Chapter 229 - A Warm Welcome (Patreon)

Jiran squared his shoulders and relaxed his aura. The pounding of heavy rain invaded their protective bubble, carrying with it the scents of fresh, damp ozone. Seeing his determined frown, Mayalyn positioned herself at his side and they faced the Imperial General together. The man’s aura writhed against Jiran’s but was quickly pushed out of the way as he approached.

Every other aura in the tent mingled peacefully with his; several were familiar and carried a soft touch, as though embracing friends after a long overdue reunion. Only a few offered a friendly push, testing the strength of their auric knowledge and control against his. Though they were far larger—the benefit of stalled aging and time—none could match Jiran when it came to outright force. He noted the widened eyes and lifted brows of the three Imperials behind the general. Meanwhile, the Forkara elders wore fierce grins reeking of pride.

The general’s seething scowl remained pinned on Jiran, his fists clenching repeatedly. His neck was crimson and a vein protruded from his large forehead as he spat in an overbearing tone, “I see your etiquette is as lacking as your understanding of respect.” Jiran paused, completely taken aback by the man's unwarranted aggression.

Odd, usually someone wouldn’t be so brazen when there’s such a large divide in strength. Maybe he doesn't know. He’s only tier six and doesn’t have Manasight yet. No, he definitely knows I’m in Olive’s party even if we never personally met. Is he assuming I’m weaker than her?

I don’t think that’s the whole story. Maybe being outside the empire is too much for him. He’s also surrounded by forces he can’t communicate with that are all equipped with weapons and armor superior to anything his men have. Yeah, he’s definitely scared pissless and doing his best to hide it by being a dick.

In a split-second decision, Jiran decided to play along, hoping the hotheaded soldier would dig his own political grave. Having the uncontrollable general out of the way would make his plans go much smoother, “Greetings, General. We were never formally introduced, though I spotted you several times outside Morothin before the city was destroyed. They called me Mortemer, but my real name is Jiran.”

The general picked up on Jiran’s slight wince when uttering the hated moniker and jumped at the chance to gain a foothold in the conversation, “So, you're the mysterious Mortemer. Which means you created the portals and these heathens’ weapons. I'm surprised, you sure look like an Imperial. Apparently, appearances are deceiving, at least when it comes to whores, and traitors.”

Jiran nodded along, adopting a thoughtful frown to hide his surprise that the general had actually admitted his real gripe, “Traitor, huh? That's certainly an interesting interpretation. Seems like you have some kind of problem with our allies, and me. Go ahead, General, lay out your grievance.”

“A grievance? Hah! Where do I even begin?! My soldiers are stuck in this Voice forsaken pit while your pet witch denies my every plea to return. We must find the emperors and save the rankers! Any further delays are unacceptable and will certainly be reported as the treasonous actions they are.”

There it is. Knew it. Coward is practically shaking in his boots being surrounded by forces beyond his control. Just how long has he been in command of armies composed of people weaker than himself? Probably has a complex after Olive kicked his ass, too.

Jiran’s response was nothing more than a lifted brow and the general’s skin tone shifted to a deeper crimson and spittle flew from his lips, “I know she can open those portals the same as you! If we aren't returned to the empire by the end of the day, the inferno will be demanding its dues!”

Jiran smiled innocently, “Witch? Are you talking about Niya?”

“Who else?! She's refused every demand we’ve made and even threatened me, claiming some nonsense about needing to wait for you. As if one person could make a difference right now. We need to act immediately and rally every brigade across the empire! Our borders and cities are naked after so many troops gathered at the disaster of Morothin.”

Does he even realize he’s contradicting himself? If we gather the rest of the armies, how will that protect our cities and borders? Besides, none of the extra troops we portaled to Morothin came from the border. Unless the king beat the emperors, the empire should be perfectly safe. This guy is completely irrational.

Jiran bit back a laugh by adopting a serious expression, “I see, I see. How dreadful. And what weapons were you referring to? The princess's, or the one I made for Lostrifar?”

“All of them! You're supposedly an Imperial yet you didn't make anything for our soldiers? And how could you design them to be so dangerous? I've still got men recovering after one blew up in their faces!”

Jiran's eyes narrowed, his anger spiking to such an extent that Mayalyn took a step away from him and sneezed. “I've heard enough,” he growled, mana instinctively leaking from his Armament to writhe in the air, creating oscillating waves that made the rain dance.

“W-what… is that supposed to mean?” As if just realizing Jiran was effectively several tiers more powerful than him, the general’s tirade came to a stuttering stop. He backpedaled, looking left and right for a savior as sweat began pouring from his skin. No convenient help appeared and Jiran moved forward, matching every step Reifvus took in retreat. They quickly ended up inside the tent where dozens of eyes watched their every move.

