Chapter 316. The Amalgam Tiger (Patreon)

I thought that Sindragos might leave me alone after the meal, that he’d gotten the information he came for; how naïve of me. The man is likeable–at least he seems that way around me. But I’ve grown tired of spending every moment outside of my chambers in his presence.

After Lucinda and Sindragos brought my counteroffer to their compatriots for deliberation, things have been in limbo. The black faction still hasn’t come to a decision. I can tell that Sindragos has been tasked with finding out more about me, even if his questions are subtle. Any information they learn about me may influence their decision.

An additional frustrating issue is that Sindragos refuses to forget my defeat from days ago. He’s convinced himself that I wasn’t trying; that my trump cards abound, and that I merely refused to reveal them.

To be clear, that’s the impression I wanted to convey. But he’s taken it as his personal mission to arrange the battle I agreed to–the one I said I’d participate in before leaving the plane to seek Achemiss.

That means giving me the time and resources I need to “prepare.”

All I really need is space to work alone, I tell Maria, my thoughts bitter.

I reach and grab another chunk of black rock, holding it between both hands. I can feel the slightest dusting of water from the nearby waterfall, and I breathe deeply, appreciating my surroundings.

Sindragos sits on a rocky outcrop of the waterfall, unbothered by the spray. Anyone else would be drenched by now, but he remains perpetually dry. He gazes down at us, his gaze unflinching.

He yawns, then closes his eyes and leans to the side, his head moving under the torrent of the waterfall. If he were a normal person, the pounding water might wrench him off the outcrop. Instead, he leans into it, unbothered by the force.

While he might look inattentive, I sense the small shards of mirror-like ice around us, dark slivers of lifeless matter. Sindragos is able to see through the ice. Normal water elementalists can’t do that.

I wouldn’t normaly care if an opponent sees me making Death constructs. Non-Life or Death practitioners simply don’t understand them. It’s akin to watching someone write in a foreign script. Text features may reveal pertinent characteristics–red, jagged, bold script may imply malevolence–but that’s not guaranteed. A terrible message might be just as easily written in elegant cursive. For instance, you don’t need to be a decemancer to realize that a Deathseed–the weapon I devised to give the SPU an edge against other nations in the Ho’ostar peninsula–is terrifying. It looks the part. It’s a womb of death, recycling corpses and spitting out undead fiends.

That being said, Sindragos watching everything I do is annoying for two reasons. First: the nature of construct I’m creating is obvious, and when we have our rematch, I won’t have the element of surprise. Second: Sindragos is not a Beginning practitioner, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he was relaying everything he sees to his compatriots for further analysis. I don’t appreciate the nonstop scrutiny of the black faction’s elite.

I support the black rock in my left hand while holding my right hand an inch above its surface. I draw my fingers over the rock, layering sinews of Black necromantic energy.

A few feet away, Ascendant Red chucks another black chunk onto the growing pile. The rocks on this plane are predominantly rough and jagged, the plane’s natural environment unable to wear them down despite the eons. The only rocks with smooth curves and worn-down edges are found in the waterfall basins and rivers.

“Is this enough?” Red asks mentally, inclining his head toward the towering cairn. Some of the rocks are massive, requiring the use of ascendant energy to lift. His body nearly shakes with exertion as he hoists one last rock the size of a side table onto the pile. I know that it’s far heavier than it looks–the black rock is incredibly dense.

“Yes, plenty.”

The hours pass quickly.

As my project nears completion, anticipation thrums through me. I forget the black faction, forget Achemiss, forget the Infinity Loop. Right now, there’s only me and my practice.

And the black rocks, Maria reminds me, mentally chortling.

I take a breath, then tap into my power. Energy black and viscous like oil encompasses the pile of rocks, each wrapped tight by Death energy. I tug at the dark sinews, forcing the rocks together, shuffling them around.

The ground shakes as the largest rocks fall, breaking free of their bindings–too heavy. But I wrap those with more potent cables of energy and they, too, rise from the ground.

While holding the black rocks in position, I form a new decemantic construct. Bleached white bone fragments assemble into a skeletal amalgamation of different beasts. The black faction provided me a number of bones, most taken from animals slaughtered for food. My go-to construct is a wyrm, but the black rock is so dense that it would weigh the wyrm down, causing it to scrape across the ground.

With that in mind, I design something new.

Seconds later, the decemantic construct is complete. At my direction, the black rocks assemble over the skeleton. Black tendrils of power engulf everything, gluing rock to bone.

Decemantic constructs are powerful because they work autonomously. With a general directive and a soul gem, a collection of flesh or bone will follow orders. The constructs of lesser decemancers can be ungainly and awkward, but with my power, constructs move with deadly efficiency and poise.

Necromantic constructs are the opposite. I need to give very specific instructions, almost like I’m programming an application. A mingling of intent, memory, and emotion is required.

It’s much more difficult, but the only limit is my creativity and patience–and my store of souls.

Maria’s ember crown dances above my head as I grab for a soul–tethered at to my belt by a string of Death energy–and plunge it into a symmetrical rock shaped like a kite that rests at the crown of the construct’s mosaic-like skull.

