28. Loose Tongues (Patreon)

Dorian greeted the rising sun with a Kata. He spilled through the Daybreak Kata like fresh sunlight, light, fast, melting from one form to the next. His body hummed in tune with the universe; he breathed rare air. His head felt as though it were made of light and puffs and clouds and a chorus of cherubic voices, all drawn in a harmonic hymn. Qi warmed his insides in a coursing river; gritting his teeth, he hunched his back, exhaled and drew it through the length of his body. His core pulsed with new energy like a wild beast shackled, made tame. This time it gelled in a way it hadn’t a day before. Something clicked.

[Level-up!]

[Daybreak] Lv. 6

Satisfied, he let his sweaty arms fall slowly to his sides and opened his eyes. A deep warmth filled his chest and it wasn’t from the technique. He stood shirtless atop a dune, his eyes level with the sun in the horizon. This was merely the latest in a string of upgrades he’d run through in the past few days.

Stretching out his arms, he grinned. Decent for a week’s work.

“What is wrong with you?”

He turned. There stood Kaya at the dune’s bottom, arms crossed, two dark rings smudged under her eyes. Her smile was playful; she chewed lightly on a lip. Her bloodline now felt like a low background hum, nearly invisible to the senses. Nearly fully under control.

“I slept before you,” she sniffed. “That was past midnight! And here you are, up practicing before the sun’s risen?”

Dorian grinned. “I’m just grateful,” he said. “My entire life I was always the hopeless nobody. Then I got a gift. I just want to make the most of it.”

“I still can’t get over it,” yawned Kaya. She drew back her arms, hunching into a deep stretch that half the Tribe would’ve killed to see. “Two weeks ago I had to drag you up dune runs. Now look at you!”

She rubbed her eyes to get a better look at him. “At this rate, you’ll pass me up next week!”

If I play my hand right, It’ll take less than that…

“Jealous?” grinned Dorian.

“Of your ugly mug? You wish!” snorted Kaya. Then she frowned a little. “In seriousness, some are. I’ve heard some rumors…” She paused. “Kuruk’s one nasty brute, and he’s got a whole bunch riled up with him. If I were you I’d be careful.”

“I’m not worried,” said Dorian. “He’s all talk. Besides, if a mob comes I’ve got you to keep me safe, right?”

Kaya looked at him in mild exasperation and wrinkled her nose. “Put on a shirt and come in.” She scanned down his bare chest, unimpressed. “You might’ve gotten a buncha fancy new titles but you’re still a bag o’ bones.”

“Ouch!” He put a hand over his chest in mock hurt. He followed her through the flaps.

A pleasant scent greeted him as he went in. A stew? She must’ve been at it for the best part of a half-hour; by the precision of the burns, he wagered she used her own qi for it too.

“Presenting: Chef Kaya’s world-famous meat stew!” She did a big bow, grinning ear-to-ear. “Dig in.”

He felt himself salivating just looking at it; it was truly sad, but such was life in a tribe that had considered salt a luxury spice. Then he eyed the burn-marks and his expression turned funny.

“World-famous or world-infamous?

“Huh?”

He pointed to two charcoal streaks running down a meat slab.

“Is this a stew or a spit-roast—OW!”

“Eat your burnt stew like a good boy,” snapped Kaya, tugging him by the ear.

“What’s the occasion?” he said as he picked up the bowl with one hand. The other massaged his smarting earlobe.

“Broke through to Origin Level 6 last night,” she said proudly. “I was bumming pills off you all week. Least I can do is treat you!”

She wagged a finger. “Besides, that’s not just any meat. That’s prime Wyrm flank!”

Dorian looked up. “How’d you get that?”

Twirling a strand of hair, she blushed. “Uh. I mighta flirted with the Chef’s son, then stolen a chunk from their stores…”

Dorian choked a little. “Isn’t the punishment for that kinda thing flogging?”

“Hey now,” snapped Kaya, turning red. “Where’s the gratitude, you lil’ brat? Eat the evidence fast enough and he won’t find out.”

Nodding fast, he did. The next several minutes were filled with slurping and scraping.

“By the way, don’t get used to it,” said Kaya, ruffling his hair affectionately. “I hear you and the Alchemist are selling cartloads of stuff. Next time we dock at the Oasis, you’re treating me, got it?”

He nodded through a mouthful of soup.

“What levels didja get to, anyways?” She grumbled. “Feels like every five seconds you’re up another one.”

“Let’s see…” Dorian wiped some meat from his mouth. “I’m at 5 for most of the [Kata], 9 for [Ray], 5 for [Flash Palm], 6 for [Cloud-treading Steps]—”

“I hate you,” Kaya groaned. “Go on.”

“Aaaand 4 for [Tongue of Flame],” he said.

She started. “Really? That fast?”

“It’s my favorite of the bunch,” said Dorian with an enigmatic smile. “I think I’ll base my style off it. Just feels right, y’know?”

