Chapter 56. Preparation & Separation (Patreon)

2,716 Lira. That was what they made that day, and it sent the rest of the Alchemists into yellow-eyed frenzies. Hu and Dorian, meanwhile, chuckled their way back to Rust Tribe’s base camp. The profits were split 50/50 between he and Hu, a figure he’d gotten after much haggling over the past two weeks; he’d walk home today with over 1350 Lira. In other words—just a few more days of this and he’d have enough to be self-sufficient if he decided to defect. Strike it out on his own.

The plan was smoothly in motion. Soon he’d be the strongest in Rust Tribe; after he reaped the spoils of the tournament, he was well on his way to bigger and better things. How long had it been, nearly three weeks? All told, he was making good progress. In this region—above the depths of the Sinkhole, at least—Profound seemed to be the peak of power. He expected to reach it in under six months. Provided nothing meddled with his plans that is. He frowned. Given recent events, that was no guarantee.

Dorian stopped suddenly. Hu kept jabbering and strolling for a few seconds before he registered Dorian’s act. “Eh? What’s wrong?”

Dorian simply inclined his chin.

Two figures emerged from the tent ahead: Chief Rust and Tuketu. Rust’s face was etched in severity; Tuketu, meanwhile, looked calm as ever. Flanking them were four of the Tribe’s finest Hunters. Hu, too, froze.

“Good day, Chosen Io. Alchemist Hu. It’s good to see you.” said Rust smoothly. His eyes were the color of frozen steel. They stamped out whatever warmth lay in his message.

“Good day, Chief!” said Hu. His sacks of money, tied to his waist, jingled as he chortled. “It’s been a good day indeed! How may we help you?”

“Nothing but a perfunctory matter,” said Tuketu, stepping up. He examined Dorian with bright eyes, crinkled with warmth. “We’ve heard you’ve earned a hefty sum today at the markets. Well done. You’ve both been exemplary models of industriousness for the citizens of Rust Tribe.”

A prick of annoyance sizzled like a fire spark in Dorian’s stomach. He could see where this was headed, even as Hu preened under the words.

“Oh, Tuketu, you charmer, you!” said Hu with a blush. “Naturally so—it’s to be expected of an Alchemist of my—“

“We’ve come,” said Rust, eyes flashing, “to take the Tribe’s share.”

Hu’s words choked in his throat. “Pardon,” he rasped, eyes widening a fraction. “I don’t believe I understand, Chief. Tribe’s… share?”

He turned between the two of them, a frown overcoming his face, before scanning the Hunters behind them with a measure of hesitation. “As I understand, Chief, sire…if I may—the Tribe housed the Alchemist, and in return I provide weekly elixirs! This was always the agreement, yes?”

“Yes,” said Tuketu, stepping up and looking Hu in the eyes and smiling lightly. While Rust was dry ice, he was morning sunshine. “And we’re very grateful for all you’ve done for the Tribe. What Chief Rust means is that the Tribe is in dire times…we expect to be at war with the Ugoc in a matter of months! As such—in the event of a fortuitous windfall, such as yours— we’d much appreciate if our Tribe members donated their surplus to aid the cause. It is for the good of all, after all.” He spoke it like it was common sense, the most natural thing in the world.

“I…suppose…” said Hu, looking helpless. He glanced to Dorian, his fists clenched tight over his money-bags. Dorian looked at him, at Rust, at Tuketu in order. Tuketu’s reasoning was nonsense, of course. This was not only a grab at their profits; this was an assertion of power. After today’s display at the Trials and the elimination of Hento and Kuruk—Chief Rust and Tuketu’s children—Dorian and Kaya held the Tribe’s future in their palms. The leaders of the Tribe needed a show of loyalty from him now: a sign they still held power over him, that he hadn’t gotten any squirrelly thoughts of insurrection burrowing up within him.

So he smiled. “Of course. We’d be glad to donate a quarter of our profits.” A generous offer, good enough to ward off both of their suspicions. It pained him even as he said it, but he’d manage. Even with such a cut, plus a fifty-fifty split between him and Hu, he figured he’d still have enough leftover for financial independence.

Plus, he expected to rob Hu blind when he left, likely in the night; if he could pull it off, he’d try for some of the Tribe’s vaults too. That, plus this week’s savings, should suffice to fund his efforts for the foreseeable future.

Then Rust shattered his plans just as they were coalescing. “Fifty percent,” he snapped.

Dorian said nothing. He blinked quickly, as though confused, but inside a part of him seethed. Hu heard the words and whitened, like all the blood drained out of him at once.

“F-fifty?” he said. “Sire—if I may—isn’t that just a tad—“

“You may not,” said Rust. His whole body was rigid, like a statue carved of bedrock. His arms crossed. His lips were set in a hard line. “I want half. Understood?”

This was a test. A test that, judging by the guards behind Rust and Tuketu, was of some significance.

Rage simmered in Dorian’s gut like hot coals. The nerve of this brute! Still, he smiled like it was nothing to him. “Of course! We’d be honored to help the Tribe,” he said. “Here’s my share.”

Calmly, slowly, he untied two of the four bags at his waist and tossed them over. Rust caught them with a flick of his wrist.

“Hu?” prodded Tuketu, his tone gentle and soothing. Shuddering, Hu unclipped his own and handed them over. He looked as though he’d been forced to dig his still-beating heart out of his chest and was giving up the bloody remains.