“It means that you wouldn't know those weapons would explode if you hadn't taken one from one of my people,” Jiran cut off the general's obvious retort before it could begin, “Yes, I designed them to fail spectacularly when fed mana from any source that wasn't their designated owners; specifically to stop people like you from abusing them.”

“How dare—”

“No!” Jiran's mana-infused roar drowned out the storm. Hands clapped over ears and even the higher-tiered Forkara winced. “How dare you! You're not in the empire. You have zero authority or power here which is exactly why you're lashing out like a terrified child. Not only are your men surrounded by an army that could wipe them out in an hour, but you were idiot enough to make your situation worse by stealing. I swear to you, if one of mine was hurt, your precious thieves won't ever hold a weapon again. As for you, you're done leading those soldiers.”

“Who do you think you are?! You have no right to threaten me!”

Jiran scanned the onlookers, his gaze lingering on the three officers behind the general, judging them not yet on his side. He hadn't wanted to fall back on his final ploy, but he needed these men if he wanted the highest chance of rescuing Olive. He just hoped they believed him without Manasight’s ability to know if someone was lying.

He lifted his chin, standing confidently as he’d seen Olive do on several occasions, “The moment Emperor Dominus requested I stand beside Princess Oliviala, I gained the right to remove you. Unless you think you can beat me in a duel? I heard you were undefeated… until recently. Who knows, maybe you’ll stand a chance,” Jiran's voice turned soft, practically begging the man to take up the challenge.

Predictably, the general's face turned pale and he swallowed hard, his aura quivering, “P-p-princess, Oliviala?” He mumbled, his brain not yet catching up to his state of shock.

“No? Then you and I have nothing more to discuss,” Jiran held the eyes of the next most decorated soldier—a woman with stoic and harshly-handsome features; the hard angles of her jaw and cheekbones as sharp as the sword at her hip.

The woman wore a drastically more respectful demeanor than a moment ago. She snapped a salute, then stepped forward, “Colonel Roptere, Prince Consort.” She fired off another salute followed by a deep bow.

Reifvus spun around, opening his mouth to interrupt but Jiran brushed him aside and jammed a fistful of aura into his mouth. With a snap of his fingers, Enthralling Touch pulled every trace of mana from the general. He fell to his knees, blinking at his status in disbelief. 

Jiran blocked sound around the despondent man, not desiring to crush his spirit completely, “Colonel, prepare the soldiers for departure. We'll be returning to the empire immediately.”

Mayalyn snickered cutely and the colonel’s eyes widened. She saluted again, this time accompanied by a genuine smile. She turned and bent her knees, ready to dash from the tent but Jiran's raised hand stopped her, “Can I rely on you to keep the general out of trouble until we return?”

“Yes, of course Sir, uh, Prince Consort, Sir!” She stumbled over her words, her strong features revealing the first signs of turbulence.

Jiran didn’t like the sound of either title but fully understood they would need something to call him, “Pick one and stick with it, Colonel.”

“As you command, Sir.” The colonel offered him a final salute before tossing the general over her shoulder and practically leaping out of the tent, already yelling at the top of her lungs to break camp.

Mayalyn crossed her arms over her chest and blew air from her nose with a sour twist to her mouth, “Hmph. You should have let me duel him. That man has been a rittlethorn in all our sides since the minute Olive was taken.”

Jiran’s eyes were glued to the last two Imperials, “Punishing him isn't important. Getting Olive back is,” They nonchalantly returned his attention, seeming much more cool-headed than the general. When he motioned for them to stay, they nodded. 

“I know, it is only that… No, you are correct. I am worried, and not being myself. I trust you,” with a hand on his arm, Mayalyn turned him to face her. She touched his face, scenting deeply to taste his emotions, “You… have made up your mind then?” Jiran nodded sharply and she released a deep sigh, “Good, my heart can finally be at ease.”

Jiran gently squeezed her hand and they shared a brief moment before both their expressions turned serious once more. With nods of matching determination, Mayalyn hurried from the tent to make her own preparations for leaving.

With her gone, Jiran directed a warm smile at the other members of the small gathering. As much as he wanted to immediately rush off, the people in front of him were also important to him, and he would be the worst kind of leader if he didn’t at least check in with them.

He first focused on the Seven Matrons in the tent, each offering him a deep bow with their hands cupped as if holding water. As was their way, and for good reason, the Matron of Growth spoke while the others remained silent, “Great Spirit, we see you and we greet you. Please, let your heartwood be not alarmed, for our sister who lost her spear is unharmed.”

Jiran sighed, his earlier anger abating instantly, “That's a relief, and so is seeing all of you here and safe. Did you do as I asked? Did everyone make it home?”

