Venomsteel and Rusted Iron
Katha Theodoros 32/The Ninth Prince 19
Year 257
"Remarkable…" Holding the Iron Inheritor Lightning Rod Talisman, his back hunched but eyes alight with vigour, Tormenos Theodoros turned his eyes to his chosen heir. "And you said the
Archgetes gave this to you?" He asked, at once sceptical and concerned.
Rathos Theodoros nodded his head, though behind his back his hands clenched tightly into balls. "He showed me the way, yes. The jade slip that gave me access only appeared in my pocket after a chance encounter." He tilted his head, though his expression remained grim. "Is this normal, grandfather? For the
Archgetes to pay us such attention?"
"...No. The
Archgetes hasn't paid our family any mind since he rose into Nascent Soul, let alone when he took Grand Elder Alexios' place." Rathos looked at his grandfather with a surprised frown and the old man nodded sadly. "Our family is old, little Rathos, and our ancestors were not gracious folk. Notable, certainly. Wealthy, doubtlessly. Loyal, unquestionably. But not compassionate, and not humble. Considering when Elder Nagaeon died, and how old the
Archgetes is… They might have known one another. Fellow Elders; possibly even fellow Councillors, serving the
Archgetes of the time."
Rathos dwelled on his grandfather as he sighed wearily, his attention returned to the talisman in his hand. Tormenos Theodoros was not like this in the past. He was much more like what he had described the Old
Theodoroi to be; prideful, harsh, even ruthless in his pursuit of the restoration of the House. Something had changed in him in the past years, and with every continuing decade his burden only seemed to increase. As if he were weighed down by the weight of knowledge itself.
Someday, his grandfather will tell him why. But it would have to be at his own speed; the old man was still nothing if not stubborn… Just less so.
But then his own attention returned back to the talisman; it was of array script that was largely forgotten to the Clan, not because the people who still knew it forgot, but because it was only comprehensible by the foremost Array Smiths of the Clan, featuring characters that were no longer even in use. He would need to spend some more Contribution Points for an audience with the 3rd Legion's Legate, to even begin to get an idea of what Elder Nagaeon did to grant it such power.
But there was no doubt. This talisman was intended to ease Core Formation Tribulation. The sagas inscribed upon its pages, shifting to a different elder as one adjusted the way that light reflected off its surface, all described the past heroics and last stands of the Vanguard. It would have eased the spite that Heaven would direct at the one who bore this talisman, hurling it back to the sky by invoking the stanzas of those self-same paragons. Surely, Nagaeon intended for it for his heir, to ensure that the
Theodoroi would survive past him.
Intentions that turned to nothing, because his heir died. Because Nagaeon died before he finished this work.
"The
Archgetes led you to this for a reason, Rathos," Tormenos said, holding the talisman up to him. He held it closer, gesturing for him to take it, which he did carefully. "What else did he say to you?"
Rathos frowned. It was becoming harder to remember the encounter with Old Gold, more of the residual memory shrouded in shadow. But the
Archgetes remained starkly visible. "He said… He said that I am a seed. He told me to grow well…" Another moment, and Rathos recalled the shadowed letters in the note that followed the jade slip. "And he told me to suffer well to learn well, and to throw caution to the wind."
Tormenos looked at him, frowning sharply as well, as if he had stepped in regular dog's doo.
"...But he said not to die, because it ends poorly."
Tormenos frowned at him. He gestured lightly with his hand at Rathos. The young Array Engineer swallowed and shook his head. "That's all," Rathos added with a small voice.
"Blessed are we by his wisdom," his grandfather said dryly and immediately. "But then your course is clear. The talisman is yours to use, Rathos. It will ease your passage into Foundation Establishment, and from there your journey will truly begin."
"What?! But this is a Tribulation Treasure, one intended for the rise into Core Formation!"
"And it's incomplete," Tormenos added with a raised eyebrow, as if it was obvious. Which, to be fair, it was. "I cannot complete it, because I do not know how Nagaeon intended to complete it, and to meddle with its structure could destroy it entirely. But you can finish it!"
"I… I can't finish Elder Nagaeon's last masterpiece!"
"Not as you are, no," Tormenos agreed. "Not for the whole thing. But you are not rising into Core Formation, are you boy?"
Rathos' mouth hung open as his mind processed the words. He held the talisman tightly between his finger and thumb, afraid to crumple it but also afraid to let it go. This… could ease his preparations greatly. He closed his mouth, then swallowed, then opened it again. It was still dry. "Grandfather, would you--"
"I will happily be your Dao Protector, Rathos. That was never in contention." His grandfather chuffed as he looked him in the eye. "I was one for your mother, you know? And if your lackadaisical father ever cared to brave the lightning, I'd do it for him too."
Rathos, dumbly, nodded. But his mouth did not close. "Then… To finish this, I need to know… How did Elder Nagaeon die?"
Tormenos continued to hold his grandson's gaze, but now there was steel behind his bronze eyes. Then, the old man stood up straight, and his willowy physique suddenly became powerful instead of wiry, hinting at the strength that Old Theodoros commanded and once wielded freely. For a moment, Rathos wondered if he had offended his grandfather.
Then he spoke, his voice low, even hushed. "Come with me. This is not a tale for this place."
----
[Year 257]
He used to be important.
Poke.
He used to be
somebody. Feared and respected throughout the entire Sea, the rising star of the Naag Clan, a future pillar with the potential to reach Spirit Severing and the resources to achieve that potential.
Poke.
And then, well,
BHRIGU.
Poke.
Everyone important knew the story by now, and he didn't like to dwell on it, for obvious reasons. But the fallout had still happened. The Naag eradicated, his body stripped of its cultivation and memories, regressed mentally, physically, and spiritually to sixteen years of age. And him, the last true remnant of the Terror of Jharkand, sealed and bound in the Orb of Shesha, unfeeling and unknowing of the world around him.
Poke.
But really,
that part wasn't so bad. No, really. He'd made a new life for himself here, in this
fucking dead sea. It was a meager life, taken in by his ancient enemies and forced to live on the scraps of a barren wasteland, but it was his. And more than that, he'd had a second chance. A chance to correct his past wrongs, to achieve a form unshackled by the Heavens, to be limited only by himself, now and forevermore, until the entire world would
bow at his feet!
Poke.
No, the problem was that, meditating in this dark desert cave, in perfect peace and solitude, someone wa-
Poke.
…He'd try again. The problem was that someo-
Poke.
