly would. He should have known—he knew a few other disciples were going through here, and there was always some idiot—or highly skilled animal handler, to be fair—that thought to steal a few eggs. At least they were only Citrine chickens—Rubedo or Nigredo would've been bad. Nobody liked dealing with meteors this early in the morning. Why couldn't they have been Albedo though, those barely ever bothered anyone—they'd only kill those who stole from the nest and go back after a job well done.

He thrust his hand out, black veins pulsing in his arm. Another beast died. One less serpent hunting him. He couldn't sleep more than . . . he didn't even know how much time had passed in this misbegotten world-pocket, but it wasn't enough. It was never enough. He hissed in pain slightly as the curse receded, before swiftly decapitating the beast and cleaning what remained of it. With some luck—hah!—some of the scrap would attract the others as bait as he moved away from here.

He really ought to thank Senior Brother again for his teachings, though, the bare scraps he had intuited from treating more bodily curses would have been painfully inadequate for something of this caliber—he was still Qi Condensation, after all. Although—though he was barely one to talk, scatterbrained, hah, as he was—he really could've been nicer about it. Wandering back into the Dawn Fortress and having someone yell at him for an hour and a half before getting treatment was. . . as an experience. The later instruction disguised in scathing criticism of the amateur nature of his self-treatment was invaluable, however, and whenever he returned from doing missions he made sure to check back in and get more lessons.

He scavenged some supplies from—he couldn't even recognize them, their robes were in tatters. They. . . he moved on. He didn't have enough time for a proper burial, but he could burn the body to ensure that no beast would feed off their flesh—more than they already had, anyways. Whispering thanks and a prayer he half-remembered from the exorcisms he had done—he had rarely cursed his lack of knowledge of. . . anything more than the bare minimum necessary more than he did now. He turned away and moved away, hoping against hope that the poultice he could make from the herbs, half-crushed as they were, could . . . slow the effects of his head wound and whatever this place was doing with it.

Which was paying off right now, as his hands finished sewing up the rest of the wounds he hadn't managed to finish before he passed out and popped a pill in his mouth in the cave. Holding in his guts was an awful experience, and he didn't want to repeat that ever again. With a hiss of pain, he began preparing some tea—another habit he had picked up from that Senior Brother. At least it served some actual purpose, instead of some of his other. . . predilections—medicinal tea tended to be a fairly decent cure-all for non-exotic wounds. It wouldn't quite fix things outright, but it should help him get on the road to recovery.

The whispers were nonstop now, filling his ears whenever the sound of thunder didn't—and even then, they never remained quite silent. They whispered of Power to sunder mountains. They whispered of Divinity that surpassed the pitiful Sea he was trapped in. They whispered of Wishes, to save them all. If he would just. . . let them in. He knew better than that, of course. They were nothing but grudges, and those were nothing but dust in the wind, in the end.

The question was, how long would he be able to ignore them?

At least things weren't a total wash—now that he finished inventory of his rucksack—what he would do for a spatial ring or similar treasure, but considering one of those was forged out of a Nascent Soul corpse and others were similar in value, he wouldn't be getting that anytime soon. The rest of the materials he had gathered for the list of missions he had torn off the Contribution Board were still intact, and he could probably obtain the last required materials somewhere else without terrifying fowl full Realms above him. Although. . . caution demanded that he go back to the Dawn Fortress first for treatment for his wounds.

It was a thousand times worse than at the Trials. He was alone no you aren't instead of with a squad. Half-remembered stances flowed jerkily from one movement to another, slamming his palms against scale and stone why are you hurting us in an attempt to break through these damned beasts join us. They wouldn't stop throwing themselves at him, but he knew if he could break through this nest he could make it out of here. He could see the light.

Matthaias briefly weighed the idea of just… avoiding it and his Senior Brother's lectures and getting the rest done with. And then winced at the thought of the lecture he'd get if he didn't go back. Well—Dawn Fortress it is. Just. . . needed to finish patching up his torso. Don't need for his entrails to be hanging out by the time he got there—it'd be Blood Path bait in any case, and he didn't want a full reenactment of his introduction to the Sect.

