57. Trial of the Mind (I) (Patreon)

Dorian’s breath caught. There wasn’t a frost fae’s chance in hells this was made by the Azcan Oasis or any of the Oases. Before him were ten pitch-black monoliths which towered above all of them, as though ten etched tablets had been blown up a thousandfold. Dorian could imagine the hands—or claws, or talons—which drew these, each of its digits bigger than the tallest of men. This was almost certainly the work of another race, and a peculiarly advanced one at that. Each of the tablets, unmasked, radiated an aura of age; each had a certain gravity which only adorned the ancient. The Izod Desert was a graveyard replete with forgotten species and treasures. Who knew where the Festival representatives had dug these up from?

As far as he knew, today’s test was the Trial of the Mind. He expected to be tested on technique comprehension. He narrowed his eyes, flitting between the tablets, a little baffled. There was no pattern to their setup. One tablet was a paragraph etched in the Universal Tongue; by a cursory skim it seemed to denote a footwork technique: qigong, as the locals called them. Another was a diagram of dots and streaks which Dorian could make no heads or tails of. A third had almost nothing at all: just a hole bored into it and what looked to be a slash running along the side; even from a quick glance Dorian could tell there was something special about them, a tingling of the mind which hinted of secrets hidden there. He kept browsing. Another text, this time covering a wind-manipulation technique, some distant cousin of his Cloud-Treading Steps, but applied for uses beyond merely transportation. Another diagram. On and on the blocks went.

What am I supposed to do with all this? Dorian couched his hand on his hip, brows creasing. To his left a few contestants had gone over to Zhang. They seemed to have similar concerns—one cried, “At least tell us the objective!”

Zhang simply looked at him in mild amusement.

Think. The solution must be simple. I’m me. These are scum at the bottom of the multiverse. If this Trial was designed so they could pass it, how hard can it be?

He surveyed the tablets again coldly and with analysis on his mind. A few commonalities jumped out. All these tablets described Techniques of an air aspect. The non-text ones also described techniques; they were likely akin diagrams next to Technique descriptions. They were all adjacent, but the nature of the connection eluded him—siblings on a family tree, maybe, or perhaps moths hovering around a flame.

Then it came to him. Of course.

These were all Techniques which, together, formed one Martial Art. They had to. One footwork technique, one offensive…seen through this lens, another tablet, whose diagram had seemed esoteric, suddenly seemed to depict a sensory technique: a soul scouting farther by leaving the body. The tablet with the hole and the slash running across it likely represented the application of a Technique. They all added up to one service one central idea, one Art.

This was a test of comprehension. The Festival organizers must’ve expected them to tease the Techniques out of the tablets, then to attain at least minor success in them. What then? The proof of comprehending a technique was, of course, in the execution. The criterion for passing this Trial was to perform the techniques in some way.

Though Dorian’s concept of the whole ordeal was still shrouded in vagaries and speculation, the basic idea was clear to him. Settling down, he got to work.

He approached the first tablet. A few were already there; they hadn’t bothered to survey the scope of the Trial and come up with an overall strategy—instead they’d dived into the first thing with text on it in hopes of gaining a lead.

A pity they were up against one of the worst existences in the Multiverse to compete with in a test of comprehension. He cracked a grin; this might turn out to be a boon. A set of free Techniques, all for him to study! If they were any good this might prove a godsend. If the the quality of the make were any indication, he was in for something interesting.

The first, the footwork technique, was simple enough. There were only so many ways to manipulate the human body and to manipulate qi; at this point Dorian had quite literally seen it all. The technique before him was laid out in his mind in an instant. Shards of memory from years past resurfaced—his mind absorbed it all, remembering and re-learning at once. In a mere minute he was confident he could execute this to perfection. It was a set of steps which sought to emulate the autumn winds: fast, sporadic, in constant flow. An elegant if basic technique. He’d add some of its aspects, perhaps the unpredictability and the continuous movement bits, to his Cloud-Treading steps. So far, nothing special.

Ah. The diagram on the tablet beside it, what had seemed a glut of random dots, now appeared to be the footwork pattern that the steps employed. It was all growing clear—these ten tablets were, in truth, one textbook of sorts which denoted three or four distinct techniques.

Dorian shook his head, pretending confusion at the first technique, and moved onto the next one, hiding a small grin. He was a Heaven-Grade Martial Talent, or so he’d conned Rust Tribe into believing, but he hadn’t a clue how rare the designation was—one per tribe? One per every few tribes? In any case, a good sum of his competitors must have the trait. From a quick scan, only six or seven—including Young Masters Narong and Yalta—seemed like they knew what they were doing. The rest of these so-called talents were still scratching their heads. Dorian would try not to race too far ahead. It wouldn’t behoove him to make too big a splash this early.