…The
PROBLEM wa-
Poke.
…THE
PR-
Poke.
…THE-
Poke.
…T-
Poke.
Poke.
Poke. Poke. Poke. Poke. Poke. Pokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepoke-
"WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT?!!!"
The Old Prince snarled in exertion as his wrathful scream resounded through the cave, shattering earth and stone with the force of his spiritual sense alone. The lizards and insects that dwelled within quailed and died before the might of a Nascent Soul, spiritual as it might be. Anush Naag of the Naag Clan, Lord of Ten Thousand Serpents and Terror of Jharkand, might have been cursed into nonexistence, but his Will was still strong, still powerful, and still
furious.
Under this pressure, this monumental and overwhelming presence that crushed down on everything before it like a conquering king, the target of his ire stood unbowed.
The Ninth Prince's face had lost all of its previous mirth, becoming as solemn as the iron from which it was sculpted. He looked up at his older incarnation, unblinking, and posed a single question, one so simple and mundane that even a mortal child might ask it.
"What were my siblings like?"
Everything froze. The few remaining lizards and insects alive in the cave, minor spirit beasts one and all, stopped moving, stopped blinking, stopped breathing. The slow dripping of water off of stalactites ceased, droplets congregating on the tips of the rock but never falling down. The Old Prince was struck silent, rage instantly leaving his spiritual form as he fell to the ground like a deflated balloon, eyes still glazed over in shock.
The Ninth Prince, of course, didn't care about this new turn of events at all, continuing with only the barest of pauses. "Well, since I was struck by Bhrigu the Elder's curse thing, everything after I was 16 got sealed up and turned into you. My cultivation base, my age, and-"
"-Your
memories." The Old Prince whispered, low and hushed. How could he have forgotten? The Ninth Prince barely remembered his older siblings at all, and knew even less about his younger sister.
The Old Prince, the combined memories and experiences of Anush Naag stored and secreted within the Orb of Shesha, was the only living entity who remembered the Princes of the Naag as they were. Of course, the Randhwa and the great Dynasties of the Fifth Sea all remembered the Nascents of the Naag, but their recollections were those of enemies and monsters, not the true faces of the Royal House.
Well, that just wouldn't do, now would it?
"Sit down and don't move." The Old Prince said to the Ninth Prince, who was already sitting down and not moving. "You should know about your family. It's a miracle you've survived this long without the wisdom of your elders to guide you." His words were filled with more venom than his bloodline.
The Ninth Prince merely smiled and ignored the Old Prince's biting words. He'd spent enough time around his older self/tulpa/memory incarnation (wow their situation was confusing) to know when the Old Prince was trying to hide his softer side.
Truly, he was, as the Islanders called it, a fucking Tsundere.
"So!" The Old Prince clapped his spiritual hands. "Let's start with Agastya." Then he looked down at the Ninth Prince. "...You
do know who Agastya i-was, right?"
The Ninth Prince politely ignored that verbal slip. "Of course I do! I know my brothers and sister existed, I just don't really remember much about them, for obvious reasons. But that sort of thing's saved for the designated brooding hour, and that's not for another week."
"Quite." The Old Prince nodded. "Well, Agastya was incredibly kind to everyone. Didn't so much as cripple a servant who'd spilled his drink. Not even a
wounding. Father always said he was a bit too soft, but that he made up with it in absolute competence, and I'd have to agree."
The Ninth Prince blinked.
Nope. He wasn't going to get into how common decency apparently made someone soft. That'd lead to an argument and neither of them wanted that right now. "What about his hobbies? He had to do something other than 'being kind', right?"
"I was
getting to that." The Old Prince frowned in irritation, and for a moment the Ninth Prince thought he might've halted this reminiscing in its tracks. But soon enough, that irritation cleared and the Old Prince continued. "But yes. Agastya
loved to wrestle, he was a body cultivator for a reason, and that reason may or may not have been just how much he liked to slam people into the dirt for fun. Beyond that, he did a lot of wandering heroics, which made the peasantry love us a lot more, and he always had a story to tell about them once he got home."
The Ninth Prince perked up at that. Stories? That sounded fun. "Stories? Those sound fun! Do you remember any?"
"Wait. Would it be 'Do
I remember any?' This is confusing."
The Old Prince groaned. "It was mildly entertaining the first time, but that joke has long overstayed its welcome."
"That being said, yes. Naturally, I have a perfect memory, to go along with my perfect everything else, and naturally that means I remember every story Agastya ever told me. You. Us."
"...Wow this is confusing."
The Old Prince coughed. "Anyways. There's quite a few tales I could relay, the only question is which one…"
Anush Naag floated in thought for a moment, searching deep within the Orb of Shesha for the knowledge that he sought.
One might even say that he was pondering his orb.
Eventually his smile turned sharp and wicked, as the Old Prince turned back to his younger self, having found what he was looking for. "Tell me, have you heard the tale of the Serpent and the Steel?"
The Ninth Prince blinked. "No. No I have not. It's why I asked you."
"...Fair enough." The Old Prince coughed, embarrassed. "ANYWAYS! Let's begin."
"Once there was a soldier…"
----
Once, there was a soldier,
Who fought on the frontline of War.
Bred and born, tempered by sacrifice,
He lived to die and died to live in service to the Clan.
Desperate to leave something behind,
In his wake he left only tears and regrets…
----
The Reign of Grand Elder Constantine
A Thousand Years Before The Reign of Grand Elder Manuel
The first bells clanged a month and a week ago, hollow and shrill, like a whine that never quite left the ear even long after the bell had been struck. The Shattering Glass Spear Array cried then, again and again, maiming many, killing some and breaking token after token. The Trials had been kind this century, and as many as a fifth of their Qi Condensation were broken before they could concentrate.
It was still painful. One in twenty cultivators of the Clan had died already in most sectors. Some suffered more. Others less. It was impossible tell for certain, already noise was entering the strategic consideration of the Clan. Still, the information was invaluable, for as long as it was still coherent.
The second bells rang four weeks ago, irritatingly eternal, a persistent worm, as painful and stuck in as a barbed thorn. The first phase still continued in some places, regions where the Clan had been more successful in quashing bands of Qi Condensation, the Glass Spears finding their mark more certainly there than elsewhere. For the majority of the territories, the great retreats had already begun, array-barriers thrumming with bronze effigies and ethereal heroes, buoying Dao-Hearts everywhere and emboldening all who fought along the walls, with strength, with endurance, with eyes like a hawk. Officially, the second stage had begun with the arrival of the Fifth Sea's Experts, Foundation Establishment commanding speed enough to make distance a trivial concern, not a momentous obstacle.