Why are you so eager to leave, "Matthaias?"

[br]

Well, it wasn't like he didn't expect this.

"—YOU SIMPLE MINDED INCOMPETENT FOOL—"

It was nice that all of the other disciples were carefully looking away. Why didn't they get lectures when they came in with injuries?

"—KIND OF IDIOT WALKS THREE DAYS AND THREE NIGHTS WITH THIS HACK JOB STITCHING—"

Oh, right, because the time they usually spent in the infirmary was more for broken arms rather than evisceration. Right. Right.

"—YOUR RIBS LOOK LIKE MY GODS DAMNED GRANDMOTHER'S TEETH, MAY SHE HAVE MERCY ON YOU BECAUSE I—"

Well, this had gone on for about. . . half a turn of an hourglass, so he figured he ought to do his duty as a Golden Devil and um, prevent a murder? He could not quite say it was his good deed of the day, really, those generally involved altruism and the prevention of the murder was his own.

"I gratefully accept Senior Brother's teachings, as I was lacking, but—would you consider having this discussion at a later time? I uh, brought the materials requested for the contribution board."

At his interruption, Senior Brother Hepius abruptly cut himself off, breathing heavily, face reddened, a vein still pulsing, and slowly wound down. It was astonishing how different he looked when he wasn't transferring Matthaias' evisceration from his body to his soul. Well, he wouldn't have been betrothed to his intended, Epione, otherwise. Slowly, he brought out the bag of materials that was probably worth more than his life in Hepius' eyes.

"Thank you," Hepius said brusquely. "I'll bring this back into inventory—go to the bed over there, and don't move from it, or I'll finish what those birds did to you. Celestial Chickens, heavens above. . ."

Obediently, he did so.

Glancing out of the window, it seemed that the dawn was breaking.

He fell—but this time, it was a short fall. Less than two meters, so it wasn't a grave yet. Light seared his eyes, but he forced them open. He had to know. He had to see.

"Oh, heavens, it's another one! It's been six years, I thought they were all dead by now!" said a human voice, something so unfamiliar.

"S-six. . . years?" his voice, so long in disuse, croaked out.

"Oh gods above he's awake! Now, listen to me, we need you to stay still—we'll get you back soon."

Behind them, he could see the sun slowly rising, painting the blue sky in soft reds and oranges, a comforting flame.

It truly was a beautiful day outside.

A/N: I should really be studying, cleaned this up a bit, thanks to @TehChron and @BadAtScreenNames

 

[BlueHelix]

Arts and Crafts

Gong. Gong. Gong. Gong. Gong. Gong.

Six times the bell was struck in the morning, and struck well, and with it, the Dawn Fortress was open for the day, greeting its namesake.

Shops began selling goods in the markets, ready to make coin and deals.

"Get your fresh fruits here, fresh from the Magic Oak sect! Nothing but the plumpest, juiciest, crunchiest apples here—if you're lucky, you may even advance your cultivation!"

Forges blew smoke near the armories, crafting and smelting and the other vagaries of metalwork, making the countless arms and armor that girded the might of the legions.

"Boy, what kind of dog shit fucking pig iron are you making! You've fucked it! Fucked it entirely! You sell this, I'll have your fucking head—you could fucking kill someone with this sort of shoddy workmanship!"

And naturally, the Contribution Board and its associated offices began operating.

Matthaias walked up to it, hefting three bags half his size again with one arm, and a bundle of papers in another. Ninth Heavenstage had its advantages, and well, the contents weren't that heavy in the first place.

"Senior Sister, I've come to turn in some missions," he said politely, his head bowed and looking at the ground. Manners never hurt, and his pride never really was all that important in the first place.

"You've got to fucking stop doing this damn shit, Outi," the sharply-dressed woman retorted sharply. "This is going to bring up your gathering missions to an even ten thousand, if that bundle of paper you've got there is any indication. And fucking give me them already, I don't have a lot of goddamn time today, the way things are going."

Ah, well. It was going to be one of those days, huh?

