50. Golden Boy (Patreon)

Pearl nodded to a girl in rags whose hair resembled a pigeon’s nest.

“Ray? You’re up.”

The girl nodded, licking her lips. “I went to see what the Narong’s got,” she said. She was young, barely a teen, yet her voice was so hoarse it could’ve been a grandmother’s. “I got myself a few robes n’ played pretend as a servant. Cleaning. I saw them practicing.”

She stared deep into Pearl’s eyes. “They’re sharp. Real sharp. I saw the young master, the one you told me to look for. He sliced a block a Wyrmhide straight in half! With just his elbow! Like that!”

She licked a finger, then drew it across the air in a slash. “Pshhh!”

“Great work, Ray,” said Pearl, ruffling her hair. She preened under his touch. “Did he feel strong?”

“Very strong,” said Ray.

Pearl paused. His eyes took on an intense light, shining like cold stars. “Stronger than me?”

“Er…”

Pearl smiled easily. “Don’t you worry. Tell me the truth, now.”

“Yes. Just… just a ‘lil. He felt—“ She took a breath in. “I’m not strong enough to tell. He felt real strong. Way into Vigor Realm. Late-late. Like—“ Her brow furrowed as she grasped for words, found none.

“That’s alright,” said Pearl, flashing her his bone-white teeth. “You’ve done well enough for tonight. Rest.”

She thumped back down onto the sand with a grateful nod. For a moment Pearl thought quietly to himself, eyes closed, letting the low cackle of the fire fill the air.

“Young Master Narong’s long been a rising star,” he said softly. “Of his many brothers, he’s carved himself out as the heir apparent. These past few years he’s made great strides. Like all Narong, he practices the body cultivation technique ‘The Art of Four Points.’ It aims to mold its user into a lethal weapon. At its height, a touch soft as the flap of a butterfly’s wings is enough to kill a man—or so the legend goes...”

As he spoke, he surveyed the haggard faces gathered. Adopted or not, they’d become his family. Reliant on him and supportive of him, sticking together through thin and thinner all these years. He nearly felt his heart beating in sync with theirs. “If what you say’s true, he’s jumped yet again. I’d wager he thinks he’ll win this year. Quite a hassle, that one.”

He chuckled, waving a hand. “Who’s next? Cog?”

His gaze fell on a meatball of a teen. Of all those present he was the only one with any fat to him. It reflected his past; he’d only recently been booted out from a lofty position in his Tribe on counts of embezzlement. The Dregs had been more than happy to take him in.

“Went to take a look at the Yalta,” he said evasively. His eyes darted back and forth and he huddled into himself, as though afraid to take up space. Of all of them he was also the least comfortable; he fidgeted constantly. “They didn’t even try to hide their training. Held it out in the open. Young Master Yalta’s as crazy as ever. Trains the Art of the Cold Crush. He was smashing his training partners so hard it’s a wonder they’re not paralyzed. And they were Vigor too. He’s at the very least at late Vigor now. Maybe peak.”

“Yes, yes. Young Master Yalta,” mused Pearl. “So-called Strongest of this Generation. He’s won the last Festival, and the one before that. Perhaps my greatest threat. We’ve known since the beginning, but it’s good to hear it spoken. Many thanks, Cog. Well done.”

Nodding, he waved Cog off. The boy shrank back, out of the light. “Let’s hear of the Zhupai next. Speak, Boot.”

A girl with spiky hair and a wild, ferocious beauty to her perked up. She was his second-in-command and the closest to him in strength: nearly all the way to Vigor. All she lacked was that final push through the bottleneck.

She shrugged. “What’s there to say? They’re fast. They’ll win all the speed trials, sure. Who gives a damn? They’re made of glass. They’ll be up there among the top, but who cares? They’re no threat. Nobody of note’s come out of them for years.”

“Sounds chipper,” said Pearl. “What else? Anything of note?”

He scanned his Tribesmen. They looked at one another. A few voices popped up. “I saw the Yven’s got a few new Vigors this year…”

Pearl shrugged. “The water-folk? Easy work.”

“I saw Young Master Hanta advanced to early Vigor.”

“That’s well beneath my notice,” laughed Pearl.

Then a soft, deep voice spoke up. “There is one Tribe. The Xiamen. They’re kinda like us. They came out of nowhere this year.”

“Xiamen?” Pearl’s brows furrowed. “Curious. I’ve never heard of them.”

“They’ve got four Vigors already, plus their Young Master. That usually takes decades to build up. The weird thing is—I asked around. Nobody knows ‘em. Nobody knows what they practice, even. Can’t find any history on ‘em.”

Pearl’s eyes narrowed. “Now that is noteworthy. Hm.” He scratched his chin. “Nah. I can’t recall them. Very curious…Rags. Violet. Follow Wing to their camp. If they make it past the elimination rounds, I want a full report on them.”

Nods all around. Pearl broke out into a blinding grin. “Very good! That’s enough for a night, I think. You’re all welcome to head on out. Sleep well, my loves.”

Each of them nodded back to him; a few bowed deep. A few affirmations bubbled up—“Get ‘em, Pearl!” and “I believe in you!” and the like—before they filtered out the tent flaps.

