40. A Hard Reunion (Patreon)

Dorian was patient. You had to be, at his age. He could stomach silence. It was good in moderate doses, but too much grew tiresome fast. As he stepped through the skies, scouting out a wide perimeter and taking a winding route toward the constellation, Kaya faded in and out of consciousness on his back, groaning and shuddering. She was still in that sleep-most-of-the-day phase of recovery. He groaned with her, the sounds fusing to one discordant note. For the hundredth time he lamented that it was a pity living things couldn’t enter Interspatial Rings.

All around them lay sand, stretching to the horizon and beyond. After a few hundred, the dunes all started looking the same. The desert was deserted. One could go fifty miles and think they’d make no progress in any direction; the land certainly gave no indication. This far from a Sinkhole Spirit Beasts were few and far between too. So there was nothing to entertain him, really, but his own thoughts.

That was when the trouble always started. As an immortal it was impossible not to get used to monotony. He could distract himself with simple pleasures, sure; he’d gone spans of ten, twenty years, even centuries on nonsense. As he went, his cycling, burning, and searching were all relegated to rote maneuvers in his mind. He lost himself in thought. For now, springing along this desert, he’d be perfectly fine. When the silence stretched to millennia, that was when things got dicey.

Existential ennui, that other dastardly old foe of his! It was only ever possible to forestall the emptiness of existence for so long. As he ran along the endless desert, heading seemingly nowhere, his mind inevitably wandered to that other endless desert. Life. You were done for if you didn’t have a ‘thing.’ For most of his old pals in the Zenith Realm it was state-building; leading empires, conquering worlds, setting against one another in endless wars. They might have claimed higher reasons but it was all a front in the end. All that bloodshed was a desperate defense against boredom, a distraction from the void.

It wasn’t really all that complex. Or interesting. Nothing was, at a certain stage. It was why he had trouble taking anything in these tiny lives seriously; he had trouble taking any inhabitant of even an Upper Realm seriously, much less these Lower-Realm self-important specks called man. In the end that was all they were: atoms in the void, top-to-bottom. No amount of power let anyone escape the indisputable fact, and you didn’t need to live a hundred years to realize that everyone born alone dies alone.

What was a life ended or a life saved, really, in the final calculus? He’d seen uncountable lives come and go, and for what? Was there, in truth, any more value in a human existence than that of a speck of dust? In the end they were all the same. For much of his first run he’d clung onto some vague belief that life mattered. Hells, he’d ascended one life after dedicating centuries to raising a full-fledged multiversal Church. Years upon years upon years ago, he might’ve considered his current state vicious.

He snorted as he went. There was no viciousness to him. No malice. He didn’t care enough for that; he’d simply learned not to romanticize tiny things of no significance anymore—that was all.

The only thing was to live despite it all. Everything else was a coping mechanism.

On his back, Kaya groaned.

Shrugging, he kept her up. It might’ve been a vestige of his old body, but he’d taken a bit of a liking to her. But she was, in truth, no better than the rest. In the blink of an eye she’d be dust. The multiverse would roll on. And still nothing would matter.

What else was there to do, really, but screw around?

As he saw the sun’s last rays flicker out in the night sky, he settled down for a spot of rest.

He plopped Kaya down, got out the cauldron, and set to preparing the rest of the Vordor meat.

It’d be gritty, grinding work. As far as he knew he was the only Godking who debased themselves to trawling through the guts of mere [Vigor] Realm beasts; his peers would likely consider it beneath them to start all over again. Why return to the hell that is weakness?

For him, it was always a chance to start over. It was the one thing that returned him his purpose. And really, wasn’t that all that mattered?

***

He ran out of water. He ended up puncturing a cactus, then siphoning off liquid into two empty flasks. At his stage and with his newfound bloodline, their spikes only tickled him.

Kaya had woken up. She nursed a slab of meat around a fire, looking awfully pale. At least she looked mad. Mad was good; mad meant vigor. At least she had the energy for it.

“Are you sure we’re headed the right way?” She blinked, looking around. Kaya had many virtues but patience was not one of them.   “Of course not,” said Dorian.

She shot him a sardonic look.“We could die out here, you know.”

“I won’t let that happen.”

She raised an eyebrow mid-chew. “Will you, now?”

He grinned. “I’ve got a Bloodline now. I’ll tear up anything that comes our way. Promise!”

She rolled her eyes, but a little color did seem to come back to her face.

***

In the morning they set out again. He’d taken a wide-ranging, circuitous route, making sure he wasn’t missing them. Even so he suspected it’d take less than half a day more for they and Rust Tribe to cross paths once more.

Sure enough—after a few hours there was a dot in the distance, a glut of aura. Slowly shuffling along. It was unmistakably the Rust Tribe.

He was growing fast, but the Tribe was a tool that definitely hadn’t outlived its purpose. If he was to launch himself high up, and fast, he needed a suitable pad. A reunion it was.

He anticipated some fallout as he approached. Kaya had reverted back to her semi-comatose state, which was just as well for him. As he went along, drawing to within a few miles, he uncorked his aura.

It rolled out of him in clear, heavy waves, a signal flare of qi. He purposefully let it sit there, untamed and wild, as though it were so fresh he hadn’t yet gotten a chance to clamp down on it.

Not five minutes later, the alarm horn rang out in Rust Tribe.