"Whatever do you mean, Sister Strakou? I'm simply turning in some missions for contribution points." Matthaias lifted his head up, squaring his footing and looked the glorified office worker in the eye, as he handed over the mission papers.

Well, to be fair, you couldn't really say that Polikseni Strakou's job was glorified, either—managing the drudgery of being one of the many bureaucrats handling the contribution board wasn't really all that much of a job, especially of a woman of Strakou's capabilities—he had seen the seemingly-demure young woman hold off six Blood Path bandits on her lonesome with some reinforced paper and a ruler—but the woman enjoyed her work for whatever reason. It's not like he could begrudge the girl her own enjoyment—many looked oddly at him for his choice in missions, just as he was being questioned right now. Although, this was something new—he'd never been stopped by the disciple before turning in his materials—questioned, for sure, but he and Strakou had an understanding—he would ensure the requested materials would be clean and sorted, and Strakou would pass on to him anything that might be relevant to his interests.

"You're fucking cleaning out the simple gathering missions in the area, for the love of whatever you hold dear's sake, and that's been fucking around with what the disciples who don't want to get drugged or clean or scavenge for scrap metal and shit like that. Hell, you've been doing a pretty damn good job of working to clean out the area entirely regardless of missions or not—and that's weird shit, even for you. You're nowhere even close to actually causing a problem, but I had my supervisor ask me about you, do you understand me? I don't like that."

Strakou reached with her left hand out to him, almost like she was grasping for something, while her right still continued to clamp down on the papers Matthaias had handed over—nothing like some idiot running through and launching a bunch of paperwork in the air in the hallway to ensure paper security. After half a moment, the slip of a girl used it to reach towards her own face and pushed the long strands of golden hair out of her eyes, sighing.

"You've gotta fucking—look, why the hell are you even wasting your time around here? Don't feed me that line of bullshit about recovering from those goddamn Celestial Chickens, I know you're not that chickenshit, even if your cultivation speed has slowed a fair bit. You got a fucking grudge against gyshal greens, or something?"

Matthaias looked behind him, and grimaced a bit—even a minute of discussion could hold up a line in a place as busy as the Contribution Board. Even coming in at the crack of dawn meant that the amount of people there were lessened—not empty.

"Look, uh, I'll tell you about it. Just process these, we can talk about it at—is Noon Bell or Evening Bell better for you? We're kind of holding up the line," he asked apologetically.

"Fuck you—that massive sack of shit you've got right there is going to make me fucking die inside processing all of it at once. Why the fuck are you at Ninth Heavenstage and still dicking around like this, who the hell knows—you're nearing your first century, you should fucking know better. Fine—Evening Bell, and you're going to spend some of these damn points or whatever the hell you're getting out of these trash materials on a place that's good to eat at, you hear me?"

Knowing better to push his luck, Matthaias nodded and handed over the materials, and went on his way after a few more curses hurled his way. As was his way, he accepted them.

He really needed to get better friends.

---

After an exhausting day to cap off his weeklong excursion, dropping off more materials here and there and picking them up in turn, he went and traded in a few more greens to a harried looking medicinal disciple for a handful of gold. As he flipped a coin in the air, a kick leaned him forward as the glittering yellow circle reached the apex of its arc. Swiftly, a weight leapt onto his back and then launched forward, swiftly resettling on his shoulders as he finished leaning back up.

"Looking for this, you nerd? You know better than to flash gold like that in a place like this." Strakou waved her hand in front of his face, fingers wiggling mockingly.

"I figured that if I wanted to get your attention fast, a flying gold coin would do it better than most other options," Matthaias replied. "I know you get out here rather than from a normal entrance, after all. Why the hell are you on my shoulders, though, anyways?"

"Have you fucking stood on your feet straight for—I don't know, a hundred-odd hours? The last time I wasn't upright besides taking a catnap was like, a week ago, otherwise it's just been standing, and I really don't fucking want to walk right now. Honestly, could I just fucking borrow your old marching boots? These uniform sandals offer almost no arch support."

