51. Trial of the Body (I) (Patreon)

He felt like he’d been boiled alive, like all his skin and muscle had been shaved off with a scalding knife, then pasted back on piece by piece, melting together to a perfect whole. He didn’t bother opening his eyes; he knew all he’d see was a storm of rising black-gray smoke. He’d passed the critical point and a shock of pure joy hit him, starting from the heart and spreading to the rest of him. He tingled with it, was one with it. Something vital had changed, a building block of his being swapped out for something more tempered. More pure. He flexed his hands and felt acutely in his digits the strain and pull of every muscle and tendon. There was no space between thought and action. His hands felt like vices, capable of crushing steel to dust with but a flicker of intent. In that moment, heart hammering, thumping in his ears, forged anew in a smithy of his own blood, he felt like the god he was. A new vitality coursed through his body. He knew instinctively that his speed had at least tripled, his strength more than that. His body felt hardier than the toughest of metals. Vigor. Finally here.

[Rank-up!]

[Origin -> Vigor Lv. 0]

When at last the smoke had lessened he opened his eyes to a new world of color. Details bombarded him near and far; from here he saw the little wisps of cloth dangling off the side of the door-flap, caught like hairs in the early-morning light. In the distance he could make out each grain of sand of a dune. He looked at his hands and saw two perfect tools, looked to his arms and legs and knew that he was without blemish. His hair was blacker than the depths of a tar pit and his skin felt like silk. He turned his own arm around, marveling at the sight. Even thoughts came faster now; he hadn’t changed, but his processing speed had noticeably jumped. As he cycled, a thin sheen of midnight black wreathed his every move. This physique has no name, but it is born of a Bloodline of decay. Let us call it the Evernight Physique.

In progressing to Vigor, most took months in preparation and only managed to expel a quarter, perhaps half of their impurities; in other words they formed an impure Vigor Physique of varying degrees. Those with bloodlines got a boost—most managed at least a high-grade Vigor Physique which corresponded to their bloodline. Only those with the best of preparation, talent, timing, and skill could bridge the divide between nearly perfect and utterly so.

In truth, even he hadn’t managed perfection, just a state very close to it. A few flecks of impurities still remained within him, tainting this body to a False Perfect classification. It wasn’t that he wasn’t capable of it. Rather, Perfection brought about headaches he wasn’t yet prepared to handle.

He was trying for speed, not completion. A Perfect physique would invite the wrath of the heavens. Likely it’d bring about some natural phenomena; a beam of light shooting to the skies, perhaps, or a disturbance of qi which could be felt for miles. Then there was the Tribulation lightning which descended on any perfections, for it was natural law that anything which dared imitate heaven’s perfection be struck down.

Incidentally, the law was declared by one of his most annoying acquaintances, a neurotic crone of a Godking who ruled his own angelic domain and grew jealous anytime anyone—across any realm—tried for Perfect status. The higher level the Perfection, the more Tribulations it invited; it was an artificial way to limit the number of the highest tier of powerful beings in existence. Godkings were no different than anyone else at the top: perpetually paranoid that someone younger and stronger would come to displace them.

Dorian chuckled as he flexed his hands and feet, willing himself up to a standing pose. Effortless. He cycled his qi, bringing upon himself a load which must’ve totaled the weight of ten men, and dashed out the door-flaps. The air was crisp to his ears and skin. The sounds of his feet driving against the sands, the chatter of people in the distance, far and near, the deep thump-thump of a Vordor’s wings beating softly somewhere high above. Even the geyser’s note gained texture, stretching from a background crash to a tremulous, cavernous roar. It was like all his senses had been jacked up to feverish points—yet his mind could handle it all. It felt like he’d entered into a higher state of consciousness, an elevated state of being. He felt borne aloft by phoenix feathers and angels’ breaths.

Smiling widely, he went to check on Kaya. By now she’d awakened fully; when he pushed through the doors she was cross-legged, deep in a cycling session, taming the last of the wild energies in her core. The aura she radiated indicated the eight level of the Origin Realm, a seismic leap from mere days before. Sensing a disturbance, she sat upright and spun toward the entrance. Her eyes widened. “Io?”

“Morning,” he said. “You’re finally up! How was the pill?”

“It was—wait.” She frowned as she scanned his hair, his face, his arms. “What happened to you? Did you—“

“Break through to Vigor? Yep! Just last night.” He let himself in and plopped down unceremoniously. “What about you? You seem a bit stronger too—“

“Stop. Stop. Hold on.” Kaya’s frown threatened to spill over on either side of her forehead.“You broke through to Vigor. Like that.”

“Yes…?” He said, shrugging. “I was cycling and it just happened. All of a sudden.”

She stared at him silently for a long time. So long he was starting to feel uncomfortable. “Err,” he said. “So… did the pill work?”

“Worked just fine. Better than fine, actually,” she said absently. Her brows pinched together. “Wait. You mean to tell me you passed one of the biggest bottlenecks just like that?!”

“I…guess, yeah?” He scratched his head. “I think it’s to do with the bloodline. It mighta smoothed things over.”

She was quiet again, brows scrunched together, mumbling softly to herself. For a second he was worried he might’ve broken her.

“Hello?”