Many Juniors did not survive to reach the Walls. Many were those less talented, too old, too slow, not fast enough. Some were talented. The normal ones were celebrated for their sacrifice by those who survived. The exceptional ones were lamented, for their times had come far too soon. Their loss would lead to greater suffering in the future.
All this and more, the Core Formation Elders of the Clan were not aware of as they resided within the Waycastles, the great toll-wardens of the Great Scorpion Road. They simply turned their thoughts onto themselves as they meditated, their eyes open only to the bells when they rang. Some thought back to their past experiences, the trials they had faced in earlier days, as Qi Condensation, as Foundation Establishment. Battles as part of the Formation in the early days. Retreats as ordered by the Centurions once the Fifth Sea's Experts arrived, beneath the cover of those bold and old enough to serve in the rearguard. Staunch resistance along the walls as long as they could, even after the Core Elders took to the fray. And then finally, a wild chase, fleeing to the four corners of the desert, running out the clock until the Trials ended.
They had all seen it, been part of it. A few had seen it three times before. Most saw it five or six times. A few, the oldest of the Elders, had witnessed it seven times.
Nagaeon Theodoros,
Protostrator, Elder of War,
Augusti Pro Praetore and Patriarch of House Theodoros. Had lived through eight Trials in his long life. This would be his ninth. His seventh as a Core Formation Elder. And unless he acquired a life-extending Treasure by the auspices of Grand Elder Constantine, it would be his last.
That thought nagged at him. It had nagged for three hundred years, but the last five weeks had been especially harsh. Live or die, this would be his final participation in the Rite of Karmic Purification. He had lived for over nine hundred years by this point, and yet the last Core Elder the
Theodoroi had raised was himself, over seven hundred years ago. Many had tried since him, of course. He remembered all their names, all forty eight of them, from Hadrian to Diana. But none of them had succeeded.
His meditation faltered for a moment. Nagaeon found he had gritted his teeth, and gradually loosened the muscles in his jaw. Vexing. That was all it was. The curse on the last of the Vanguard still held strongly, keeping them from reaching higher realms. It was difficult enough to reach Foundation Establishment, but it seemed that even those who did struggled with the Philosophy of the Second Great Realm. They lacked comprehension of the Dao. And so, they struggled to form a suitable Core.
Nagaeon looked back at his own Tribulation. He was shy of three hundred then, on the eve of the Trials. The questions that Heaven posed were biting and difficult, but he responded firmly and forthrightly. His Dao of Legacy had proven more than capable since, though he was not up for consideration as a Nascent Soul.
Nagaeon understood why Grand Elder Constantine, Second Elder Alexios, and Third Elder Manuel all decided against it, of course. The Clan simply lacked the resources to sustain a fourth Nascent Soul, and there was no guarantee that he would survive shattering his Core. Legacy was something to uphold to the best of his ability, to restore the gifts of his ancestors and to plough the fields for his successors. That was not something he could turn his back on, something he could doubt. They would be nothing without their Legacy.
And the
Theodoroi were famed for their struggle against Tribulation. It was why he had no true Heir, why even his most suitable grandson Simian was unlikely to rise without the aid of a Tribulation Treasure. No, the risks of trying to raise an Elder to Nascent Soul at this time were too great. He understood with the Grand Elder's decision, even though Old Gold had said nothing of it to anyone. He knew, and he trusted in Legacy.
But it, too, was vexing. If he did not do something, the
Theodoroi, this Great House that had withstood so many trials before this proudly and defiantly, would die with him.
Such thoughts, such worries, filled his thoughts incessantly for five weeks and longer. It was almost a relief when the third bells rang, deep and depthless.
They pounded in his soul, roared like gongs in his ears. The sieges that had endured for a month or so by this point on Waycastle Thrake, and soon they would fall. Thrake was small, but it was critical for its place at the foothills of the Colossus Footsteps Path. It was why he had offered to stand here, minding the Juniors so close to the Grand Mountainwall. He was the strongest Core Formation in the Clan right now, as well as the oldest, and the best commander short of the three Nascent Souls. His presence here would embolden the Clan and keep the eyes of the Fifth Sea firmly upon him.
His head, after all, was valuable to their putrid ilk. They feared and hated him as the Crucible Fist, who had laid low so many of their kind, who commanded the sort of power and
respect that could equal their finest. Where others fled, he
fought, gladly taking wounds to save the lives of others. More than once he had nearly died, fighting near a dozen Core Formation at a time. But even that was a victory.
And he survived. That was a victory too.
Today, he would win another victory at Waycastle Thrake.
His eyes opened. A pulse of will, a whisper-wind emerged from his mouth and flew from his meditation chamber, generously lent by Legate Horatius. His order was delivered right to the ear of sixty four Centurions, issuing the demand for them to get ready for the breach soon to come. Many of them had fought beneath him before, in past campaigns and past Trials, hence why they had asked to be posted here. They trusted him without question, believing in the brilliance of the
Protostrator.
He fully intended to live up to those hopes. He was
Theodoroi, Vanguard. His inheritance was a legacy of war, and he knew Legacies like none other.
He stood, turned and took a step. In a flash he stood on the edge of the window, and in another he stood atop the spire that Legate Horatius called his personal lodgings. Around him was war of the greatest sort, dozens of bronze shadow-Legionnaires fighting with blazing shield and spear against hundreds and thousands of dark-skinned aliens, wielding powerful treasures and ancient inheritances the Clan could only wish they had the wherewithal to use freely.
They had them, once. Then Heaven cursed them. Then their gold turned to lead. Then their iron rusted and all that remained needed to be plated with bronze.
That, too, was vexing.
He saw him, before they arrived. A figure, lithe if muscular, toned yet powerful. His eyes were slitted, and scales lined his body. Handsome, broad-shouldered, he carried himself with youthful energy, but his actions were measured, his vigour tightly wound. A Core Formation Elder from the Fifth Sea, as the third bell had announced. Here to break the walls if they deemed their juniors to be making insufficient progress. Here to break
him.
The Fifth Sea Elder looked young. Felt young.
Moved young. Impudent. Another hot-headed youth, thinking to claim all the glory and bounty of the Crucible Fist for himself. He would fall, like those before him and those after him.