Wisely deciding not to point out that kicking him probably did her no favors, Matthaias just sighed and asked for directions for wherever she wanted to go. She pointed a finger, and his eyes followed to where it was directed.

Ah. Of course she didn't want to go to a regular nice restaurant where he might have actually enjoyed the fruits of his labor as well. She wanted to go to a bar.

...what part of good food and bar went together?

---

It seemed that if you were drunk enough, anything would taste good, he supposed as he watched Polikseni polish off another plate. He was fairly sure that she had eaten enough to outmass her several times over, but weren't cultivators supposed to defy the heavens or something?

...Polikseni's stomach seemed to be more like hell, though, if he were to be honest.

"Alright, you have permission to talk now. Fucking hell, I haven't eaten properly in a month, I know we're supposed to be able to manage without that but fuck that, you know? Gotta enjoy life, not just edge by with the bare minimum. The hell you doing, boyo? I know that you're strong enough to manage on your own now, bad luck or not. Invincible in Qi Condensation is a meaningless fucking word now, but you're still decent in a scrap and not so fucking idiotic that you don't know when to cut and run, so what's up?"

Obviously, she didn't say this in anywhere close to a clear manner—the actual punch to his purse was the bottle of cultivator-grade alcohol he was strong-armed to purchase, but he had managed to follow far worse before, and so he managed now.

"So, uh, you know how I've got that trick, right? With curses and stuff," he ventured hesitantly.

"Yeah, I'm not a fucking idiot, get on with it," she said after a swig of the bottle.

"So I realized I could use it on other things besides curses but I'm not really good at it so I needed practice and—" he responded quickly.

"Oh, weeping heavens, you're a living cauldron aren't you," she cut him off.

"Yes," was his short response.

"Ah, well, that makes sense. And if you're gathering so many materials, you might as well sell part of them off for contribution points, huh? No wonder why there's such an outsized depopulation in comparison to what you actually turn in. Damn, so you're not just being a fuckup—why do you have such weirdly legitimate reasons to do things, Matt?"

She hissed between her teeth.

"And you don't really want this to get out either, no? You're still weirdly fucking set on being an actual legionnaire, rather than this—which is probably how you overlooked this technique for literal decades." She waved him off before he objected that he had used the skill before, just not realizing its full potential. "I… have a proposition for you, so you can just stop fucking up the Contribution board for the Juniors. My supervisor's been looking for someone to…"

And that was how he ended up guarding a bunch of women trying to get pregnant or give birth for two decades. But that was a story for another time.

A/N: So I kind of had to duck out for a bit, and actually my own fate being made. I'm just hoping that I can still get a treasure or something this turn as it's not really over, aiming for a LST--Fate bonus is out of the bag, but still, you know?

 

[BlueHelix]

Porkchops

There were a lot of parts of making a metal weapon, or really, considering what the goal of this whole process was, of refining metal. But to be honest, it really came down to a few parts, when you sat down a smith and asked them some questions. They'd be really rude about it if you were a complete novice or were "that kind of person," for sure, but ask enough people and get enough answers and it really boiled down to these things. You can't really hold it against them either, since simplifying a pretty important part of your craft down for some idiot who just came into your shop and didn't even have the dignity to buy anything could irritate anyone, you know?

The first step, and pretty much the most important step, is the foundation. Actually getting your materials and your workplace ready, and having an actual plan to throw this. Seems simple, but you've got no idea how many people fuck this up. You have to actually find the right materials, make sure to not get overcharged, and all that horseshit. Make sure everything's near you, make sure everything's clean and not cluttered. Nothing more embarrassing than that.

But the metal—after planning and all that, is the most important thing. Everything is limited by its base material—no matter how hard you refine or you purify or whatever, you can only hammer out so much, and all you're left with is… a bunch of metal, you know? Super pure copper is only copper. Whatever the hell they're calling Heavenly Grade Iron is still iron. You get the idea.

What? Alchemy?

Alchemy's full of fucking cheaters, you motherfuck—

---

It was not a dark and stormy night. That would have complicated things, Matthaias thought.

