Artorian's Archives Omnibus

by Dennis Vanderkerken

  Given his discovery that you could remake yourself, Artorian figured that the next steps would ordinarily be to enhance or infuse your body and your organs. This would make them even more Essence dependent, but you’d gain natural resilience to a higher degree. Then there was the matter of Aura.

  It had been let slip that his wasn’t built or developed. So, more than just a convenient storage area? He supposed it made him an external rather than internal cultivator. A problem for later. Currently, he depended on it to survive, as it stored all his ‘good’ Essence due to his body being… unreceptive. He could try to store it in his cells but, abyss, did it hurt. There must be a solid reason older people didn’t normally become cultivators, and this was definitely a sizable part of it.

  You could simply not rely on your body anymore. After Aura… he didn’t know. Although, there was a chance building up his body and internals would mean that he could finally begin storing Essence in it. That was a good while away.

  Then there was the mystery of that infinitesimally small hole at the very innermost foci of his Center. He’d found it by accident when he was still working with Essence motes. A few of them just… disappeared. When he looked for the exact spot, he found that when Essence was passed over it, motes just vanished. He’d not had the courage to explore that just yet and was going to wait until he finished what he’d been learning about.

  Artorian laboriously slid from his bed, bringing the work to the cabinet bench to neatly stack them. Somewhere along the line, you learned tricks that made you better at something temporarily, such as cycling Essence to your eyes. He’d found you could do it to more than just your eyes, having cycled it to his brain as often as he could handle.

  Particularly on days like this, where a little extra all-around clarity went a long way. So long as it didn’t leave your body and the effort was slow and sustained rather than released in a burst, the Essence could be recollected to one’s Center. Big bursts of Essence were great for sudden increases in performance, but you lose the Essence because of it. Much like the incantations his caretaker had spoken of.

  Sustained flows of Essences just made everything work more optimally. He tried it with his nose once but had regretted passing by the latrine for days. His ears made him hear things that had been equally regrettable. Mostly because once the organ was enhanced, it did everything better while refined Essence was cycled to it. Overhearing conversation was significantly easier but so was the ambient background noise. Tuning out certain sounds was going to need a new method of practice. Taste and touch worked similarly. It took a portion of your Essence away to uphold, but he got it back, so he didn’t complain.

  Actual combat techniques were things he hadn’t worked on after some initial attempts. All progress was focused on getting him up and running. Fancy toys could wait. Any tricks he might cobble together would permanently relieve him of Essence, and that was too much to ask for right now. He spent Essence on the ever more demanding task of core operations, his circles, and his Center. Every little improvement to the weave needed to be fully capitalized on, and every ring required careful creation.

  The basis for everything ate months of his life to work on, and that was with the bonus of being able to ceaselessly cultivate. Active cultivation was better, but he was location-locked for the full duration. Hunger and basic needs still fought for his time, and no amount of willpower ignored the pressing need to go relieve oneself. He kept significant pots of potable water nearby and relied on the steady influx of food from Yvessa to carry on. If he needed to arrange for meals himself, hours of his day would have been spent handling it.

  Active cultivation wasn’t possible when distracted or otherwise engaged. Not for lack of trying, mind you. The best he’d been able to accomplish was letting the influx of sun and starlight do the heavy lifting for him. Sunlight was significantly easier to work with, likely due to the intensity. Starlight had some incredibly strange properties to it that he simply had not been able to pin down. Of course, until recently, he hadn’t even seen what he was trying to pin down.

  Artorian was fond of the discovery and recounted it on his fingers. “Twelve parts water, one part air, three parts fire, and eight parts celestial Essence.”

  *Wham*!

  Having cycled that exact combination of Essence, his vision lit up with light rays. He could see light! What it went through, what it didn’t. How it interacted with things, people, and objects. How it reflected and refracted. A world of observation invisible to all. The best part of this kind of sight wasn’t that he saw objects. It was that he didn’t. Only light was visible, and everything else remained a black emptiness of where ‘stuff’ was.

