25. Sinkholes (Patreon)

It felt like he was stepping on invisible mid-air trampolines. Up and up he went, buoyed by qi, until he was ten, twenty, forty feet off the ground. He took a second to stabilize himself and feel out his new scant weight. From here the tents looked like small flaps in the sand, almost blended fully into the sands, a landscape drenched in purple. The currents tugged him to and fro, never fully off-balancing but disconcerting, like he was being jostled about in a crowd.

Once he felt sure of his steps, he went higher, stepping toward the sound. Soon he neared the cloud layer. From up here the landscape looked like the blackened, bumpy skin of a gargantuan beast; the bones looked like sparse white hairs.

He saw the source of the sound as two swirling smudges in the distance, so small from here they looked like motes of dust. Their backdrop was a circle of dark, pure blue—up close it must be huge. Was this a sinkhole, as he’d heard so much about? Curious, he stepped out to investigate.

The [Cloud-treading Steps] went faster than even he’d expected. As he gathered more and more qi in his feet to shove off, each bound was a jetting propulsion. The faster he went the more he felt the drag; air resistance became physical, a muffling force. As he hurtled there was the constant whip of cleaved air in his ears, but he himself was no cratering meteor; he was far too light for that. His journey was near-silent. Eerily silent. He passed over land barren save for cacti and studs of bone.

After a few dozen bounds the smudges resolved into hard lines, and the sounds ballooned from whispers to roars. He kicked to a mid-air halt a few hundred feet off, quiet and out-of-sight, and observed.

Up close the sinkhole was even more grandiose, like an uncut gemstone; its inner edges were lined by kelp and other small, floating underwater flowers splashed in dark, warbled colors. Its waters were startlingly clear yet its depths were unknowable, cloaked in shadow. How deep did it go?

As far as he or anyone knew, there was no answer. He’d heard rumors that the sinkholes were all connected in some vast underground network; supposedly great Spirit Serpents would surface in one sinkhole one day, then at another thousands of miles off the next week. Each was a font of underwater herbs, sunken treasures, and an abundance of qi. To a tribe like the Rust Tribe, even the water itself was so dense with qi it counted as a spiritual treasure.

Could it be a natural phenomenon? Dorian was left scratching his head at that. If he had to guess it was embroiled in the same reasons there were so many bones in this land. It was a mystery for a later time—a time when he had the strength to solve it.

Each sinkhole also brimmed over with Spirit Beasts. Only a robust network of sinkholes, hundred strong, could support the sheer density of Beasts in the desert, after all; the water itself was priceless here. Humans occupied the 8 largest sinkholes in the west. The rest, smaller and more populous, were the domain of an oligarchy of beasts or, on occasion, Beast-Kings. Some Kings breached the Profound Realm.

And that was to say nothing of the creatures within the Sinkhole. They seldom breached the surface, but beings of great power plied those depths.

This minor sinkhole offered nothing near such a power. Instead he saw small clusters of Spirit Beasts in slumber at the edges—the small, perpetually open eyes of Endspiders poked out from the sands, their bodies almost fully buried and out of sight; a small herd of sandwolves lounged at a far edge; what looked to be a gold-maned beast, a sphinx, perhaps, nursed it young at the end opposite Dorian.

None of them paid him any attention.

None of them paid any attention to the spectacle that had first drawn Dorian either.

Below, a Desert Wyrm was locked in fierce combat with a Megapede. Wyrms seldom met with humans; it was the first time Dorian could recall seeing one in the flesh. They typically preyed on greater beasts, burrowing through the sands to strike at unsuspecting victims. It looked like an earthworm scaled up a thousandfold, clad in armor forged of the hardest steels of the earth, crusted over with glossy plates, with a vortex of swirling shark teeth as its maw. It’d latched onto the Megapede with a passion, tearing through hard flesh; gray blood stained the sand, hissing.

The Megapede might’ve been caught off-guard, but it was putting up a fierce fight. It’d latched its own man-sized mandibles onto a segment of the Wyrm, as though determined to break it in two; from it dripped poisons of legendary corrosiveness which even [Vigor] realm fighters feared. He doubted either had cleared the [Profound] Realm, but these two must be nearing [Peak] Vigor; the battle grew pitched, boiling over with qi. A blast left aspected, sheer-black qi pummeled the Wyrm; screeching, it responded in kind with a flick of a tail edged in a technique of heavy Earthen qi. A few dozen of the Megapede’s thousand-odd legs were crushed to spasming trifles.

In a way it was the most high-level fight Dorian had seen in this life. But in another it was just another day; beasts fought and killed each other as routine in these parts. Soon the struggle lost his interest. It was a nice diversion, but he doubted he could gain much from it.

Instead he shifted his eyes to the sinkhole once more.

This one, a minor variant, could’ve fit a small mountain. And supposedly, the Azcan Oasis was built around a major sinkhole…

Naturally the Oases were the richest of all the Desert civilizations. If they were holding a tournament? Dorian could only imagine the sort of treasures in play.

He could feel his qi crossing a three-quarters spent; this scouting mission, and this test of his modified [Cloud-treading Step], was complete. He took one last, long glance before he left. Soon, he promised the sinkhole, staring down its fathomless depths. Soon, your secrets will be mine.

***

When he returned, there was a box at the tent flap. It was made of smooth, sauve, matte-black material; it flexed as he picked it up. He shifted the cap off, and there lay a set of combat robes, dark, seamless as the skin of an eel. He grinned. So Hento kept his promise.

