68. Red Solstice (IV) (Patreon)

What was this All-Seeing eye? A few explanations had been swirling in Dorian’s mind. One was that it was a trite metaphor for a celestial body—the sun and the moons might be all-seeing eyes, always above and gazing upon the plane. Another was a magical beast; he’d known many a flying critter with supernal senses. Or a technique—though the the Eyes of Almidas, were limited in scope, but enough of them could be all-seeing.

Or maybe the answer was much simpler. Of everyone here, who had the best senses? One man sprung to mind instantly.

When he started searching again, weaving between bolts of qi and falling bodies, he sought the signature purple-white of the Xiamen Tribe. He found them in less than a minute. They sat behind a row of red cloaks, throwing violet beams of ranged support. He found Young Master Xiamen, better known as Kono, at the very back. His face was pale, his brows scrunched in deep concentration. Likely he was in the middle of throwing a barrage of ranged strikes.

“Kono!” yelled Dorian. Kono’s eyes snapped awake. For a few seconds he blinked heavily, looking disoriented. He had to wipe his eyes before he could focus on Dorian. When he did, he smiled like he was greeting a long-lost friend—like he wasn’t in the middle of a losing battle at all.

“Io Rust. What a pleasure,” he said, his eyes fluttering. “How may I help?”

“You’ve got a sensory perception technique, right?”

“A bloodline trait,” clarified Kono. “It’s the Xiamen Tribe’s most sacred—“

“Right, right. I need you to scan the battlefield. I’m looking for people in deep concentration, likely older, exuding dark qi-auras or standing stock-still…” He paused. “Sort of like how you looked just now, in fact. But more suspicious.”

“I see.” Kono smiled, amused. “You suspect a beast-summoner in our midst. Disguised. Clever.”

“Yes,” said Dorian, a note of urgency in his voice. “We don’t have much time.

Nodding, Kono closed his eyes once more and stark concentration crept onto his face. His lips pressed tight, his eyes squeezed shut, and a grimace lined his forehead. While he waited, fidgeting, Dorian checked up on the Frost-Dragon fight. The sight drew a wince and a sharp breath.

The Patriarchs and Elders had dwindled to a ragtag bunch. Four massive cubes of ice were buried in the sands and in them lay dead bodies, frozen solid. The rest struggled to coordinate strikes; it was no use. The difference between the Earth and Profound Realms was the like heaven and earth, literally. Earth-Realm creatures touched upon the Dao. Dorian suspected this Frost Dragon drew upon some Lesser Dao; the Dao of Freezing would serve well both to fuel its attacks and to stitch up its wounds. Once the Dao was touched, all qi was sharply transformed. The laws of the universe bent to the Frost Dragon’s will.

On the eastern side, the Yalta put up a fierce resistance. Every other front was in total collapse. Blackened masses of toxic qi swallowed squadrons whole. They had a few minutes at most before all was lost.

“Any luck?” hissed Dorian.

“I… see…” murmured Kono. He brightened. “Yes. Two figures. Men. I’ve found them.”

“Two,” hummed Dorian. Of course. “What Realm? Where?”

“I believe they are both high-Tier Vigor.” At that Dorian was startled. Really? Just two of the Vigor Realm is enough to command an army? That doesn’t sound right. I’d have expected a Profound master, augmented with artifacts. Something was off. “Are you certain?”

“Yes. I’m sure. I’ve swept everywhere.” Kono held Dorian in his big watery eyes. “There and there…” Kono pointed with a finger, and Dorian picked them out. Both in nondescript clothes, hidden out-of-sight near makeshift shelters, but possessed of an eerie, unnatural stillness. “They’re on opposing ends of the battlefield.” A whimsical quirk of his lip. “Shall I take one? You the other?”

“You?” Dorian racked his brain for any memory of Kono fighting, found none. He raised a brow. “Are you sure?” Can you fight?

“Don’t underestimate me,” said Kono. His eyes sparkled. “I qualified for the Tournament too, you know.”

Then, not waiting for a response, he turned and went for one end. In moments he was lost in the fog of war. Shrugging, Dorian went for the other.

It was the work of three bursts of Cloud-Treading Steps to close the distance. The man was still deep in concentration, eyes rolled to the back of his head, as Dorian approached.

Dorian slapped him. Open-palm, hard, driving his hand all the way through, feeling the satisfying squelch of the man’s cheek against base of his hand. The man cried out, falling over. Blood spurted up from his mouth as he cringed.

“W-why?” He croaked, but Dorian wasn’t looking at him anymore. Instead he glanced toward the battlefield.

In that second of broken concentration, a quarter of the Vordors had frozen mid-flight. They fell like stones.

“Tell me,” said Dorian, turning back slowly. “What is your affiliation with the Ugoc Tribe?”

The blanket fear in the man’s eyes was enough confirmation. A strand of Yama’s Chains wrapped around his throat. Another two looped around his arms, snaking down his torso, constricting like cobras.

“Urk!” His eyes popped. His hands tried clenching to summon some qi-attack but the Chains had bitten into the limb, cut off qi-circulation. He struggled, flailing mightily, but it was no use. The chains held. Their horrible destructive force poured into him.