It was actually a fairly pleasant afternoon. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and the wind wasn't blowing all that much. He should've been having a picnic or something in this weather, eating some good food, or something like that.

Well, he'd be eating something, alright.

He stomped one foot, and the bag he left on the ground leapt up. Purchasing the array stones was hideously expensive, but it was far better than either risking the clan forges and getting kicked out again, or attracting more attention. Besides—if you couldn't get a good deal on bloody metal and rocks, what's even the point of being a Golden Devil? He'd been doing a good job of flying the radar, though, even then—

Why was he trying to not get noticed again? Oh, right, because he was an idiot trying to stay where he was because of that dumb promise, even when Ana had reached Foundation, but a promise was a promise. He wouldn't be able to face the Atreidai without fulfilling it, after all.

Anyways.

His hands lashed out, and the stones set themselves out in a geometric array. He'd figure out the mechanics one day, for sure, but he was sure they wouldn't fail him. A Golden Devil would sooner die than sell a clan member a flawed array.

Or anyone who dealt with them honestly, to be honest. Professional pride is a scary thing, and considering their status as a Demonic Path sect, they lived and died on their reputation.

And now… he was going to sit down, and eat rocks.

Oh joy. Oh rapture.

---

The process was simple, honestly. Nothing he hadn't handled before—or anyone with the Blood of Bronze, really. What is considered edible is a little. . . flexible on campaign, and once you've got some metal flowing through your blood tossing some more down the hatch down isn't too much of a hassle. But simple wasn't the same as easy.

The chewed up and crushed ore slid down his throat like trahana soaked in yoghurt, a sharp taste on his tongue instead of the acidic aftertaste something less spiritually clean would give. It made sense, after all—it wasn't all impurity—not that the so-called impurities of ore still didn't have their uses. But he'd have consumed it happily still if it was—he'd eaten far, far worse in previous times.

Down the hatch it went, and—steps two to infinity, heat. His body's blood lit aflame, molten metal it already was. Heat treatment was critical in two parts. First, it allowed the separation of what was desired and what was not, initiating purification. Secondly, it allowed for making the metal malleable, into making it what he wanted. But that would have to wait, wait, wait until he was better. For now—he spat out the molten metal into his hands, and watched it cool.

It was an ugly thing, to be sure, but it was purified iron. Nowhere close to wrought-iron, but he would get there. He would have to. And one day, he would make wonders.

A/N: Clocking in at a short 842 words, really rushed this one out. Kind of sloppy, but it is what it is. At least one, am I right?

 

[BlueHelix]

Maternity Ward

Spoiler: omake

Guarding a bunch of pregnant women was honestly a pretty weird job, all things considered. It was pretty cushy, living right next to civilization rather than going out into the Desert to stomp on bugs or get stomped on, but still, weird. He didn't know how many weird things he had to fetch or help make, and then wait for them to actually enter the village because any traces of his residual Yang energy, much less the raucous mess of cursed residue within his meridians would have ruined everything.

Why they didn't get a female guard, he didn't know. The women of the Golden Devils were fucking terrifying, so honestly it would've been a better choice. But needs must, he supposed. This job suited his purposes, anyways. He just had to keep a good eye out, and he could do whatever he wanted.

Chewing some sand into glass, which oddly enough tasted like one of those spun-sugar confections Anastasia had bought him all those years ago, he once again got up and began walking, sweeping the surrounding area with his vision. There was an irritating amount of people who kept on trying to peek at the female-only village, which, to be honest, was kind of really weird.

Was it some kind of bizarre fetish, or something? In his experience, trying to interact with pregnant women when you weren't a loved one involved sandals to the face at a distance of one hundred meters, but well, by now, he knew well enough that it wasn't the logos that ruled many a man. Or women, for that matter, but they could go peek all they want since they had the proper Yin energy, or at least lack of significant Yang energy to mess with the arrays.

...most of them anyways, but someone who had the stones or the idiocy to cultivate that kind of technique, and--oh man, that would have a pretty big overlap with someone who would want to sneak into a village to peek on angry pregnant women, wouldn't it. Uh, well, best to prosecute with prejudice then.