It’s thin, almost like a sliver of shale. Were it made of a lesser material, it would be brittle enough to snap with a finger. When I press my fingers to it, it is unyielding, like the hardest of metal. As though it’s a soul-repelling magnet, it resists my attempt to push the soul into it. I knew it would be hard to house a soul inside the black rock, but it’s necessary for my construct to come to completion.

I grit my teeth, my jaw tense with the effort. Layers upon layers of sinews press the soul toward the rock, spreading it out, threatening to squeeze the soul into separate pieces. But the pressure is even, and with a pop, the soul enters the rock.

I lose my hold on it. It’s completely cut off from my control. My stomach drops.

Suddenly, the construct shifts, independent of my direct manipulations. The sinews pull taut and the rocks orient themselves so that the irregular edges face inward, filling the otherwise empty interior space. Red found all size of rocks for me to work with, allowing me to interlock them together to form a nearly impenetrable shell.

The resulting construct–an amalgamation of decemancy and necromancy–is rather intimidating.

The bones beneath the exterior are almost completely hidden. Only a small slit in the skull, just below the rock where I tethered the soul, is visible. Two black soul gems shine with iridescence in the light of the false sun.

Isn’t the slit a vulnerability? Maria asks. Moreover, how are you going to control it when it’s covered in the black rock? You’re next to the construct now, but in a battle, all Sindragos would need to do is separate you from it.

I already considered that. With Sindragos watching, I’m not going to test it, but my plan is to hop inside the construct and control it from within. It’s similar to how I ride a bone wyrm.

So that’s why you have the slit, Maria muses.

I can see through the black rock, but not well, I explain. Having an opening in the armor drastically increases my view range. If needed, I can close the slit by sliding the rocks on the skull together like a clam shell.

I shake my head and refocus on the other observers–Red and Sindragos. Red stares at the construct with an impassive expression. Sindragos’s eyes are closed, and he doesn’t actively appear to be watching me, but several more mirror shards come into being, observing the construct from new angles.

I rub my jaw contemplatively. “Red, what’s your impression?”

He sends an emotion­–incredulity, as though he’s surprised I need to ask. He sends me memories and I invite them in, letting them dominate my conscious thoughts.

The black rocks orient themselves, almost as though caught in a magnetic field. There are thousands of them, most smaller than my fist but bigger than a fingernail. A few are larger. Black told me to get larger sections of rock if they were less thick and better suited to be used as armor plates.

Red can’t see vitality, so doesn’t see the black Death energy manipulating the rocks into position.

Then, off to the side, bones swirl past Ancient Black and assemble in seconds to form a sinuous, disturbing construct. It looks nothing like a skeleton; it looks like someone tried to sculpt a tiger out of bones. Pinkish energy shines from within the bone fragments, while the eyes glint like twin orbs of onyx. The bones curve sharply around the black soul gems so that the construct looks like it’s glaring.

Almost as soon as the construct comes into being, the black rocks swarm over it, shifting and spinning. Somehow, Black manages to fit them all together like a puzzle. The rocks add significant heft to the construct, but it doesn’t look heavy or overburdened. It looks dangerous.

Black’s hand presses onto the construct’s forehead. His eyes glint with cold determination, as though daring the construct to defy him. Then, with a sudden jerk, the rocks begin to rotate, creating a nearly even exterior. The construct shifts its head and takes a step forward. As it moves, the black rocks subtly shift and rearrange.

The sinister contrast between the idyllic environment and the tiger of Death is stark. The construct looks like it belongs in Vizier’s Crown, a world of ash and cinders.

The memory cuts off. I’m surprised by Red’s reaction–does the construct really look so sinister? I press my hand onto its snout, fingers splaying against the impenetrable rock. The necromantic sinews feel like soft, cool strings beneath my fingertips. I can almost imagine them as fur.

I didn’t create the construct with a specific animal species in mind. I thought the construct looked almost draconic, but I can’t unsee the silhouette of a tiger after experiencing Red’s memories.

I turn to Sindragos and call out, “I’m done for the day; let’s go back.”

He opens his eyes. “You do realize that you cannot take the black rock beyond this plane?”

“Can’t I?” I slash the sky, tearing a tiny hole in the veil. I palm one of the black pebbles I didn’t need to use and thrust my hand through the aperture.

Sindragos sighs. “The black rock is property of the black faction. We will not permit you to take it with you. Just so you know.”

“I never voiced any desire to do so. I created this construct in preparation for our rematch before I depart.”

“Just as long as you’re aware,” Sindragos states.

He seems unconvinced by my words. I wonder if whoever he’s communicating with inside Starbreak told him to be wary. I can’t be the first ascendant to realize the potential of the mysterious rock of this plane and try to steal it.

Since we’re heading back, I can’t take the construct with me; it won’t be able to keep up. Besides, its bulk wouldn’t fit through the pre-configured passageways of Starbreak.

The black armor separates and falls to the ground, revealing the boney construct.

It doesn’t look like a tiger, Maria asserts, it’s clearly a wolf.

You’re outvoted.

The soul gems pull free of the skull and the bones disperse and fly into my void storage. The Death energy sinews around the black rocks will doubtlessly disintegrate after I depart. It’s frustrating because on normal rock, they might remain indefinitely, and redoing the sinews will take time. However, after processing what must be thousands of the rocks, I have some ideas for how I might prepare them significantly faster.

With the construct disassembled, we head back.

The kite-shape rock is warm in my fist.