Chapter 228 - Gathering Storm (Patreon)

- One week previous -

Graymin Lands

A week passed at an agonizing pace without their small force finding a trace of the emperors. The remote bombardments from the church’s assassins, while consistently annoying, were largely ineffective. Not only were their targets of similar tier, but moving condensed explosive elements through Teleportation was far from cheap. Additionally, the rankers had three tier tens who remained a constant vigil, intercepting all but the luckiest talismans. 

Lenton, nor the other rankers, had come up with a reason for the odd method of attack. From every angle, they appeared to be doing nothing more than ineffectually wasting mana. As far as Lenton was concerned, the more they piddled away their advantages before the eventual confrontation, the better. The rankers were exhausted from their drawn out battling against the Graymin, and without a chance to properly regenerate their mana, they were left vulnerable. With their mana ‘donated’ and concentrated in Lostrifar, Pierro, and Sagrinar, they had so far avoided further casualties. The worst of it, at least from Lenton’s perspective, was that his sight had yet to return.

The little mana the rankers were left with after Lostrifar’s glove drained them was spent maintaining their auras enough to stay on the move. Bereft of enough energy to fully heal himself, Lenton toiled away in meditation, occasionally interspersed by a nearby explosion. He trusted the others to keep him safe, and even in his weakened state, a few paper-thin formations wouldn’t be enough to end him. A true threat would be a surprise attack from multiple higher-tier Graymin, yet they hadn’t encountered even one beast, despite traveling ever-deeper into their territory.

Lenton was again considering the implications of how and why his aspect had been capable of countering the king's blast wave when a stirring in their camp brought him out of his ruminations. Lostrifar’s voice was unmistakable, cracking with its typical authority, “Prepare to depart.”

“Did you find something?” Teneschall, one of the few remaining tier seven will-less braved to ask. Lenton felt the quiver in his voice like a thread wrapped around his heart. None had desired recalling the retired back to the front lines. Those on the brink of madness, who had already given so much for the empire, deserved their peace.

“No, we found nothing. Only a river of beast blood deep enough to drown the entirety of Cruex. The king lives. We have no place here as we are. We will bring you home, then those of us who desire it, will return to take up the search once more.”

Teneschall wasn’t alone when he sagged with tangible relief. Home wasn’t a word any of them dared speak lightly after all they'd been through.

“What of the Voicers?” Lenton asked the other question on all their minds. 

He might have been blind, but that did nothing to mask the conflicting anger seeping from Lostrifar, “Until the emperors’ return, we’ll not antagonize them unduly. If… the balance of power in the empire has shifted, then it’s best we don’t alienate ourselves unduly.”

“If we survived, surely the emperors did as well!” Mareesh demanded, clearly in an attempt to convince herself as much as the others.

Sagrinar responded rapidly, lacking emotion, “There is no guarantee of that. They were much closer to the origin of the blast. If they did survive, they would be in a more vulnerable position than us and surely incapable of contesting Palo and Loro. In the perfect scenario, they live but will be forced to play the church's tune until their mana recovers…” Despite him not saying it, they all felt his hidden frustration that the last two emperors hadn’t helped against the king.

“Don’t be too discouraged,” Lostrifar held up her hand, slowly clenching her fingers, causing the leather of her new glove to creak ominously, “They won’t be bereft of mana for long, and neither will we.”

  ***

The assassins were eerily absent from the moment they decided to return. Four days of relatively peaceful traveling through a desolate, smoothed-out wasteland ended when they reached the edge of the blast-zone. Each of them was beyond relieved that it had stopped short of the empire, and for a short time, spirits were sky-high.

The end of the destruction marked the return of the Graymin, though their numbers had dwindled to almost nothing. A tier five knight was the strongest they found and it was unable to stand up to the weakest ranker, mana or not. Lostrifar drained and dispatched each and every one of them, fastidiously disallowing anyone else to fight.

The peacefulness of the return trip ended the moment they crested the last range of mountains. A series of sharp inhalations without a trace of explanation had Lenton scowling, “Mareesh, what happened?”