The Matron of Creation responded, “Our losses were few, yet many foes we slew. Almost all survived, and thanks to your cousin, those who could have been lost were revived.”

Without giving pause, the Matron of Belief took her turn, “Mourn not those who have transcended, for their journey has not ended.”

Jiran shook his head, touched by their willingness to follow, and even die in a war that wasn’t their own, “I'll do my best, but no promises. Your people are precious to me, and if it hadn't been an emergency, I never would have put you in such danger. if there is a next time, I swear we'll be far more prepared.”

“Thank you for your care, but our part, we pray you allow us to bear,” the Matron of Cleansing whispered. Jiran had only ever seen her peeking from around a tree and he was proud to see her mingling with so many people and looking fairly relaxed.

“Don't worry, I've no plans to exclude you. Quite the opposite.” Liking the sound of that, the Matrons flashed him hungry, feral smiles that reminded him once again that trees, and tree people, were far from peaceful creations.

Next were the Forkara elders, decked out in the graphene-laced armor he had made for them. Dokkuun stepped forward, his wizened, deeply etched features held a softness that was hard to spot but Jiran could see it clearly in the twinkle in the old man's eyes. At his approach, Dokkuun extended his hand and they clasped wrists in a firm shake.

“Senior Brother Guardian, it is good that you are well,” Dokkuun crossed both arms over his chest in their version of a salute. He stood straight and proud, his wings quivering with excitement. He raised his voice far too loudly in the cramped tent, proclaiming to everyone who could hear, “First Heavenly Captain of the Ultimate Divine Great Spirit Sect, reporting to Senior Brother Guardian for his first of a thousand years of duty!” There wasn’t the slightest trace of brevity in his words, leaving Jiran completely stunned and momentarily unable to even think of a response.

The other Forkara shifted nervously from one long leg to the other as they watched his slack-jawed lack of response. The talons protruding from their sandled feet scraped across the ground, filling the tent with nervous energy.

Dokkuun’s proud demeanor fell apart all too quickly under Jiran’s uncomprehending stare, “I-it was presumptuous of us to assume ranks without your permission, I am aware. Without you here, we sorely needed order in the newly formed clan-er-sect and thought your own Imperial titles would please you. Of course, we included the Timberlings by naming it a sect, as is their way.” Jiran blinked at him repeatedly, completely dumbfounded, and Dokkuun’s words grew anxious, “I would not be averse to being a mere Lieutenant, o-or even a trooper! Apologies for any offense that was given!”

Dokkuun moved to kneel but Jiran caught him by the shoulders, “Stop! It's fine, you surprised me, that's all. You should be a captain at the least, though the ranks in the empire are based on the number of troops under each leader’s command. It doesn’t matter right now, we’ll work out the specifics later. Just curious, but, ahh, who came up with that aw-ahem-sect name?”

“The Ultimate Divine Great Spirit Sect? Why, as is tradition, we held a grand tournament and the victor chose the name. The competition was incredibly fierce, and three warriors would have lost their lives if not for your kin. Most magnificent, is it not? Its grandness has already been shouted from every roost across the sky furrow!” Jiran’s skin prickled as he held in a shiver.

Fathers above, kill me now or have mercy on my ears and never let me hear that name again.

He sighed in defeat and released Dokkuun, then shook each of the other Forkara’s wrists, “Rhahakk, Frakkoa, Zoraakk, Keara, Keeon, it’s good to see you all again.” He met each their eyes, giving them firm nods. For some reason, they kept breaking eyesight and he eventually realized they were stealing glances at the parts of his armor where the masterium were embedded. Shrugging off the oddity, he addressed them as a whole, “How many did we lose after I left?”

Keeon, the young twin of Keara puffed out his chest, “Hardly any. Your armor and weapons protected us even when you weren’t around to see to it yourself. There is no need to be concerned about our lives.” The others nodded along with each word, growing more excited by the second. “We are ready to die, for under your wing, we will soar above the clouds as the greatest force that has ever lived! Give the order, we are ready to fly into glorious battle! Kraah!” His shout was echoed by the others, their enthusiasm, and Jiran’s plans to turn them into exactly the warriors they envisioned brought a vicious smirk to his lips.

“That won’t be necessary, today. You’ll be staying here to protect the Timberlings until I return. The last thing I want is the church thinking we’re an alien army invading their corner of the empire.”

Dokkuun visibly deflated, “That is truly disappointing, Senior Brother. So you don’t plan to attack these foul Voicers after all they've done? What about the Imperial soldiers you’re bringing with you?”

Jiran shook his head, “I never said we wouldn't be attacking them...”

The old warrior bellowed a laugh, his toothy grin every bit a match for Jiran’s.