Nagaeon drew a spear from his Storage Ring.
Heartseeker thrummed in his hand, Justinian's will responding to his father's touch. Feeling Nagaeon's gaze upon the fast-approaching interloper, it understood his father's intent, and focused its intentions. It yearned to spill blood in the defence of the Clan, just as Justinian had four hundred years ago before he died, his body almost consumed by a Cannibal.
The young Elder reached the walls of Thrake, but they did not fall like Nagaeon expected. Instead he soared above them, leaping cleanly over the battlefield and making mockery of the array defences that awoke to intercept him. He continued to soar, until he reached his apex above the heart of the city, and as he fell Nagaeon understood where he intended to fall.
He moved, stepping once, twice upon the air, picking up speed.
Heartseeker yearned to strike out in defence of his father, but Nagaeon kept it still, throwing a fist out instead. Fire and life thrummed, intermingling to make the flames burn hotter, strike harder, immolate even spirits.
The young Fifth Sea Elder struck. Nagaeon struck. Their blows, sublime and lethal, were perfectly matched. The scar in the sky that was the echo of their exchange would linger in the world for a few seconds, but the flash of that brilliant strike would be seared in dreams and nightmares above Thrake for years to come.
They each landed atop another of the towers that made up Waycastle Thrake's skyline, Nagaeon's taller than the other's. He had landed on the Qi-Engine of the city, the marvellous array that transformed Spirit Stones into Qi and which lay silent at the moment, no traders currently in the city. The other, the interloper, landed on one of the city's many legionary barracks. They made no attempt to vandalise the structure, their eyes firmly matching Nagaeon's.
They were fierce, narrowed, prideful. Impudent.
Nagaeon's hands met each other, one flattened, the other balled into a fist. The Fifth Sea Elder returned the gesture. Neither of their heads bowed, their eyes firmly affixed on the other, watchful and mindful for treachery though tradition derided such underhanded acts.
They spoke to one another in the tongue of the other. Nagaeon in the tongue of the Fifth Sea. The Young Elder in the tongue of the Third Sea.
"Nagaeon Theodoros.
Protostrator. Great Circle."
"Agastya Naag. First Prince. Great Circle."
Each man regarded one another, one an old man ravaged by the world but none the weaker for it, the other a young man in the prime of his life and ready to stake his claims. Peers they might be, the two men would never get along. They were too different, too opposed, and far too prideful. Even in another life, in another age, they would be enemies.
This encounter could only end one way.
One second. Two second. Five seconds.
"Die screaming," they said to one another.
And beneath them, the towers each man stood upon vanished into a cloud of dust and rubble.
Crackle. Roar. The skies above roiled in pain. Their juniors beneath scrapped and struggled and their swords sang with war and blood-song, but those with a breath to themselves needed only to look up to see the heights that some of them could reach - but most would forever fail to grasp.
Within the span of five seconds, the Elder and the Prince had exchanged a thousand blows, each of them inconclusive and each of them a probe, a test, a mystery to solve. Each was acknowledged and addressed in a flash, yet each lesser blow would have been the death of an aspirant a dozen times over, a fatal wound even for an Expert. Far beyond power, they were skilled. And far beyond the Celestial Realm, they
hated each other.
The only way this battle would end is with death, painful and forthright.
----
Eldest child of this generation of the Naag, a virtuous son bearing the name Agastya, the First Prince sneered as he measured the extent of the Bronze Devil before him. The tales of the Crucible Fist did not do the man himself justice, but that did little to dampen the flame of righteous that burned within the heart of the First Prince. Despite a clearly strong bloodline expression, the devil was fast in spite of his weight. Each blow was like fighting a fortress wall. Each exchange was to bash one's fist against the face of a mountain. His grey eyes were empty and emotionless orbs, his beard a constant whirl in the motions of battle. One would wonder what his hair would be like, had the old man any left to offer, but his head was bare and wrinkled instead.
On the surface, the Crucible Fist was a powerfully built old man, six and a half feet of rock-solid muscle. Yet, his age was clear. Though it appeared to be skin deep, Agastya was all too aware of what the wisdom of age could offer as well. The Crucible Fist, the
Theodoros, made no wasted motions. Each fist attacked and defended in the same motions. To his honed eye, his defence was flawless. Even with Agastya's own brilliance, what blows broke through the old man's guard were sapped of strength and simply turned to nothing against the bronze plate he wore, the corpse metal radiant and dauntless.
Recognition only deepened Agastya's ire. These devils insulted the guise of men they wore. How dare they demean their own dead. How
dare they deny them rightful rest, to return to the
dharma and await reincarnation or break from rebirth and seek enlightenment? How
dare they wage ceaseless slaughter. How
dare they defy Heaven! How dare they make a desert, then call it peace!
His anger flared. The Crucible Fist threw a punch, wood feeding fire and burning hot enough to flash-forge flesh. Agastya abated it with water in an instant, grappled the fist and nullified the impact. One arm locked, the Crucible Fist's guard was suddenly no guard at all.
In his hand, a spear suddenly appeared. Of the same repulsive corpse metal. Bearing a hateful will the First Prince could taste. Seeking out his heart and more, a singular blow of deathly expectation.
Heartseeker,it was called, a powerful spear guided by fate. The end of many a Cultivator of Dharma Shaping, a weapon of the famed Crucible Fist, the end of many ambitions and a weapon of last resort, used only against worthy foes that Nagaeon Theodoros could not afford to be occupied with. And it had unleashed a blow that Agastya could not possibly avoid, for just as he locked one of the old man's arms, so too was he short a limb. Just as well, his legs would not be enough against such a storied weapon.
So
Heartseeker struck out. It flowed like water, twisting through his robes. It struck like a thunderbolt, unerring and true, a sharp shriek trilling in his ears. It shattered against his token as it discovered that it was not unstoppable enough to break an immovable object.
The Crucible Fist suddenly faltered, shock grasping his heart for a single moment. The First Prince struck in that fateful, fatal moment. One blow, well aimed against the face, and the old man would lose a Treasure or more. Instead, the man broke his own arm to slip loose of Agastya's grip and retreated. A dozen paces away, atop a separate spire upon this putrid city, Nagaeon Theodoros merely
flexed as he set his bones and fused them together with the sizzle-hiss of burning bone and marrow, good as new and in defiance of pain.