She shook off her shock quickly, a ranker through and through despite her motherly demeanor, “Morothin is a field of rubble. The children we left to defend her, and our new allies, are facing an army from the south.”

“Tainted, backstabbing zealots!” Lenton spat, decades of dealing with political maneuvering during his academy days long since drained him of the particular brand of patience required for the situation.

Pierro muscled his way through Lenton’s furiously bubbling aura to rest a sturdy hand on his shoulder, “They have not attacked in force, yet. Tragedy can still be averted, let us make haste.”

“That’s not going to happen,” An unfamiliar voice speaking at tier nine speeds called from above. It was accompanied by a slew of fresh, powerful auras that blossomed to crash against Lenton and the other rankers. He snarled, lashing back with glee at the conveniently-timed outlet.

“Stand down!” Lostrifar’s command was accompanied by enough empowered aspect to return them all to dust if she so chose. Both sides faltered, gaining her a foothold against the escalating tensions, “What is your purpose here, Voicer?”

“These lands belong to the empire, we are merely assuring they stay that way, considering the invasion by several unknown species, it is only prudent for us to investigate, is it not?”

Lostrifar was far too cunning to fall for their ploy. She cut to the heart of their antics with a snidely delivered statement, “So, you’re after the portals they used to reach the empire.”

The man tsked and Lenton could only imagine the sour expression smeared across his face. With a smile carrying through her voice, Lostrifar pressed on, “The portals were created by an Imperial, though he didn’t reveal to us how it was done. As for attempting to control them, I wouldn’t suggest it. Any who attempted to use them without the right technique have not returned.”

That's a risky bluff. We never sent anyone through so it's certainly no lie, but if they chanced it already, they'll know the truth.

The man gave nothing away, abandoning his failed tactic and switching to another, “I’ll be accepting your surrender now.”

Lostrifar snorted, an adorable sound if one forgot who she was, “If you think that’s how this is going to go, you’re sadly mistaken.”

The unnamed assassin’s reply came so quickly, it was obvious he had planned for her response, “Oh, and if I tell you we've planted enough talismans to reduce that entire force to dust, would you change your mind?”

Lostrifar’s aura settled against the rankers, reminding them not to interfere, “There’s no point playing word games with you. I have questions, and if they’re answered unsatisfactorily, then each of you is going to personally discover what it feels like to become fertilizer.”

“Hah! Resorting to threats already? And I was told you were clever. Well, by all means, ask away,” his tone was both dismissive and eager. Lenton realized, likely far later than Lostrifar, that this entire situation stank of a conspiracy to force the rankers into being the aggressor, which could only mean one thing.

“As if someone like you could be trusted,” with a wave of her hand, a small, yet powerful aura appeared by Lostrifar’s side. The sound of a woman gasping reached Lenton’s ears, and his heart stuttered with concern for the familiar girl who suddenly found herself surrounded by people far, far above her tier.

Lenton desperately wanted to question Oliviala, knowing there was a good chance the thrice-cursed assassins had gone after Jiran. Instead, he waited patiently, as was proper, while Lostrifar spoke at the tier five standard, “Tell me, child, have they killed any of our… brave defenders?”

In admirable time for her tier, Oliviala recovered from suddenly finding herself facing over three dozen of the empire's strongest. She threw her arms around Lostrifar’s much smaller form, then backed away and bowed, “Master Lostrifar! Thank the Mother you’re safe. We are fine, the only deaths so far were from the Graymin. The Voicer’s have been attacking us for days but we’ve held them off… until now.”

“And the boy?” Lostrifar’s tone was rife with meaning.

Olive shook her head, gravel crunching beneath her boots, “Gone, he disappeared over a week ago after heading north to stop the rooks from throwing another mountain.”

“Another? I suppose that answers the question about the state of Morothin. Thank you, child, you may go,” Oliviala’s aura vanished, only to spring back into reality a too-short distance away.