He approached at a leisurely pace, Kaya in tow, as Hunters gushed out to the front of the Tribe, forming ranks—all cycling red qi, they made a wall of fire. All high-Tier Origin fighters, all looking very serious in their hide armors. The civilians were soon gathered in formation at the center too. He saw Hento and Kuruk standing tense in the mix. He saw Rust and Tuketu emerge at the front in tight strides, muttering to each other. Both men were stone-faced.

Dorian had come close enough that they could see each other’s faces with clarity. Gasps rang out all across the Tribe, audible from even here; then the whispers arose. The Hunters did not let up their guard. He saw a brief flicker of shock pass through Rust’s face before the mask slid on again.

Then Rust unleashed his own aura. Cold, steely, resisting Dorian’s; shoving back, creating a pocket of space over Rust Tribe. Another flicker of surprise. He must’ve felt his Bloodline pressured by Dorian’s own.

To his side, he felt a very subtle aura, restrained but still present, emanate from Tuketu. Tamped down, nearly hidden, but clear to his new senses: another Bloodline aura.

Dorian’s cheek twitched. Hardly a hero’s reception.

“Chosen Io,” said Rust in a near monotone. “What a pleasant surprise. You’ve brought Chosen Kaya back too. We thought you dead.”

Dorian stopped short and took a deep, long bow. “Greetings, Chief Rust!” he smiled. “The Heavens have smiled on us. We’ve returned safely, bearing treasures.”

“And a new Bloodline too, it seems,” said Rust softly, eyes narrowed. He didn’t even attempt his trademark pressure. He likely knew it’d accomplish nothing. Instead he kept his gaze trained on Dorian, unflinching, unblinking, unmoving. “A fine one at that. A fish leaping over the dragon’s gate. In one stroke, you’ve grown tremendously.”

To his side, even Tuketu looked a little tense; his face was marred by the slightest of frowns.

“This disciple just got lucky.”

Rust cocked his head a few degrees. “Evidently. It is the presence which the two Profound beasts warred over, is it not? A Prime Bone?”

“That’s right, Chief.”

“It must have been quite some luck, then.” His tone was thick with suspicion. He looked at Dorian like he’d been thrown a puzzle he couldn’t crack.

“Yes.”

Tuketu piped in. A little grin quirked a corner of his mouth. “And you’ve taken the Bone for yourself, disciple,” he said, slowing his words as he went. The emphasis rested on the last word. “Such a Bone might’ve been a huge boon for the Tribe. Especially as a bargaining chip during the Festival.”

Dorian nodded, smiling back. He’d expected they’d try something like this, with how he’d shown up. His relationship with Rust Tribe had reached a strange critical point; he’d need to drag it back from the brink as things went. If he was to rely on the Tribe, he’d rather a warm relationship than a mercenary one...

That was for later. For now, he’d need to show just the right amount of spine.

“Of course, Master Tuketu,” said Dorian, dipping his head. “I was coming back to deliver the Bone to the Tribe—but I couldn’t find you when I returned!” He blinked rapidly, wide-eyed. “Stranded with my injured sis, I was forced to take the Bone to fight back against Spirit Beasts…I hope you understand, sir.”

The subtext: you left me behind. You’re at fault here too. Now that he had some leverage, he could push back some. Don’t try to run me over!

“It wasn’t all for nothing,” Dorian continued. “I’ve brought gifts!”

He tapped his Interspatial Ring.

Two Vigor Realm Beast cores thudded to the ground. Both Tuketu’s and Chief Rust’s eyes followed it as it fell. A beat of silence.

“For the Tribe!” proclaimed Dorian proudly, tapping his chest. He smiled. Another beat.

Then that smile faded a little as he sprang up in shock, pretending he’d just remembered something important. “Ah, right! My sis—she needs a cot and healing elixirs, fast!”

Then, blinking harder, he looked around at the rest of them as though he were seeing them for the first time. “Wait… why’s everyone so tense? What’s with all the cycling?”

He swiveled around, looking at the horizon dumbly. “Are we being attacked?”

There was a long, pregnant pause. He kept looking around, playing innocent and confused. Your move, Rust. What’ll it be? Let me back in or not? He’d unbalanced the power dynamic between himself and the rest of the Tribe, true, but that didn’t make him any less valuable. Especially if they believed he was as much a foolish, malleable boy as he’d been for fifteen years.

Rust’s face twisted. It seemed like he was slowly swallowing something. He pushed out a breath.

“Hmph,” he said. He turned to his Hunters. “Chosen Io has returned. It is a blessed day for the Tribe,” he said loftily. “There is no cause for alarm. Disperse.”

He nodded once in Dorian’s direction, and the Hunters slowly began to disband. The rest of the Tribe went with them, casting long looks in Dorian’s direction. Dorian didn’t miss the weight in Rust’s eyes. The man was an adept at reigning in his emotions but it was clear as day what he thought of this new development. If he didn’t know what to make of Dorian before, he was verging on outright suspicious now. Whatever the case, Dorian expected twice the scrutiny from now on.

Shrugging, Dorian began a slow walk toward the caravan. In the interim while they migrated, his next little side project might be to rehabilitate his image some.

It was fun playing the holier-than-thou prodigy, but from experience it was even more fun lording over a following all willing to sacrifice themselves for his good. He doubted Rust Tribe would ever reach that level, but at the very least he’d need to make it so half the tribe members didn’t look at him side-eyed. It was nice—and more importantly, useful—to be liked.

He’d grown a good deal of hard power these last few days. As he went along with his other plans—elixir-making, attaining Hunter, milking the Festival and beyond—perhaps it was time to throw in some soft power too.