The second Technique was much more interesting. There was no text about it, as far as he could tell. The tablet before him was a diagram of qi flows: arrows which denoted a burst of qi, cycled fast and shot out faster. This was a ranged technique. Intriguing. He moved onto the next tablet. This one had a hole bored through the center and a slash carved across it; even now, residue of qi were preserved across the wounds. There was a unique sharpness here which called to mind the sheer cutting edge of winter’s harshest winds. This Technique was a bit more obscure, and lacking in specifics, but even the contents of this wind-wounded tablet had him fascinated. He stepped closer, honing in on the qi residue and its nature. It had somehow managed to, in effect, add the lightness, speed, and sharpness of a wind-aspect technique to a semi-solid qi projectile. Dorian’s own qi, tainted by the sheer weight of his Bloodline aspects, would never manage such lightness nor speed. But the concept of the Technique was worth investigating. Where this technique was like an arrow, his might work as a slingshot. With practice it might prove a valuable addition to his arsenal.

“A marvel, isn’t it?” said a smooth voice from beside him. Dorian blinked, turning, to face some Young Master whose face was a flicker in Dorian’s memory. He’d registered this man at some point, but knew next to nothing about him. Must be a nobody.

“Are you speaking to me?”

The man smiled. Two dark rings hung under his eyes, giving him an almost sleepy look; it lent his smile a feeling of weariness. He was very pale and thin as a waif—strangely so. His body seemed to have no presence at all. Dorian got the strange feeling that if he tried touching the man, his finger would go straight through him.

The man nodded easily. “Who else? You are young Master Rust, yes? My name is Kono, of the Xiamen Tribe. It’s a pleasure.”

“Indeed…” said Dorian, a wrinkle creeping across his forehead. He suspected the man knew him from yesterday’s antics at the Market. “Matters of business are reserved for after the Trial. If you’ll excuse me, I must return to—“

“Comprehending the tablet?” said Kono, gesturing to the hole and the slash.

“Yes,” said Dorian. A mote of annoyance burrowed into his chest. What does he want? Can’t he se I’m busy? What sort of man tries striking up a conversation in the middle of an elimination Trial?

“But why? You’ve figured it out already,” said Kono. Dorian turned slowly. He searched the man’s gaze for deceit but found only earnestness. A hint of amusement, maybe. “The technique. It’s a derivation of the Wind aspect. The qi flows through the Hongmen acupoint and out. A burst technique—they’ve merged the lightness and sharpness in a half-solid container. Clever.”

Dorian stilled. “That’s… right. How—“

“My father’s always said I’ve got good eyes,” said Kono with a little shadow of a smile. “You had the look of a man who’s figured it out. I’m not much of a fighter, but I pick up on things fast.”

“Is that so…” Dorian wasn’t quite sure what to make of this creature.

“You and I are likely the only ones who’ve gotten this far. Perhaps Narong’s figured it out too—he’s a sharp one. The rest seem stuck on the footwork technique.” There was no contempt in his gaze as he looked at the rest of the field, only appraisal.

“Pardon my rudeness,” said Dorian slowly. “But why are you talking to me?”

Here Kono paused. “Shall I be honest?”

“…”

“Very well. I’d like to know you better. I don’t understand you,” he said, blinking arrhythmically. “The rest of my competition I do understand. The top Young Masters, the middlers, even Pearl. But there is something off about you.”

Dorian hadn’t a clue what was happening. This Kono character couldn’t actually suspect anything foul, surely?

“I don’t know what you mean,” he said honestly. He’d given little reason for scrutiny, surely. His performance was squarely middle-of-the-pack!

“The first hint was the way you moved in the First Trial,” said Kono. “You were more assured and leisurely than any of the others. Like you’d mapped out the whole course and were stepping through it accordingly. I should know. It is also what I did.”

“So I planned ahead,” said Dorian, a frown coming on in earnest. He caught onto that?! What…horrible luck.

“Then you unveiled your bloodline and sped through the rest with ease,” said Kono softly. “Most curious. A top-quality bloodline from a lower-caste Tribe. Most haven’t noticed, but I’d wager yours ranks in the top three of all those present. Am I right?”

“…”

“You’ve held yourself back in these Trials,” mused Kono. “Even just now—your comprehension is much faster than you let on. I’m led to think you’ve got more hidden. Perhaps your secrets extend further than even the trump cards of the top Young Masters.”

Dorian’s muscles tensed. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Whoever this man—boy—whatever was, he was too observant for his own good. Qi rushed to his hands—

“Please, be at ease,” said Kono with a little hoarse laugh. “I mean no harm, only curiosity.” He took a step back, his smile wavering. “Perhaps I’ve been to abrupt. I’ve let my curiosity get the best of me. I’m sorry. I’m not your enemy. If anything, I should like to be friends.”

Dorian’s head was spinning. True, he had been indiscreet at points, but it’d take a borderline madman to pick out all of them. This was very weird. Pearl was very weird. His being attacked in the first Trial was very weird. It all swirled about in his mind, a maelstrom of possibility. Nothing made sense and yet he had a hunch it was all connected somehow, stitched together by ethereal threads of logic.

Then a thought struck him like a shock of lightning. “In this first Trial, were you the one who attacked me?”