Lenton stiffened as he felt a powerful pull from an unfamiliar formation amidst the assassins. The ability to disrupt an active Teleportation was something he’d only seen Emperor Dagris achieve. And if it could stop Lostrifar’s Teleportation of Oliviala, then it could easily do the same for the rest of them. Tensions spiked once more, Lenton’s sensitive ears painting a picture of the princess held by the scruff of her armor, her legs kicking in midair. The assassin’s voice was oozing with self importance as he spoke down to them, “Per Imperial decree, all children of the emperors shall henceforth be under our protection.”

Olive thrashed for all she was worth, “You shadowless bastard! Let go!”

Lostrifar didn’t make a move but her aspect seethed with barely-restrained violence and enough raw power to cause Lenton to sweat. Despite the looming danger, the assassin grew more confident by the second, “Good choice. Now, come along, we’ve a great celebration to host for this… victory, and the rankers must take their seats of honor.”

“You’re serious? After everything you’ve done, now you want to take us to a banquet? Do you have any idea the damage we could cause to your precious Sanctum?”

It wasn’t a challenge to detect the arrogant overconfidence oozing from the man, “Surely you wouldn’t do such a terrible thing. Please, come peacefully, enjoy the festivities, and see for yourself the state of our glorious empire,” he drew out the last word like a serpent.

Jiran of Madra

- Present Day -

Mayalyn scented deeply, tasting Jiran’s emotions before deflating. Her cheek came to rest on his hand, sorrow tinting her voice, “A few minutes after Olive vanished, she reappeared at the head of their army, surrounded by the rankers and several powerful men in dark robes. She commanded us to retreat through the portals. The last I saw her, she was shoved into a metal carriage and flown away.”

Mayalyn held herself together admirably, clearly shaken about Olive’s fate. Jiran held her by the shoulders, pushing on his feelings to relay a sense of complete support, and the forgiveness she seemed unable to give to herself.

A few meters away, the soldier in fancy armor was still banging on Jiran’s aura but after a scathing glower, he backed off, grumpily awaiting for them to finish. Jiran’s attention snapped back to Mayalyn, “The rankers were there too? But not the emperors? Odd. Regardless, nothing that I’ve heard sounds like it was your fault, Maymay. And with how scary Dominus is, I doubt they would risk hurting her. She’s definitely alive.”

Her brows furrowed and she shook her head in denial, “T-thank you. I know you do not blame me, but I,” she trailed off, her gaze growing distant, “We grew complacent in your absence. All of us expected your return at any moment and if problems arose, we knew you would fix them. We should have scouted, seen that army coming and left immediately but all we wished to do was wait. And so we did nothing. I cannot let that happen again. Do you understand?”

Jiran added Mayalyn to his party interface. Seeing her name and full health immediately had him feeling a hundred times better than he had since leaving for the arena. “You know, a wise woman once told me: all anyone can do is learn from their mistakes and move forward. Who's to say you should have known better or done better?” His eyes twinkled as he threw her words back at her.

She released an adorable, indignant gasp, “I was talking about your mistakes back then, mine are different!” She moved to playfully smack his arm but thought better of it after glancing at his thickened armor.

“Hey! We agreed those were ‘our’ mistakes. And this time isn’t any different. I could have left her with better formations. Or done more to help the emperors. I could have made it back earlier if I tried harder, too.” Mayalyn remained unconvinced, so Jiran said the words she needed to hear most of all, “Don’t worry, we’re going to get her back.”

Her eyes lit with a glimmer of hope, “Do you know where they might have taken her? That foolish general is refusing to tell us what he knows,” Mayalyn’s pout revealed sharp fangs.

“That guy’s a general?” Jiran tilted his head toward the Imperial who was still glowering at them.

She nodded, “Yes, his name is Reifvus and he is possibly the most rude man I have ever spoken with.”

“Wait, is that the same one Olive kicked the crap out of?”

“Yup!” The first glimmer of a smile crossed her lips and Jiran’s chest was filled with a longing to scoop her up and fly away with her.

Instead, he nodded firmly, “I don’t know where Olive is, but I know someone who does. As for our dear General, I think it's time he’s reminded of the first rule of Madra.”