He tagged and bagged five peekers today, and had them sent back to their villages with a kindly written note to not do this again, with the knowledge that they'd be back sooner or later.

It's almost like they were trying to sabotage things.

---

It had been two hundred and fifty days, 18 hours, 13 minutes, and 59 seconds since he had arrived here, and it was a hot mess, honestly.

… he was going to have to guard this village for two fucking decades, by Old Gold's balls.

People were getting pretty creative in trying to sneak into the village, he was honestly taking notes at this point. Some were building tunnels, some actually awakened their cultivation and were doing some pretty solid stealth work, and some were actually using these weird contraptions where they just got a kite and glided in from the bluffs. He was pretty sure that a solid half of them were saboteurs trying to mess with the colonization efforts, but well, they were Qi Condensation at best. This wasn't really the best-focused effort to mess with the Storks, it would just be to tie up some Golden Devil forces and make them look bad. Or maybe his faith in the common man would sink further.

… he really should take notes, actually. They'd be too fragile, but the concept of while not flying, that was restricted to Nascent Souls but just jumping really high and coming in on high from some place was worth listening to. And a backup option when backed to a cliff was always worth something, being stuck in a crater was singularly awful.

---

Cold iron, cruel iron, filled his mouth as he chewed on a stick of ore. It was a taste he was oddly familiar with, but at this point, what cultivator hadn't had a mouthful of blood at some point?

… Blood Path implications aside, of course.
He was getting pretty good practice on restraint, even as Qi Condensation hardly ever had to exercise it. The decades out in the Desert and the time in the Secret Realm had done well to temper him, much less the horror story of the Trials. But dealing with idiot perverts and not coring their hearts out or letting out a hint of the disintegrating curse he had in him was good.

That didn't mean it wasn't a pain in the ass, though, he thought, staring at teenaged brunet he had stumped in the dirt, because honestly tying up people with rope was a waste of his time and actual physical resources. So he just stomped pretty hard, used a bit of qi, and softened the ground enough to stick someone in there before he could send them back.

"Hey, kid. Why're you doing this? Like, I'm pretty sure I've seen you more this week than your own parents have?"

"...because I can. Because I must."

"You must what? Waste a lot of resources because you want to indulge your fetish for pregnant women…?"

"YE—"

Oh gods above, he wasn't going to deal with this, and swiftly kicked him--lightly on the side of the head, knocking him out instantly, if not painlessly.

It wasn't all bad, of course. He was getting a pretty cushy job in all regards--dealing with just mortals was a vacation. Just… tedium. He barely even saw anyone friendly, he was just… stuck here, making weird things, practicing his arts, and beating up mortals.

… that sounded pretty bad, when he thought about it.

Oh well.

---

He was at his wits end dealing with this kid.

Sixty-eight times he had to deal with this kid. Lectures did nothing. Talking to his parents did nothing--his parents seemed to be approving of all things because whatever "ambition" he had should be encouraged, right?

No, but they didn't care.

Physical violence didn't teach him either--and Matthaias was at this point pretty sure he had somehow broken through into the First Heavenstage at this point from pure stubbornness just to see… pregnant women.

No. He wasn't dealing with this anymore--this was now officially someone else's problem.

He stuffed the boy into a container, and marked it for a city a solid thousand kilometers away. Maybe some fucking labor would teach him something, to at least, he didn't know, gain some empathy for a guy who was stuck doing a job he didn't like for pay that he wouldn't get for a long time.

Fucking hell.

---

Relieved as all hell to finally be free of this place, he hurriedly thanked the matriarch of the village for their payment, and left.

He was going to give Polikseni a piece of his fucking mind.

A/N: uh, half-finished piece I'm not really proud of, so stowing that under a spoiler. I'm going to do my next set of omakes to have a coherent plot, I'm just going to close off the last thing I had.

1128 words, I guess. Wanted to get this out before exams hit me again. It'll be interesting to actually try to plot something out next time, rather than leave it in developmental hell.