The element of surprise was critical in a fight. Dorian had first off-balanced him, then struck before he’d recovered. It was like he’d disarmed a swordsman before the man knew he was in a fight. Now his face was flitting between darker and darker colors.

Two screeches rang out from above and Dorian dodged back on sheer instinct. Vordor’s breaths chased him, hissing against the sands, but he nimbly stepped around, through, under; the chains got tighter still. The man had taken to force-cycling the rest of his qi to counter the Chains, which was a little like trying to stop a raging fire by throwing logs at it. Dorian had him dead to rights. All it did was give the man a few spare seconds of breathing space.

Those few seconds were enough to force Dorian into a dodging clinic. Now Wyrms were on his case; two adults, grown and ugly and dripping teeth, drove up from the ground and lunged for him from awkward angles. A hail of ironlike feathers slashed out from above too. The Wyrms made an admirable effort at pincering, but with his physique they were easy enough to skirt around. He made a snap judgment about the feathers; there were too many to dodge while he dealt with the ground threat. Instead he manifested another two strands of his deathly qi, and Yama’s Chains became defensive: flickering back and forth in a cycle, deflecting the feathers as they came.

Dorian grinned, acutely feeling the hotness of his blood. He finally got to stretch his muscles; he hadn’t properly tested this Vigor Body in combat until now. It served him to perfection.

He was almost disappointed when the Shaman’s head drooped at last. The Beasts, mid-strike, whirled around in confusion. It was like they’d all woken from a long dream. With panicked squawks the Vordors took to the skies. The Wyrms dispersed beneath the sands.

That was easy. Almost too easy. His blood was still boiling, ready for battle, but the man was dead. A nagging suspicion tugged at him. Could it really be two Vigor-Realm Shamans that’d caused all this mess? But as Dorian scanned the battlefield anew, mass disarray had infected the Spirit Beasts. It was their turn for hysteria. Some, freed of their bonds, took flight. Others broke formation, crashing into their still-controlled counterparts. I suppose it’s a success. The human warriors hesitated, befuddled.

Then there was a cry in the distance, and the last of the controlled Beasts plummeted and sagged to the sands. Kono had done his part, it seemed.

Humanity saw the felled Beasts before them and broke out of their stupor in a flash. Buoyed with newfound vigor, the men charged on all fronts; devoid of order or strategy or will to fight, it was the Spirit Beasts’s turn to be beat into a wild retreat. With pained screeches flocks of Vordors fled, chased by fireballs and lightning-bolts and wind-arrows. It only took one charge to convince the Wyrms, disordered and disoriented, to flee underground.

That was that. Even the humans couldn’t quite believe it. They looked to one another, as though confirming that this wasn’t some illusion. Dorian felt their emotion. It was satisfying, relieving, true—and they’d sacrificed so much blood. After near annihilation to have it end just like that, in mere minutes, felt wrong. There was almost something anticlimactic to to the ordeal. Yet again Dorian reviewed the facts in his mind, trying to pick out what bothered him.

Beware the All-Seeing Eye…

Beware. That was the word Fate had used. A gust of cold wind ran down Dorian’s spine. He’d gone to Kono for help. The man had picked out the two Ugoc operatives with impressive speed. Almost… too impressive. This was the same man who, as a test, had attacked him mid-Trial. A healthy amount of paranoia had kept Dorian alive all this time. Now alarm bells were ringing in his mind. Was this what he’d been missing, this whole time?

Still it didn’t add up. If Kono was an Ugoc agent too, why would he reveal himself to Dorian after the First Trial? Why out his own tribesmen? There was a strange sincerity to the way Kono conducted himself that Dorian had a hunch was real. He’d be the worst person to send on a covert mission. Besides—he hardly seemed the part. The issue stewed in Dorian’s mind, resisting him.

Then a sharp bellow rose from behind Dorian, raising his hackles. He whirled to face the Flood Dragon just in time to see it gore a clan leader with one swipe of its massive claw. It roared, a sound so bludgeoning it felt like he’d been struck by a battering ram. The clan leaders retreated to a safe distance, regrouping. They’d been reduced to a mere handful but the beast, it seemed, was just getting started. Reinforcement arrived fast, but it’d be of no use; no Vigor was scratching that thing. It reared up, flexing its colossal batlike wings, and with two great flaps rose to the sky. There it screeched again; a hail of frozen spittle speared the scattered Tribesmen. If anything, the Frost Dragon looked angrier than before. How was this possible?

Kono sprinted back to him, panting.

“Isn’t your man dead? Dorian demanded. He jabbed a finger to the Dragon as the clan leaders rose to meet it in its chosen battlefield. “Why is it still in thrall?”

Two Vigor-Realm shamans, controlling a Beast beyond Profound by themselves? Of course it didn’t add up! But Kono, on the other hand…there’s something hidden about him. How is he so perceptive? How is his soul so powerful? All the irregularities that’d added up to now could’ve only been the work of a handful of men. Dorian was a fool to not have even suspected Kono earlier. Kono and Pearl should’ve been at the very tip his list of suspects—though Pearl seemed to much of a moron, and too lucid in the battle, to possibly be multi-tasking beast control. Which left only the frail-looking Young Master Xiamen. And besides—hadn’t Kono been in a trance when Dorian came to him first?

Dorian’s eyes narrowed.

“Choose your next words very carefully.”