He glared at the First Prince, grey eyes filled with rage, the first emotion he had expressed all this while. His rage burned cold, but it was there and it was real. Good, Agastya thought. He should share in the fury he and his kin have caused the innocent. The First Prince adjusted his robes, revealing his token.
"When I departed for this place, I swore an oath upon the Iron Pillar," declared the First Prince. With one hand he pointed to the sky, a declaration in the audience of Heaven. Here, he spoke in his own tongue, his words hissing like the snakes he knew and loved. "I would not return! I would see this Hunt through! I will kill the Crucible Fist, Nagaeon Theodoros, or I would die trying! This token will not save me, just as nothing will save you!"
Some would have scoffed at his arrogance. Others would feel shock at this declaration. The old man simply narrowed his eyes. "It would take at least this much to kill me, Naag. Who did I kill to enrage you so? Your father? Your sister? I cannot sincerely tell."
"None. I am the first Dharma Shaping Cultivator of my Clan to have come here in many hundreds of years. What you would call Core Formation, or Soul Seed."
"I am well aware of your names for Realms, Naag." In his hands a pair of swords appeared, one bleached as daylight and the other burnished like midnight. The Crucible Fist twirled his blades, a paired set that he only used when truly pressed, Agastya knew. "But if you have no reason to fight, then your death is already assured. I fight not for myself, but for many, and so my power is multiplied by the strength of many." He pointed one sword, radiant white, at him. His eyes were blank as ever, his silver-steel beared billowing in a sudden wind. "You fight alone, so you will die alone. It is written."
"How
dare you say that."
Nagaeon tensed fractionally. The First Prince's smile had by then turned into a rictus grin from sheer outrage. He laughed as he clapped his hands together, fully extended in front of him, as wispy tendrils of power emerged from and wrapped around him. The Ancestors worked through him, his bloodline lacking in Venom but imbued with Steel. Power built up in him, rising, building, waiting to erupt. One hand he brought back, until the First Prince held it over his head.
"How dare you claim to fight for the many," the First Prince said. His posture was perfect, his pose perfectly positioned, but his voice shook with barely contained rage. "How dare you claim the strength of many! How
dare you forget the lives you and yours have
stolen!"
His voice shook, but it did not raise. Agastya Naag, the First Prince, controlled himself as atavistic power continued to gather within his nascent Dharma. "What do you take life for, exactly? What is life, if it is not related to you? What is strength, if it doesn't belong to you?!"
Gritting his teeth, Agastya exhaled sharply, steam erupting from the gaps between his teeth, his fangs sharp as they are bared in rage.
"How
dare you forget everything you and your family have done! If you fight for many, then I fight for
all! All that you have killed. All that you have wronged. All that you
will wrong! And all that will celebrate, as you
die SCREAMING!"
As he cried out, Agastya
vanished. The world seemed to shatter in his passage as he flouted the barriers of distance and sky. For an instant he verged into the realm of the Atman Manifest by demonstrating a flagrant disregard for mortal laws and physical rules. In less than a breath he crossed a great distance, one fist through the shattering blades of an old man, the other fist buried through the face and mind of a monster. A fatal wound. A gruesome wound. A painful wound, by every measure.
In one moment to the next, the world sighed.
And then it erupted, in light and in sound and with the will of a long dead Ishvara.
Around his neck, beneath his armour, a talisman of the
Theodoroi burned to life as the will of a long dead ancestor awoke to protect his descendant. A ghostly figure with thick arms coated with steel fur rose from Nagaeon's body and simply pulled Agastya's arm out of his body, remaking the flesh that he pulverised as he did so, in this realm outside of time. Nagaeon's face was reconstructed in this fashion, Agastya seeing his slightly shocked serenity remade seamlessly, as if it was never struck. His fist removed, the faceless ghost with powerful arms made to crush him, an echo of the power of an Ishvara Splitting overwhelming even across time and across death.
And it was found wanting. It was found in violation.
It, and its pathetic will, were nothing before the adjudication of Heaven.
Another entity interceded, the form of a great serpent with coils that could dwarf a man. It wrapped around the arms of the steel-furred ghost and squeezed until they burst into pathetic mist. And its work done, the great serpent hissed as it vanished once more into emerald light.
Time resumed. Nagaeon gasped. Each man fell to the earth and landed on their feet, their shoulders rising and falling as they caught their breath.
"What…" The old man spoke first, the talisman around his neck sizzling. He clutched it tightly with one hand, still holding his shattered sword. "How did… How
dare you--"
"How dare
you," the First Prince sneered in response. He stomped hard with one foot, rising to a kneeling position. "The rules of this Hunt are clear, even for a
monkey like you. Prana Gathering hunts Prana Gathering." He rose, his stance unsteady. "Dharma Shaping hunts Dharma Shaping!" He extended a fist, clenched tightly until his knuckles were almost white. "And Ishvara Splitting hunts
Ishvara Splitting!"
He jumped, backed by the sun. Nagaeon rolled backwards, barely avoiding the fatal landing. Mounted on an arm was now a large rectangular box, burning with sigils. Its core burned white hot for a second until a lance of molten glass filled it, and Agastya found it was aimed right for him.
"Then hunt this, you slit-eyed bastard," the Crucible Fist spat.
The Glass Javelin Projector lurched. A sharp twang filled the air. The First Prince crossed his arms over his heart, just quick enough to catch the glass spear on his forearms.
Contact. Impact. The crunch of glass. The hammer blow of artillery. The spearhead did not pierce his skin, but the force behind it transferred perfectly, backlit in a shower of flash-forged glass.
As he was thrown backwards through the air, the Crucible Fist launched after him, making mockery of the ground beneath him.
----
For four hundred years, Nagaeon Theodoros has wielded
Heartseeker. It was a mighty spear forged from gravebronze, long enough to fight with but well balanced for throwing as well. It was imbued with a powerful will that sought out the weaknesses of those it was used against, testing gaps in guards with unerring efficacy and achieving sublime victory countless times not with a flurry of blows but with a single stroke of utmost power. It was inlaid with the runes of the old tongue, speaking of the solemn soliloquy of a child of the Clan, a child of the Vanguard, who had a keen eye for the weaknesses of others and so pursued them constantly, in order to make himself free of weakness.