  If there was light, he had full vision so long as he cleared the line-of-sight restriction. Another addition in the same mixture of units altered the effect. Twice the correct Essence meant twice the range of vision and twice the penetrative power. He stopped cycling his sight and rubbed his eyes. The changeover from his old eyes to these Essence-constructed ones had massively increased the maximum amount of Essence they could hold before a backfire. It was somewhere around four times the amount of what normal, uninjured eyes should have been able to do.

  He’d been over by eight units once. Never again. Blindness and eye-pain for a full night, while he was healing and mending them, was not worth it. Then again, overload on all the senses did that, and if you couldn’t heal it, the loss had a big chance to be permanent. That included Essence-built eyes, as the overload distorted the identity of what the organ was supposed to do. He’d rebuilt them slightly better the second time, but it was still something he’d rather avoid ever doing again.

  The cost to do so had caused his Aura-stored Essence to drop by a loss measured in months. Still, he should have known better when he stacked his eyes with light-sight sixteen times. Seventeen is what had been the problem. The memory of the pain alone was enough to make him lose complete focus on what he had been doing.

  Artorian violently recoiled and got back to work. He had children to save.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Artorian slapped himself on the cheeks, took a deep breath, and decided he needed some fresh air. Maybe he would go wild and have a conversation. The cloister had returned to the rhythm everyone was accustomed to. The drills, tired Initiates, chanting prayer, and material being dragged about filled the area once more. Tarrean had gotten the idea to lay cobblestone pathways, and that was a noisy endeavor. Acolytes and Initiates alike tended fields, saw to the growing orchard, carried bags of salt, and complained of bees.

  The Keepers kept track of it all, and the superiors directed the efforts to keep things running smoothly, and none of these activities were things Artorian could take part in. So, having gotten his hands on a gnarled walking stick, his nose led him to the small abode near the apiary. Scents and smells prickled the senses, pleasantly bubbling from a large pot that released a delicious aroma. “Tibbins, my boy, are you here?”

  The old man pushed the door open to find not only a wide-eyed Tibbins but also Hadurin Fellhammer with wooden spoons halfway into their mouths. Their bright eyes were parted like they’d just been caught red-handed stealing treats before appropriate mealtimes. Since the Fringe Elder had been right about needing a heftier food intake, rations were strict, in place for a reason, and they all knew it. This made food all the more precious, and thieves were punished harshly.

  That Tibbins was an excellent chef didn’t alter the punishment or the orders themselves. The silence grew awkward as the three men unblinkingly stared at one another. Artorian curled his lips into a smile and started tapping his walking stick on the floorboards as he took some cautious steps forward. “Tibbins? Come now, my boy! Say something! You know I can’t see very well. Are you going to let a blind old man just wander about?”

  He dramatically glanced about to random parts of the ceiling for effect. Tibbins and Hadurin quickly cleaned up and stowed their spoons away at his good-natured understanding.

  “
Down here, you old codger.” The Acolyte-turned-cook tapped his free hand on the paneling next to where the pot was bubbling, a large rod held to stir it.

  “Ah, err, yes, greetin’s, Artorian. How are ye feelin’?” Hadurin settled on to a stool next to a well-organized rack of herbs.

  “Hadurin! You’re here as well! Always good to have company. I’m getting better. Honestly, I thought I’d sneak in to see Tibbins and save Yvessa the trouble of bringing me my portion today. Chat a little. What brought you here?”

  Hadurin picked up on the questioning notes that were emphasized when certain words were said particularly slowly. “Oh, well… I’m just helpin’ Tib here with some… err… herbs!”

  Hastily, the Head Healer snapped some greenery behind him and pushed it into a stone half-cup. The sounds of pestle grinding against mortar churned as the herbs were crushed in haste.