At last, only one was left. Cog stood at the doorway, fidgeting with his fingers.

Pearl raised an eyebrow. “Well? What’s up?”

“Pearl—I know I’ve not been here long, and I don’t mean to question you, but—“

“Please!” said Pearl. He strode over to Cog, his hands on his hips. “Don’t feel stressed about it. You know me—I’m not one to take offense. Ask away.”

“Are you going to—well, that is to say—err—everyone’s really high on you. Really, really high. They all um. They all think the world of you. But I—that is—do you really think you’ll win?” said Cog. His face flushed. “Wait. That’s not how I meant it. I mean—“

“Relax.” Pearl laughed. “I get it. I’m a nobody, aren’t I?”

“That’s not what I—“

“Let’s call it as it is. We’re a Tribe of rejects. We’re a brother- and sister-hood of misshapen misfits. If I’m the head of the Dregs, what’s that make me?” He tilted his head. “How’ve I got any assurances against someone like Young Master Narong? He’s been bathed in Vigor beast broth to strengthen his physique since he was four. He slaughtered his first Vordor before he hit double digits! The best we’ve got, meanwhile, is a stray beast core every once in a few moons. That about sum it up?”

Cog scratched the back of his neck, still flushed. “I guess so.”

“Well, when you put it like that I guess it doesn’t look so good. Except for one thing.” With one long finger, Pearl tapped on his forehead. Right on the golden infinity. It flowed and glowed, a river of molten gold. “I’ve got a trump card none of them got, too.”

***

Late that night, alone in his tent, Pearl took out a flask. It was a concoction made of rare Sinkhole herbs, brewed over months to a perfect, pale-pink solution. It could only be taken on special nights, nights when the moons were close together: when the barriers between realms grew lax. When two spirits from vastly distant realms could brush against one another, almost touching.

He downed the solution in one big gulp. He was out nearly instantly. His hands went soft, his head limp; he flopped bonelessly to the ground, limbs lolling out in all directions. His soul no longer captained its form. Instead it was thrust somewhere high above, somewhere in-between. The mark on his forehead burned brighter than ever, the river of gold within churning in frothing rapids.

He found himself in a void-space. A shared illusion between him and someone else. It was not his space, and he could do nothing but wait. He was weightless, a floating soul. He didn’t feel anything out of the ordinary; he felt nothing at all. Human conceptions of taste and sight and sound were lost to him: he existed in an alternate mode.

So when the other joined him in the space, he neither saw nor heard him. Rather he only felt, and it was a sensation akin to staring into the vast ocean at night. The soul was massive on a scale his mind was not equipped to fathom. He tensed up. In this space, a mere thought could crush him, leaving his real body a soulless husk.

The thing had only one request of him. Tell us of your progress.

So he did. He sent the thoughts telepathically, slowly, in great detail, and the soul stayed silent, listening. All the events of the past few months were relayed. Every minute impression of all he’d met. When at last he’d scraped out the last of the insides of his mind, a huge sensation of satisfaction was transmitted to him; so strong was it that he felt like he’d been caught in the midst of a large, exulting crowd.

Pearl didn’t understand what this being wanted of him. He didn’t understand his role in its plan, nor did he care to. All he knew was that he’d struck a bargain that’d elevated him from common street-rat to a would-be prodigy of the Desert; that was good enough for him.

Like always, the being had only one more thing to say.

There is a trespasser in your world. It was a phrase which meant almost nothing to him. Should you notice anything far outside the norm, contact us immediately. That is all. Also vague. Frustratingly so. For once in this years-long relationship, his curiosity got the better of him.

What am I supposed to look for?

A silence. Then, You will know it when you see it.

He was flummoxed. You haven’t given me much to go off of. What if I don’t catch it?

This time the sensation he got was a flicker of annoyance—just a wisp. It still hit his psyche like a hammer blow.

Do as you are told. Do not worry about the rest. You are not our only agent.

Later that night, while Pearl was still spread out against the sands, his mark started to glow a peculiar white hue. A conduit, ethereal and gossamer as a silken string, stretched up from the mark to a realm unseen. Power flowed like water.

***

Nearby, a very different sort of power beset a dark-haired boy. He sat cross-legged, unmoving, his body glistening with sweat. The air was around him was charged and thick with trembling qi. Each breath was labored and choppy. Qi steamed off his body in big clouds, but more still was cycled into himself—into his core and his muscles, forcing out the impurities of man, a cleansing of his physique. His aura felt like a rising wave, washing over all around him, only gaining in speed and size as it surged toward some invisible yet mighty dam. Nearby lay a flask freshly emptied.

With one hand Dorian wiped the sweat from his brow. If his calculations were right, that was two years of his life and potential liquidated into sheer qi. There was too much boiling in him to ride it out; he needed a firm hand to force it down. He gritted his teeth. This was it.

It felt like trying to redirect the course of a raging river with only his bare hands. A great bright slash of pain lit up his body as more qi settled in, integrating into his muscles and bones and skin, firming them to something new—a higher power. His body smoked like a pyre, the last remnants of mortal impurities fleeing his body.

At long last, Dorian stood at the cusp of the Vigor Realm. It’d only need one more push.

With a triumphant shout, he shoved.