His name was Justinian, firstborn son of Nagaeon Theodoros. He was a bright boy, a passionate little lad who faced all things in life with the same fierce vigour, whether it be with blinding rage or uproarious laughter. He was a gifted young man, who took to cultivation with ease that softened his father's heart and who faced the Lightning with such contemptuous ease that Nagaeon had faith that he too would be able to forge a Core of Iron. He was a soldier of bronze, just like his father, unyielding and defiant in the face of unrepentant evil. He was broad-shouldered and mighty like his forebears, but so small and helpless when he was born. He, who was born protected, sought to protect others as well.
He died before his time, at the hands of an Elder of the Battle Blood Cannibals, when the Dao Heart of his Hoplite faltered and he became suddenly helpless before the attentions of a Core Formation Monster. He died a mangled mess, as though the bronze of his body made him a poor meal for the Battle Blood Cannibals, his defiant last stand had driven them to such heights of rage that they certainly tried it anyways. He died, the first of forty eight, a harbinger of House Theodoros' fortunes and of Nagaeon's sleepless nights.
His remains were rendered into gravebronze and acquired by his father, who spared no expense for the sake of his son's legacy. They were turned into the mighty spear
Heartseeker as said before, who sought out weakness with the same unerring insight of the young man he was. And in the four hundred years that followed,
Heartseeker was the end for many a Cannibal, many a Cultivator, and many a Fifth Sea Hunter.
Heartseeker was now a crumpled, dusty mess, the last memory of his son, shattered by a self-righteous startup who seeks to judge others because they were not as privileged as he was. And
Heartseeker was not the only loss Nagaeon suffered dear to his heart. As he gave chase to the Hunter, the First Prince Agastya, the hilts of the shattered blades
Daystalker and
Nightseeker were still held in his hands, still held so tightly that his knuckles had gone white and his skin was raw and close to bleeding.
Seven hundred year old blades, they were the last memory of his father and mother. Ulysses Theodoros, the brilliant Array Engineer, the man who died at the hands of an envious Sorrowful Blacksmith before his dreams of proliferating the Glass Spear into every hand of every Legionnaire of every Legion could come to fruition. Demora Theodoros, the taciturn taskmaster, who had made him strong because she could never stand the thought of outliving her children, the woman who died avenging her husband, crippling half a dozen Blacksmiths and killing the two Sword Cultivators that came for her as she died.
Powerful blades. Paired blades. They were suited for one another,
Daystalker the dreamer and
Nightseeker the executor, and they were suited for him. Nagaeon had carried them even as an Expert in Foundation Establishment, as he was groomed to become the new Patriarch by his grandfather, and it was with them in each hand that he reenacted his legend time after time, Trial after Trial, fighting the invaders with no holds barred so that others could escape with their lives. Shattered. Lost forever. Denied not only to him, but to his heirs that would survive.
In a single battle, Nagaeon had lost his son and his parents all over again, all to the same man. Agastya Naag.
The First Prince, Agastya Naag. It was transparently clear by now that he was certainly a genius with few peers. A brilliant man and a talented Cultivator despite his youth, a passionate man just like Justinian was. Who now turned his passion against the Golden Devils, and against Nagaeon in particular. How else would he have known Nagaeon's methods and weapons so well? How else could the younger man have so quickly bridged the gap between the two of them? Both stood in the Great Circle of Core Formation, so the deciding factor should be experience and wealth, yet it was the younger man who was winning this engagement. Were it not for his father's Glass Javelin Projector, Nagaeon might be dead right now.
Despite his rage, despite his grief and despite his duty, Nagaeon could not help but laugh as he caught up to the soaring invader, his legs striding upon the air like steps of stone with his mastery of the Sky Domain Footsteps Art on full display. This was the first time he had been pushed to his utmost limit by a single man, and a young man at that. Death at his hands would be unthinkable, but long has it been since its spectre has loomed over the
Protostrator.
"I should applaud you!" Nagaeon cried out, his teeth bared and lips pulled tightly, looking somewhere between a furious grimace and a mad rictus grin. "Few have ever inflicted such grief upon me twice in short succession! In only two blows, you have taken my son and my parents from me once again! If you seek to kill me or die trying, Agastya Naag, then I will send you back to your Iron Pillar in five pieces!"
Power burned within his hands. Qi of the five elements of this land gathered in pinpoints, concentrated in each of his fingertips. As Agastya reached the zenith of his flight and Nagaeon caught up to him, looming over the scaled man with balled fists drawn back, the Crucible Fist clenched his fists completely. The hilts of his twinned blades, all that will remain of his dead father and mother, were crushed entirely and left to disperse into the desert around them. His knuckles were truly white now, not only metaphorically, and they blazed with kaleidoscopic light.
"FIVE ELEMENT FIST! VANGUARD'S TRIUMPH!" The
Protostrator of the
Optimatoi bellowed. The air was deathly thick with Qi, dense enough to poison lesser men, even lesser immortals. "
CONQUEST OF THE NINE SEAS! "
His hands struck downwards. One crashed against the First Prince's collarbone. The other struck beneath his ribs, into his abdomen.
There was a crash, a sound like shattered glass, ringing across the sands. Across the foothills of the Colossus Footstep Path, all heard the impact even if they did not see it, and all felt the impact even if they did not hear it. In a single blow, Nagaeon reenacted the separation of the Heavens and the Earth. And as Agastya struck the desert dunes below, he demonstrated the separation of the Earth into the land and sea, as towering plumes of sand erupted where he landed, spectacle enough to grant some Devils succour and deny others of escape.
Panting, gasping, as Nagaeon fell towards the ground he searched for the First Prince, fists balled as he prepared to conclude this duel.
And he found him, looking back at him.
----
Nagaeon struck, powerful and true. A fatal blow, certain death if delivered properly. Though battles between Elders could last weeks if not months, this was a blow that was decisive enough to end one in an instant.
Yet, Agastya found him wanting.
His fists were drawn back by his sides, cocked like the drawstrings of a crossbow. His eyes were fully dilated, blazing with power and righteous fury. Yet, his bearing had changed. Gone was the impudence of youth. Though its fire remained, the First Prince now carried himself with the wisdom of ages. His prowess was magnified and his weakness mitigated with the induction of skill and tempering that could only be the result of age.
But he was still young. He still knew the youthful vigour of a talent without the burdens of time to crush him flat. He embodied the wisdom of his ancestors but the determination of their future. Indeed, his entire posture had changed.