“Shut up.” When she opened her eyes again she looked almost exasperated. “Of course you broke through to Vigor in a night. Gods’ sakes. Of course. I really shouldn’t be surprised by this nonsense anymore.” She snorted. “That’s it. I’m over being shocked. From now, you can tell me you’re the Dweller reincarnated and all I’ll do is smile and nod.”

She crossed her arms, a small smile at her lips. “Vigor realm, eh? Saints. You’re all grown up.” Her frown returned. “Nope. Nope. It’s still not clicking. How the hells—“

“I’ve been cycling day and night these past few days, sis,” he said, willing a blush to his cheeks. “I ‘spose it’s paid off some. After I saw how strong the other competitors were, I figured I’d have to—“

“Competitors.” Kaya paused. “Right. The Festival! It’s the day of the first Trial! What are we doing, standing around like two headless Wyrms?!”

She snatched him by the arm. “We’ve got to go.”

“Where?”

“Tuketu!” She snapped. “He still thinks I’m lolling in some healer’s cot. If he’s finalized the Festival team by now, I’m done for!”

***

As it turned out, Kaya was right. Tuketu was in deep conversation when they burst through the doors of his tent. He glanced up at them, brows raised.

“Chosen Io! You’re early. And Chosen Kaya, too—a welcome surprise. Shouldn’t you be recuperating, dear?”

“I’m all healed up,” she growled, grinning fiercely. “I’m here to fight.”

“Are you now.” Tuketu strode up, a curious light in his eyes. He gave her a once-over, then nodded to a spot beside him. “Throw a Flash Palm. Let me—“

“HA!”

A blast of light and heat, a scattering of sand. Tuketu hummed.

“So you are, so you are.” He tilted his head a fraction. “Might I ask, weren’t you barely walking a few days prior? How have you come this far this fast?”

She jerked a hand toward Dorian. “It’s all his fault, I’m afraid! Brewed me an elixir that had me burning up for a day or two, but I’m all fixed up now. Ready to go!” As though to certify her readiness she flashed Tuketu a thumbs-up.

“I… see.” Tuketu’s eyes were turned to him again. He had a knowing look to him which set Dorian a little on edge. “Well. You’ve both come at the right time. I was just speaking to your fellow Festival teammates on what comes next.”

He jerked his head to the corner, where Hento fidgeted with his cuffs; he gave them a shaky wave. To his side was Kuruk, standing stone-faced.

“We’ve not much time until the Trial,” said Tuketu. He nodded to Dorian. “I planned to brief you alone, but this will do too. Come. We’ve much to discuss.”

***

Hours later, the competitors all stood in ranks, spaced across a large field which stood opposite the markets, separated by the geyser. Each team, most of whom fielded no more than five members, were marked out by a flag with an insignia; some, the wealthier of the clans, wore matching uniforms. First in the day came the Trials, and all of the Festivalgoers had come to spectate: a mass of people pressed up at the edges of the field, thousands strong. To Dorian’s side, even Kaya was a little pale. She’d likely never been at the center of such a huge spectacle. Hento, meanwhile, had nearly devolved into a nervous wreck. He looked to her with pleading eyes. “Good-luck kiss?” he simpered, which at least brought some color back to her face. She gave him a hearty slap in the face instead; by Hento’s blushing it seemed to have the same effect regardless. Kuruk’s knuckles were clenched so tight his fists nearly vibrated.

At the very front of them stood Zhang, the Elder of the Azcan Oasis and this year’s Festival organizer. He seemed very pleased with himself. Behind him was a massive swathe of shimmering air; it looked like a heat wave had warbled the scenery. But this was a mere construct: an illusion thrown up by an artifact, a way to hide the contents of the First Trial from the Festival’s participants. All Tuketu had managed to glean was that this Trial involved an unusual degree of dexterity.

“Welcome to the First Trial, one and all!” said Zhang primly. “The Festival Trials have always been to celebrate the talents among us. Those who’ve proven themselves worthy of leading the Desert to a brilliant future. But it takes an extraordinary man to fill such a role. Today’s Trial, as per tradition, tests the physical: it is the Trial of the Body. I’ll not dally longer. Assistants, if you will…”

The shimmer vanished. The scene faded. In its place, a new one came into focus, and gasps rang out in the crowd. Zhang spread his arms wide, his teeth shining like icicles.

Behind him, suspended high in the air, were forty moss-ridden blocks of stone of varying sizes, hovering of their own accord. They seemed unstable, wobbling. They were unmistakably stepping-stones of a most perilous sort, held up by machinations of qi.

Between those stones, though, was where things got interesting. Battle-axes groaning on chains, swinging back and forth. Thin, long sections of metal slicked with oils. A section of tiles which disappeared and reappeared in a set pattern. Fire blasts to harass participants. Spiked balls and arrow-traps spread out along the length of the thing. It was obscene. Even Dorian was taken aback at the sight. Are they trying to kill us? Someone like Kuruk can take three steps and get his head lopped clean off.

“The rules are simple: fastest through wins,” said Zhang. His eyes glinted. “But that alone isn’t enough of a challenge, is it?”

He gestured beneath, where an array of crossbows lay on the ground. Each sported a deep red rune. “Each competitor will receive a Darkfire Crossbow loaded with a single arrow,” he said. “For added fun, each of you will have the chance to shoot the others out of the sky!”

He smiled to them all, looking for all the world like a kid with a new playpen. “Let’s begin, shall we?”