He replaced the cover, stuffed the box into his Interspatial Ring, and made his way into the tent. Kaya was asleep under furs. Sleep tugged at his eyes. He felt a prickle of annoyance. It’d take a few more nights to get used to this silly habit of the weak. Forget the power disparity; the mere fact that half of these mortals’ time was sacrificed to doing nothing and lying still was a crippling disadvantage by itself! If he recalled right the hours he’d need to sleep would halve at the Vigor Realm. The sooner, the better.

Groaning, he plopped himself down.

“Rust Tribe, huh?” he pressed a finger to his cheek. It felt small before, but now he’d gotten a clear glimpse of the Desert’s true power hierarchies it felt smaller than ever; a true speck.

He’d settle down for a little while; perhaps up to a year, even. Extract all he could here. But one of the keys to any good speedrun was not to get precious about ties to any place.

He’d go out cycling. He grabbed two Silver Heart Pills from his ring, swallowed them, and drew in the energies of the universe as well as he could, fending off sleep until its effects were ran through, and he was more than halfway through [Origin] Level 3.

He fell asleep dreaming of higher places.

***

The next day started weirdly normally.

Death did not rain from the sky. Tuketu had sent no assassins to kill him in his sleep. Kaya made Vordor-meat broth for them today, a celebratory meal after fully assimilating her new bloodline; she was positively buzzing the whole time.

Dorian half-expected an ambush the second he stepped out the tent flaps. Nothing. Hm. As he and Kaya strode over to the training grounds, he expected to be stopped—perhaps by Kuruk and an angry mob of disgruntled trainees. Nothing. Hmm…

Perhaps the last two days had been so full of surprises he’d gone paranoid. Normal felt abnormal.

Even when he made it to the day’s practice, no great disaster struck. The weirdest thing was Tuketu: he didn’t seem a whit miffed to see Dorian or Kaya; he even made a point on congratulating her on her new bloodline as she came up.

“The bloodline is the Felsic Boar. I traded two Spirit Stones for it the last time we docked at the Zolan Oasis. It couldn’t have gone to a worthier host. Congratulations.”

Dorian was a little bewildered as Tuketu turned to him. He scoured the man’s eyes for any trace of malice, but found none. Bewildering.

Either he’s decided to forgive my impudence in favor of rebuilding bonds with the tribe’s latest assets…

Or—he’s playing this for sort of long-con revenge plot. My instincts lean the latter. Chief Rust might’ve been the one who the Python bloodline, but there was something distinctly snakelike about the way Tuketu spoke, the way his eyes glinted.

Hento seemed suitably chastened by yesterday’s events, but he didn’t seem the type to hold hate deep in him and let it fester; he was pale, but he still shot Dorian a weak smile. Almost like he hadn’t been utterly humiliated the day before.

The same couldn’t be said of Kuruk, who looked equally as hollow as Hento did; clearly he wasn’t over last night. When he looked at Dorian, though, Dorian got the distinct sense he wished to strangle Dorian in his own entrails.

Then Tuketu brought up a new face. The face in question seemed bewildered to be here.

“Muata,” said Tuketu with a smile. “Of late our Tribe has found itself short on Chosen and Hunters. Our standards have had to adjust accordingly. Welcome, new Chosen Muata!”

He gave Muata a slap on the back. The boy still looked stunned. He looked like he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry from Tuketu’s introduction. Tuketu was a strange one; at once cunning and unflinchingly honest. Dorian still wasn’t fully sure what to make of the man.

Which meant he was always at least a little on edge around him.

Then Tuketu flashed his hand; on it was another interspatial ring.

Dorian blinked. How many did he have? From it he passed Muata a hundred-year-ginseng as his introduction gift, a noticeable step down from Dorian’s.

That was that. It was another training day, another Kata learned—this time, [Eclipse], a Kata which was best practiced at night, under the moons and the stars. When Dorian leveled it up thrice in two goes Tuketu was equally as generous as yesterday, perhaps more, even; he gifted Dorian two hundred-year ginsengs as reward.

Sure, it aroused fits of jealousy in the other Chosen, but that was no real revenge, was it?

At this point Dorian was fully expecting them to be laced with Megapede venom. The shocking part was that they weren’t.

To Dorian’s surprise, rest of the training passed without much incident. It was structured much like the last day; Dorian was paired with Muata, which ended exactly as expected. He made progress on the [Techniques]. He made progress on his cultivation; at this rate he’d cross Level Four within a day. All was well.

Even as he finished up the day, he was a little befuddled. Perhaps some days were just easy.

As training concluded an hour later and he left, half- of his own accord, half-dragged along by a Kaya overeager to show him some new gimmick she’d found in her bloodline, he saw Tuketu had taken Kuruk aside.

He couldn’t hear the words nor read Tuketu’s lips—the man’s mouth moved unnaturally little when he spoke—but Kuruk’s deflated posture conveyed the message amply.

Then, seemingly in response to a word, his head snapped up. His eyes swerved to latch onto Dorian. And there, plain in those dark, dumb eyes, was a rage Dorian had never seen from the boy.

Dorian snorted. So this is what you’re playing at, Tuketu—using me as a foil? His eyes narrowed as he turned back around, still walking. A smirk crossed his face. Very well. I might just play along.

For now, though, he had more interesting matters to attend to.

It was a new day. He felt refreshed, his qi vigorous, his mental strength fully renewed.

He cracked his knuckles. It was time to milk Hu’s lab for all the rare pills it could muster.