The First Prince exhaled, a single long breath. Then he moved, the air screeching, the sands vibrating. Like thunder, like death, both hands struck, fingers extended like the coils of a serpent. Nagaeon raised his arms, but Agastya simply slid around them. The bracer the Bronze Elder wore then unfurled and snapped into place, a circular dome of segmented bronze, polished to perfection, defiant of force. Agastya's hands snapped shut around their rims, crushing with force enough to shatter stone and compress coal, and yet the shield was unbowed. His fingers were blasted away by unseen force, with the same power.
Nagaeon snarled, then pushed forward with his shield, with all his might. A prayer to his own grandfather, an elegy to the Imperator, a bow wave of force slammed into Agastya's face. Agastya was sent back, onto his knees on the sands of the barren desert.
His face was pristine despite the counterattack, save for a trick of blood down his nose. His smile was frustratingly present. And Nagaeon's nose wrinkled as he smelled something acrid. Burning. Sizzling.
"You think I don't know about
Forceguard, monster?" Agastya sneered. Chunks of Nagaeon's shield began falling apart in puddles of brackish green, consumed as they were by poison. The Elder fumbled for its straps as Agastya rose to his feet again, wiping the blood away. "I have
learned, I have
mastered. I am the culmination of Heaven's Rebuke, delivered by all the innocents you have killed!"
Nagaeon grunted, the last of the
Forceguard landing on the sands with a hearty splash rather than a weighty thump. There was little left of its mechanisms or of his grandfather's Core-Grade Gravebronze left, nothing that can be salvaged. Another Legacy denied to the old man. "Innocents? Is that what your people are, when they have killed thousands of mine? Women, children, mortals with naught but brown skin? You are no agent of Heaven, Naag. You are another butcher spouting self-serving rhetoric."
"I am not
you, old monster."
"Certainly not." With no more weapons, with no more shields, Nagaeon simply raised his fists, cracking with elemental might. "Because you are five hundred years too young to be challenging
me, junior!"
Agastya snarled, baring his fanged teeth as he hissed sharply. The vocal blade of a cobra. "Old fool!" He extended his fingers, extending them as sharpened points. Like spearheads.
Once more, they charged. And once more, the world quaked around them.
----
And quake the world did, as men with the wisdom of mountains clashed with fists as weighty as those mountains. Fire scored sand into glass for many
li around. Water blasted oases into the barren ground that would sustain nomads for the next generation. Poisoned ichor would turn this place toxic for the next two.
Around these two, the Trials distorted. Though Qi Condensation would hunt Qi Condensation and Core Formation would battle Core Formation, the very deserts they exchanged blows in would become deadlier with every crossed blow. There was too much Qi, too much story. The myth of the Snake and the Vanguard would be told again and again, for it was too grand to forget.
But only one man would survive to tell it, in one Sea and not the other.
Clash and pause. Clash and pause. The tempo of battle was skirmish punctuated by ruination. One day became five became fifteen and then fifty as the titanomachy continued, Juniors of the Clan and Hunters from another world fleeing from this bout between their Elders. Not even other Core Formation dared to interfere in the struggle between the First Prince and the Protostrator, paragons of their Sects as they were.
And deep within the Dawn Fortress, three old men could only wait and hope for the best as they prepared for the worst, for fear that a finger on the lever of fate would invoke ever more terrible reprisal.
So the Trials dragged on and as more and more died, the walls of the Waycastles would crumble, blow by blow and inch by inch. Some would fall within three months, the Dao Hearts of those within faltering at the worst moment, to terrible consequence. Others would last as long as eight, demanding the efforts of Elders to shatter the arrays brick by brick, and the time they bought saving many lives. For most, they would last six, a reasonable enough duration for an unreasonable enough trial.
But Waycastle Thrake would fall within five, despite the expertise of the Elder minding its defences and despite the pedigree of the Legionnaires holding the line. For all who manned those walls saw, in the skies and towards the horizon, the great battle fought by and against their Protostrator, Nagaeon Theodoros. The Five Element Fist, the Pale Devil, the One Who Fought. A man mad enough and strong enough to fight against the Fifth Sea where others would flee for their lives seven times over. A man that many Centurions in Thrake claim to have seen do just that in the previous Trials, or even before that, against dozens of Core Formation.
And they see their Legate battle against but one of these Fifth Sea Elders. And they see that he is
losing.
It is no easy thing to follow the battles between those in Core Formation. Though battles in Qi Condensation last a matter of minutes or at most an hour and only exchanges between truly powerful Foundation Establishment lasts for weeks, the Third Great Realm is a period of great consolidation and expression. One who condenses Seven Pillars into a single inviolable Core gains not merely certainty but endurance as well, the unshakability of their beliefs seeming to translate to an unshakability of their flesh as well. It is no simple thing to pierce the skin of Core Formation even by other Core Formation, to say nothing of flesh and bone, or even armour and arrays. With the tremendous Qi of a Core Formation Elder, one can transform themselves fully into stone, or be as intransient as the breeze. Even as creatures that are fundamentally still flesh and form, such power cannot be denied. Such resolve
cannot be denied.
Within the same Great Realm, as one progresses their path, there become fewer and fewer techniques capable of ending a bout in a single blow, and fewer still techniques that do not demand a ruinous amount of Qi to fuel them. Battle is no longer that of singular champions demonstrating their resolve, but generals and kings marshalling their resources, though often their resources are not lives but Qi and treasures. Victory is no longer won with singular pivotal moments with immediate results, but so often the result of cruel calculus, exchanging Qi for Qi, ensuring that one expends less than their opponent.
That is why battle lasts so long in Core Formation and beyond. That is why a bout between Elders can so easily last months. And such months-long battles - no, months-long
wars still have many violent expressions of Qi that reshape the world and redefine destinies, in the immediate term and in the long after future alike. And that duration, coupled with the sheer violence of a clash between true Elders, makes understanding the axis of battle so difficult. Doubly so when both stand in the Great Circle, and triply so when both are powerful even for those in the Great Circle.
But those who know will understand why this battle has disheartened the defenders of Thrake so. And those who understand, those few who survived the flight from Thrake in a state to tell stories, will do so with the same words, in the same breath, with the same haunted expression.
Because even the longest bouts between Core Formation Elders ends within four months, more often two. Because long after Waycastle Thrake fell, Nagaeon continued battling the Elder with slitted eyes. And because in the past, because shattering tokens would be an immediate end to a threat to their lives, because the Trials were so short and because they were always more numerous, Nagaeon would often end battles against half a dozen Elders at a time in a matter of weeks, precisely shattering their Tokens if not breaking their lives beforehand.
