61. In These Trying Times (Patreon)

Hells. Hells! Dorian resisted with all his might, but the pressure still had him in a vise. Sweat matted his brow and his face turned pallid with effort. There were few things in this world which caused him real concern. The attention of a god was one. Gods needed no physical form to strike; even a god’s avatar could lash out and eviscerate a mortal’s soul. While he wouldn’t suffer total destruction, a strong enough strike would easily end this run. Who are you, intruder?

The spiritual sense followed his thread, racing toward its source. In less than a second it’d reach him. Dorian made a split-second decision, bit down on his tongue, and severed the connection. 

It felt like his brain had been lashed by a whip. For a second his eyes watered involuntarily, his vision swimming and the world revolving on its axis; he blinked it all away. The consequence of forcefully cutting off his technique—he’d had to chop off his bond to that qi, relinquishing it back to the world. Now all the god knew was the approximate direction of the source of the thread. It hadn’t seen him. 

But even that was enough of a target. 

Dorian felt it before he saw it: a sense of dread which drenched him down to his bones, like he was standing in the path of a cascading avalanche. He sprang away with all the force he could muster. 

That instant of premonition saved this life. All he saw was a flash of pure white. There was a cry—not his own. The Yalta spy who’d sat next to him tottered over bonelessly, his head lolling out. His soul had been reduced to nothing. No reincarnation for him: only nonexistence. 

Then all Dorian felt was pain. It was a pain which bent the psyche. Pain became a blinding white star in the landscape of his mind, immolating all thought. It felt like he’d been dunked in magma after he'd been stripped of all his skin. His world was pain; it was pain beyond the world, a pain which dissolved identity. A lesser, mortal mind would’ve cracked in that instant. He gasped and bit down on his tongue to stifle a reflexive scream. Then the hot, primal tang of blood filled his mouth. 

It ended as soon as it’d come, leaving behind only a relentless, throbbing ache. Horrible but bearable. In its path Dorian felt an absence. That strike had just grazed him, he knew; if he’d taken it head-on he wouldn’t still be alive. Still it’d carved out a chunk of his soul. 

Then Pearl burst out of the tent, screaming and scanning the distance. Dorian fled. 

***

Why did the world refuse to leave him alone? Why was the universe thrusting all these cosmic anomalies in his path on this run? He mulled the questions bitterly as he nursed his wounds. The first step was to stem his bleeding—he raided Hu’s stores and whipped up a quick solution, a bandage for the soul to stem the bleeding. It was a quick-fix brew with some of Hu’s rarer sinkhole ingredients which finished in under an hour. His mind still bled, but it’d soon scab over. The throbbing pain remained, aggravatingly rhythmic, as though a monstrous second heart had formed in the center of his skull which pumped acid rather than blood. 

He should be safe. There was no shortage of contestants who knew the surveillance techniques—they’d likely taught it to their clansmen too. The god’s spiritual sense hadn’t yet reached him when the attack struck. And it’d claimed a victim: the Yalta clan spy who’d been placed conveniently close to him. With any luck, Pearl and the god would think that they’d gotten rid of their intruder. 

Even so, it’d become obvious that whatever vain hope he held out, he could not afford to ignore this Pearl character. Whatever plot the moron was concocting, Dorian got the dreadful premonition that he’d end up sucked in one way or another. Still he had no answer to the pertinent question: what was a god doing here? What business could they possibly have? 

He downed another pint of mossy-green liquid. It tasted of bile and rancid milk, but it still cooled his inflamed mind. Then he sat down, cross-legged, and devoted himself fully to recuperation. He called qi into him and dissolved into it, soaking in it, letting it sing to him, letting it mend him. 

He glanced to his right, where Kaya was snoring up a storm, curled against the side of the tent under a swathe of furs. There would be no sleep for him tonight.

*** 

By sunrise the bleeding had stopped. The night passed without incident. Kaya was up early today, stretching in the sunlight outside, every move a burst of raw energy. She hadn’t a clue what’d happened. He’d keep it that way. Pearl would be on extra high-alert today; he couldn’t let on he’d been injured in the slightest. 

So he walked out, pretending not to feel the horrid ache in his soul which felt a little like the worst hangover he’d ever had, mixed with the sensation of a molten nail driven repeatedly into his skull. 

“’Morning!” said Kaya with a bright grin. “You ready to be Tournament qualifiers, ya rascal?” 

She ruffled his hair. Weeks prior she’d needed to bend over a little to do it; now she reached up. 

“Yes. Let’s do our best.” 

Bowing out of a stretch, she turned to him with sunny eyes. “Pshh! What a limp response. Zero points for you!” 

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Dorian said, donning a nervous grin. “Nothing’s settled yet.” 

As they set off to the tournament grounds she slung a casual arm over his shoulder. “I wonder what it’s like in an Oasis,” she said dreamily. “That’s where we’re the Tournament’s held, right?” 

“Yeah. If we pass this next Trial.” 

“Ooh, I can’t wait.” She did a little twirl. “I’ve had enough salted jerky for ten lifetimes. D’you know they’ve got frozen snacks in the Oases? As deserts—imagine! I bought one off a market vendor, a nice lil’ sweet stick of red ice. Nearly sold my liver to get it. So worth it.”

“Mhm,” nodded Dorian. Then he got an idea. In a few months at most, Rust Tribe would outlive its use. Best to start sowing seeds of future plans now. “Seems like a real nice place to live, doesn’t it?” 