Tuketu’s smile grew celestial. “My sincerest thanks for your contributions. The Tribe will remember this!”

Oh, I’m sure. So will I.

***

Rust Tribe hadn’t outlived its use. Dorian kept reminding himself of this as he stalked back to his tent two moneysacks lighter. By now he’d defused a good chunk of his rage, so that all that remained in his gut were hot charred coals. As he walked through the doors of his tent and plopped his belongings down, he sighed.

There was a schism forming between him and Rust Tribe leadership, one which, if left unaddressed, might grow ugly. Rust likely hadn’t banked on both Hento and Kuruk getting knocked out right away. That also meant leverage was on Dorian’s side: he and Kaya were the ones dictating whether all of Rust Tribe reaped the rewards of both the Trials and the Tournament. It was sticking a poor bandage over an open wound, perhaps, but he’d be gone before the wound really started to fester. At least—he should be gone by then. He hoped.

The next disaster to avert on his to-do list was the matter of Pearl and Mystery of the Sudden God-Powers. In the distance he heard drunken cries as the night’s festivities started to take hold and saw a constellation of lights and fires marking out the tents: no doubt the bulk of the Festivalgoers would be out drinking and dancing the night away. The competitors had no time for such revelry. If they were smart they’d spend tonight game-planning and either cultivating or in deep sleep.

It was a good time, then, for him to do some covert scouting. It was the work of a quarter of an hour to trundle himself up in some dark, nondescript leathers—ordinary gear he’d bought at the market with a fraction of his earnings. When he exited the tent he was like any other Festivalgoer. He kept his aura on a tight leash and stepped, in shadow, in the direction of the Dregs’ tent.

The first thing he noticed when he arrived was that it was irritatingly well-lit. Torches were placed within hundreds of square feet of it in all directions, lighting up the sands; to stay hidden in the dark here while listening in was futile. Further, the paranoid bastard had set lackeys on patrol in front of his tent, manning the door-flaps and keeping a sharp eye out. Likely for people like him: trespassers sticking their noses into their business. From afar, Dorian could make out shadows moving, hands gesturing in heated conversation. If he could snatch but an hour’s conversation he was sure he’d be an invaluable step closer to unraveling this enigma.

Amusingly, he wasn’t the only one with this idea. As he scanned the dunes, he spotted no less than six agents—likely of other clans—hidden, straining to dash in closer while remaining hidden. It was forbidden by Festival rule to interfere with other competitors in off-time; to trespass on their territory might raise the brows of the organizers. So they were all stuck here, at yet another dead end.

This whole day Dorian had gotten zilch from eavesdropping. It seemed Pearl was smart enough to shut out spies from approaching too. Dorian scratched his chin, then shrugged and turned. This was an issue he needn’t crack tonight; he’d let it settle, see if any of the other camps snagged important information, and reassess another day.

For now, he simply returned to his tent. By now Kaya was deep in meditation. He did a double-take. Had she been here earlier, when he first came in? He smelled alcohol on the air and frowned. Lying in the sand were two pitched-over bottles. He looked to the partying in the distance, then back at her, and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

At least she’s come to her senses now. Settling down to a lotus pose, he too submerged himself in his mind and called to the burgeoning energies of the world which thickened the air like mist. Tonight was an especially good night for cultivation, one of the best of the year. Sensing the flows of his body, he got to work. The Vigor Realm involved constructing the perfect physique, an evolving base on which to support all future cultivation endeavors; each minor level here was a major leap in power. It was time to tackle the first level of the Vigor Realm: purifying bone.

***

It proved a productive night. After downing a series of boosting elixirs he channeled qi into his bones, letting his bloodline do the hard work of forging his body anew; it was yet another privilege of bloodline that they came with their own in-built paths to their physiques. Normal cultivators needed bespoke techniques to carefully guide their qi to form Vigor Physiques. While he didn’t manage a breakthrough—full completion of the bone purification stage—his body was still noticeably denser by the break of dawn. He was certain his bones had exceeded the hardness of iron. There were few things he’d encounter on a daily basis which had a chance of breaking him. Whatever the next Trials were, he felt confident. Even with Godly meddling in the equation.

Somehow Kaya was so sound asleep that she was snoring; Dorian had to wake her up thrice. The first two times she shrugged him off, groaning; the third, she burst upright, screaming. “What time is it?!” She spun around like a top. “Did I miss the—“

“Relax. You’re just in time,” said Dorian with a snort. “Let’s go.”

This time the competitors were a much trimmer group, a mere sixty-four. The major clans were well-represented, each sporting at least five qualifiers; the small ones were lucky to have one or two, like Kaya and Dorian. Most had none.

The Trials were already set up for them when they arrived. This time, ten massive blocks stood like oversized gravestones; each was obscured by a spell which cast a mirage over it, obscuring all but its basic shape.

“Welcome, competitors, to the second day of the Trials!” said Zhang. “Today’s Trial is the Trial of the Mind.”

His eyes glittered with deviousness. “Fittingly, we shall give you no further instructions. Deduce the parameters of the Trial. The first thirty-two to qualify pass.”

That drew some murmurs from the competitors; before they could work themselves up, Zhang snapped his fingers. The illusions fell.

“Begin!”

Time Elapsed: 2 weeks, 3 days