The Trials after the third set of bells are often eleven months long, the remaining duration of the Hunt after the first week and month that encompass Qi Condensation and Foundation Establishment. And when Thrake fell, Nagaeon had fought but one Core Formation Elder. The same one that he would fight to the very end of the Trial. Ceaselessly. Tirelessly. Again and again, reshaping the desert with every blow.
That, ultimately, is what shook the Dao Heart of the Defenders of Thrake. They feared that they would be witnesses to the death of Nagaeon Theodoros.
And they, tragically, would be proven right. For in the final days of this Centennial Rite of Karmic Purification, the fruit of victory that had been sowed ten months prior was finally sprouting. And it would soon be plucked and consumed, anointed with the blood of the Iron Devil.
----
Simian Theodoros rasped as he pulled himself from the earth, sand spilling off of his head and back as he rose up. How long had he been buried here, he wondered. Hours? Days? Weeks? What had happened? What was going on? The last thing he could remember was the gates of Thrake being blown wide open and the Fifth Sea's monsters flooding in. The other Centurions had been waiting for the order to retreat from grandfa-from Legate Theodoros, but no word had been forthcoming. He remembered the Hoplites falling, a bright flash, and…
KRAK-THOOOM
Simian leapt onto his feet, not startled but fearful. That was the sound of thunder, and he suddenly realised the acid-burn taste of the Qi that surrounded him. This was no ordinary place that he had found himself in, but a most benighted of places, period. Five Nascent Souls died here, and such gloried Elders did not die easily.
But lightning did not often fall upon Nascent's Fall. The concern here was the Crippling that infused its essence, leaving it barren and dangerous in ways that were not so obvious. Lightning was not the way of such old Golden Devils, Simian knew. Lightning was the way of Heaven. Heaven was their enemy, so it would not do for a Golden Devil to wield such power.
So why…
So why did Tribulation Lightning rumble overhead…?
In the distance, Simian saw a hand rise from the sand, from a crater. Simian saw it, gasped. It was a gnarled hand of bronze, scarred and weathered but well cared for. It bore no patina, displaying brightest and purest bronze. Upon it was a ruined mechanism that once launched molten spears of glass at super speed, true death capable of striking from any distance.
Simian broke towards him, his legs feeling sluggish. He forgot himself in that moment, forgetting that they were on the battlefield, on a place of life and death, where orders were absolute because that was the only way they would survive.
"Grandfather!"
Simian called out to him, the man who had raised him when his father and mother had fallen. The stern taskmaster, the stoic, unshakable statue. The rock upon which House Theodoros was arrayed. The man he had to succeed, as the only one left. "Grandfather," he called out again, for lack of better words. He tried a third time, before the wind was stolen from him. "Grandfa--"
KRAK-THOOOOM
A second lightning bolt landed, right on Nagaeon Theodoros, with such furious power and spite that it gave Simian pause. But it was no lightning bolt, but a man. Green iridescent scales peeled off his skin, flaking in the tempest winds of Nascent's Fall. At his feet lay many more scales, as well as enough shedded snakeskin to trail many man-heights behind him. His mouth is closed, but his lips are still stained with venom capable of killing him in but a single agonising instant stretched into eternity. He is handsome, in the way that some of the Fifth Sea Hunters are, but the unbowed spite of his unfrowning face make it difficult to admire. A tattoo of a mighty Cobra coils around Agastya's shoulders, returning to dormancy with its work done. Another tattoo, a twin, of a svelte Viper coils around his legs, thin now that the gathered energy had been expended.
Simian watched the Fifth Sea Elder with fearful eyes, daring only to glance at his grandfather but once. He understood now, why Nagaeon had not said anything. He had been fighting while choking on his own blood, feeling knives on his skin, the barest sharpness of which Simian can feel just by
smelling the slightest bits of the venom are already all but unbearable, all the while matching blows with this man.
And he had come up lacking.
Treasures expended, strength expended, life all but expended, Nagaeon Theodoros was on death's door. His mouth filled with blood, he could not even speak, yet he still tried to reach out towards his grandson. He could not see Simian, he could not hear Simian, yet he reached out regardless, guided by bonds of blood. Wordlessly, he tried to convey some last message, some last testimonial.
Simian, I…
But in the end, he failed.
The Fifth Sea Elder leaned in close to Simian, looking him eye to eye, forehead touching forehead. His skin was harder than stone, despite not being imbued with Qi. The Fifth Sea Elder spoke perfectly in the tongue of not the Fifth Sea or the Third Sea, but the old tongue of the Clan.
"My name is Agastya, First Prince of the Naag. Watch and learn, little monkey."
He struck out lazily with one arm, extending unnaturally like a snake towards Nagaeon. His wrist wraps around the old man's neck before retracting, Agastya's hand clasped around Nagaeon's neck. With a single scornful look, Agastya
pressed. A sharp crack, then silence. Haunting, crippling silence.
Nagaeon Theodoros dies, whimpering and quiet. Bowed and broken by a man hundreds of years his junior.
And the First Prince of the Naag throws his corpse at Simian, knocking him back as he raises his other hand to meet a colossal pillar of lightning, as the stormclouds above descend with Heavenly Will.
----
The next battle would last many days. Simian, cradling his grandfather's body, watched every moment of it, not daring to even blink.
The lightning fell, the scales shone. The First Prince said nothing as he bathed in heavenly light and lightning, emboldened by the death of the Crucible Fist.The Tribulation Lightning simply soaked into him, reinforcing his toned skin and shining scales to an immense degree. As the final bolt of lightning fell, Agastya transformed, his legs merging, his muscles bulging as he is surrounded by a massive cloud of venom. With this cloud he strikes back at the lightning itself, and every expenditure is reimbursed by Heaven's power.
Seven days later, near the end of the trials, the clouds disperse and the lightning ends. Not one Hunter has dared approach, nor has one Clansman. The telltale signs of Nascent Soul Tribulation will not fade for a very long time, and not even the Clan's Elders dare stride forth from the Dawn Fortress. They cannot contest the might of this one man, not in time to make a difference.
Seven days later at Nascent's Fall, anointed with the blood of Nagaeon Theodoros, the First Prince of the Naag rises a Nascent Soul.
And his last words to Simian, spoken in perfect old tongue, scar him forever.
"Remember."
For he did just that. Remember.
[Final Wordcount: 10,485 Words]
A/N: All wordcount will be given over to @Kaboomatic