“Live?” Kaya blinked. “I guess. Never really thought about it.”

“We needn’t move as much, we’d be in a qi-rich environment, safe, with all sorta access to better books, Techniques, elixirs…” 

“Boys,” nodded Kaya in agreement. 

“What?” 

“Boys. Don’t know if you’ve noticed, dear brother, but the caliber of men around here stinks. I’d sooner screw a cactus than some of these blockheads!” 

Dorian winced. “Thanks for the image, sis. Really needed that.” 

They chattered on as they neared the testing grounds. Then a very important thought occurred to Dorian—something he’d missed in all the chaos of last night. 

“What was today’s Trial about?” 

“Huh? Ah, right! You were gone when Tuketu gave the briefing last night…” She paused. “Where were you, by the way?” 

“Alchemy work, prepping today’s lovelace elixir batch. Nothing interesting,” he said, waving a dismissive hand. “The Trial?” 

“Don’t you worry. It’s easy work.” She rapped his head with a knuckle. “It’s a Trial of the Soul, apparently.” 

“The… Soul?” Dorian had a dreadful suspicion what that meant. 

“All they’ll do is put you under some sorta soul pressure. The top sixteen pass.” She snorted. “Just don’t be a little wimp about it and you’ll be fine!” 

“Soul… pressure?” Hells. 

“Yea.” She gave him a big-eyed look. “Why are you repeating everything I’m saying with that dumb look on your face? Are you still sleeping? Do you need me to slap you awake?” 

“No, no,” he said hastily. “Just surprised is all.” This could not possibly have been timed worse. To endure soul pressure with a whole soul was one thing. To endure it with a soul-wound was another. It was not dissimilar to trying to hold back a raging river with a dam which had a massive hole down the middle. A hole he’d need to plug with sheer force of will. Oh, this is going to suck. As though on cue, a sharp pang of soul-pain lanced his mind; he suppressed a wince. 

They waded through the Rust Tribe section. Kaya waved and smiled, drew cheers from little boys clutching fresh-bought flowers and middle-aged gatherer women alike. Nearly all the Tribe turned out. Hento, Kuruk, Muata, and the rest of the Chosen formed a line at the front; a surprising chunk were cheering them on. Even Tuketu and the Chief were here, standing at the forefront. Tuketu wore a calculated smile. Rust’s face was stone. 

“Do the Tribe proud,” was all Rust said. 

Kaya, human bonfire that she was, threw him a fierce smile. “Trust us, Chief. It’s as good as done!” 

Then the thirty-two contestants all met up in the center, their backs to the clamoring masses. The group felt much thinner. Dorian knew most of these faces by sight and a handful by name. Pearl stood there with his usual hyper-relaxed pose, almost as though he’d not had his gravest secret exposed last night. 

To his side, Yalta stared at him with a quiet fury. 

“One of my men was found dead on your grounds last night.” 

“I know!” said Pearl lightly. “I killed him.”

“So you admit it.” Yalta’s massive frame was clenched like a fist. He didn’t snarl or growl; he turned colder as his rage took him. 

“Yes. So?” Pearl laughed. “The rules of the Festival are clear. You are not allowed to trespass on another contestant’s territory. He violated the rule. He got what came to him. Good riddance!” 

“I should strangle you where you stand.” Yalta’s breath grew labored, his eyes bloodshot. “You’re an impertinent brat. You’ve not a shred of honor. You need a lesson in humility.” 

“You can try.” Pearl shrugged. “Once we’re in the Tournament you’ll have ample opportunity. If you pass, that is.” 

“I will pass,” said Yalta icily. “For your sake, you should not.” 

Pearl opened his mouth to quip, but Zhang’s announcement cut him off. 

“Welcome, one and all, to the final Trial!” His voice boomed across the sands, silencing all. He stood on a small stone dias at the very front of the crowd and the contestants. To his left was an onyx pedestal covered in black cloth. “This one is the simplest of all.” 

With a flourish, he tore off the cloth. 

On the pedestal was a smooth, milky-white stone no bigger than a finger. It glowed, but not of its own light; sunlight lingered on its surface, as though unwilling to part ways with it. Staring at it gave an impression of endless depth, as though Dorian were staring into the night sky. 

It also hit Dorian’s soul like a mace. To stand in its presence was to carry an omnipresent weight: Dorian felt it everywhere, from his arms to his neck to his legs to even his soul. It felt like all his blood had been swapped out with liquid lead. Even from this distance he staggered involuntarily. Blast that soul wound! A few of the competitors nearby bent to a knee, shuddering and dragging in harsh breaths. 

“This,” said Zhang, “is the egg of a Golden Roc. A priceless treasure drawn from the coffers of the Azcan Oasis. It grants countless benefits to those who consume it, from longevity to elemental affinity to a cultivation boost of pure qi. It purifies utterly. It is said that the Golden Rocs, among all beasts, are loved by the universe; he who consumes a Golden Roc egg will be loved also.” 

Thirty-two greedy eyes fixed on it in an instant. Dorian could practically hear the salivating. 

“Your task is to take it from its stand,” said Zhang simply. “No techniques, no trickery. Grasp it with your bare hands. The sixteen closest qualify for the tournament. The winner keeps the egg. Am I clear?” 

Frenzied nods. “Begin!”