The [Tongue of Flame] was the ropelike attack Hento had tried throwing at Dorian to little effect; its key was in binding a limb of the enemy, scalding the skin off it as it did, and constricting them like a serpent. Cocooning them in a personal, fiery Hell.

In fighting, broadly speaking, all techniques and arts could be split into two main camps: control arts and striking arts. The control fighters loved to bind, nail down, and squeeze; strikers went for hit damage. Though he was well-versed in both—obviously—Dorian always had a soft spot for control. The first art he’d ever learned, which had born him all the way past the [Spirit] realm, dealt with grappling.

Besides—the last run was all striking. Variety was the spice of lives.

Downing the last of the meat, Dorian stood.

“Evidence disposed of,” he said dryly. His eyes flickered back to the door. It was early morning, which meant another round of Tuketu’s daily mind-games sessions he insisted on calling ‘Hunter Training’. “Shall we?”

***

As Dorian and Kaya strode over, the Tribe was barely rousing from its collective slumber. A few tribesmen, early risers, saw them as they came and waved. A handsome, lanky boy tending to a low campfire looked at the two of them like a frightened rabbit. Scratch that—not the two of them. Just Kaya.

She waved to him with a sun-bright smile and he buried his face, flushing.

“Chef’s son,” she explained with a wink.

When they rounded a corner to the training grounds, however, a peculiar sight greeted them.

Half the Chosen were huddled together at a far end. Kuruk was at its center; he spoke red-faced, his veins bulging on his neck like tree roots. All around him, ripples of nods spread out.

Then Kuruk registered Dorian in the distance. He bared his teeth.

“Gee, I wonder what they’re talking about,” said Kaya, rolling her eyes.

“Sharing recipes for their favorite pies?”

“Yea, sure,” snorted Kaya. “With your bones as ingredients, maybe.”

Before anything could come of it, though, Tuketu raised a fist. “Attention!”

The Chosen lined up into the usual grid, shoulder-to-shoulder.

“Good morning, Chosen. As you are doubtless aware, matters in our Tribe are moving fast,” he said. This time, his voice was light and without pretension. “We’ve a dearth among both your ranks and the Hunters’. And despite Chosen Io’s best efforts—“ here he gave Dorian a nod—“we still lack the resources to return to our peak strength.”

He sighed. “To the worthiest go the spoils! By now, all of you know that everything you receive from me is earned, never given. Today is no exception.”

As he spoke he stalked along the lines like a hungry wolf. “Next week, the Chief has decreed a promotion ceremony. The Tribe is raising a new wave of Hunters. They shall spring from among your ranks.”

He stopped five steps in front of all of them, his muscled arms clasped behind his back. “For the next week, then, it is time for those who seek the mantle of Rust Tribe’s true protectors to step forth! To rise up one more time and to prove yourselves worthy of the title.”

Here he paused. “We aim to form a new Hunter squadron—that is, a team of six—but if too few are worthy, we shall simply add them to existing squadrons. As of yet I am only confident that two among you will pass this round.”

He gestured with a hand and a smile. “And they’ve stood together, too! How convenient. Kaya and Io—of all the Chosen, you have proven yourselves most. The race is yours to lose. The rest of you…will need to prove yourselves to me in the coming week."

Dorian pretended to beam with excitement. Internally, though, he cringed as a dozen pairs of eyes switched onto him. Yet another of Tuketu’s games: Tuketu was very literally damning with his faint praise. In one compliment he’d pitted Dorian and Kaya against the rest of the Chosen.

But Dorian in particular drew glares, and they were scalding. There was a thought that seemed on everyone’s minds. Nobody seemed to want to voice it.

Except Kuruk, who marched out of formation to the very front. He was so red he could’ve been an artery.

“Father!” He roared. “This is not fair! He—that freak—“ He jabbed a crooked finger at Dorian. Dorian waved and smiled. “He has only been here one week! Now he will become a Hunter, ahead of the rest of us?”

He beat his chest. “I have bled for the Tribe! I have worked day and night for one year. I even—even gave up my—“

He swallowed. He breathed out like a huffing bull.

“He does not deserve it!” he snarled. “Not a whit!”

Isn’t this an interesting sight! Dorian looked at him with a lingering curiosity. He’d felt the discontent building in the Chosen for the whole of the week; it always did when something new disrupted a natural, prevailing order. Especially when that new thing came in such a small, obnoxious package.

He scanned the rest of the Chosen. He hadn’t a single ally among them. If looks were any indication, he’d now made enemies of all of them.

He stifled a sigh. This was an inconvenience he’d put off addressing, but he supposed now was as good a time as any. So he was a loner. So his use of relationships was purely transactional. Turning half the newest batch of Chosen against him was still a huge inconvenience—and totally unnecessary.

At this point, Tuketu would usually hop in and throw in some damage control. But this time the man was quiet as a grave. Instead he studied Dorian with laser intensity.

So this is a test too?

As Dorian stepped up, he shot Tuketu a meaningful glance.

He looked Kuruk’s panting, furious form in the eyes and said two words. Words which froze him in place and pricked a hole in all of Hu’s hot air.

“You’re right,” he said softly.