  “How nice, Head Healer. Would you mind if I ate here?” Artorian sat himself down on the only proper chair, arm heavily leaning on the table as he set walking stick down upon his lap.

  “O’ course not! I’m sure Tibbins has some for ya.” Tibbins didn’t need the nudge in the ribs the healer gave him; he was already spooning out a meal’s worth into the usual bowl.

  “Here you go.” The chef set the steaming cuisine down on the table and handed Artorian a smaller spoon.

  “Thank you, my boy. How have you both been?” Artorian looked up when the reply wasn’t immediate, starting to waywardly stir with his spoon. Both were staring at him, clearly wanting him to answer that question first. “Oh, don’t look so concerned. I’ll be well enough with some time. I’m even considering picking up a hobby.”

  “Archery perhaps. I lost my bow in the fire… oh, years ago.” His expression turned somber at the recollection. “I tried making replacements, but they snapped so badly that they contributed to firewood.”

  Tibbins felt bad for the old-timer but shrugged it off. “It’s just a bow, and don’t stir like that. Scoop in from below with the flat of the spoon. You’re just moving the top layer about and not actually cooling your food any faster. Now, the bow. I’m sure requisitions have a spare or two lying around. They always have spares.”

  Hadurin nodded to that statement. “Dey sure do. Standard practice is to have a little more than ya need with an expedition force, specifically for unforeseen circumstances. Ya never truly know what you’re goin’ ta need.”

  The stocky man stopped grinding herbs and crossed his arms, nodding sagely. He gave his vial-filled satchel a pat, and the glass clinked on the inside. “The apothecary wing of the Choir even saddled us with excess weak-grade healing potions. Just for small injuries mind ye, but it’s a whole crate full! Heck, I picked myself up a satchel just to hold ‘em and have some on me at all times.”

  “How helpful,” Artorian flatly intoned, hiding the gears turning behind his twinkling expression. “Will I be needing to use those if more injured arrive, as before?”

  The Head Healer’s expression slipped from sage to grim. He wasn’t fond of seeing Initiates flood his tent with horrible injuries. “Aye. The faster we can get those souls back up on their feet, the better it is fer everyone. I’ll show ya how application works when needin’ to use it as a topical. Otherwise, just pour it down a throat. Doesn’ work as well, but gets the job done.”

  Artorian blew on a spoonful of food and tried it. His cheeks flushed to a darker pink, and a jovial *mmm* left him. His eyes closed to really delve into the flavor. Tibbins felt satisfaction at the happy old man with a good bowl of food in hand and verbally went through the bow list. “Requisitions likely won’t just hand over a composite or a takedown bow. Longbows are a copper a dozen, but I don’t think they’d be spotted dead with one. Clerics have a reputation to uphold. A recurve bow, perhaps—unless they have a ceremonial bow that otherwise just gathers dust.”

  “No ceremonial bow. If I accidentally harm it, Irene will use you as a pebble, then count how many times she can skip you across the surface of the salt lake.” Artorian scraped the wooden spoon against the bottom of the bowl, gently interrupting. Tibbins compressed into himself and didn’t enjoy the spastic, cold shiver curling down his arms and spine. “Recurve would be delightful. I could borrow one with a draw weight not normally used. Say one that’s a little too high.”

  Fellhammer raised an eyebrow and regarded the old man with a question, “No explanation needed? Ya just knew what that type of bow is?”

  Artorian swallowed his spoonful nonchalantly. “It’s not the first time I’ve indulged in the hobby. I’m decently versed in tiny spear hurling.”

  He put the spoon down in the empty bowl, having been delighted with the scrumptious meal. “Since you’re feeling chatty. Meridians? Just what do I need? I can already cycle Essence and temporarily make certain bits work better, so I’m not sure if I follow the difference.”

  Fellhammer’s displeasure grew in an instant. “Old man… are you telling me that you’ve been cycling Essence without having a single meridian open? You’re not supposed to cycle until you’ve got at least one! The Essence don’t come back fully if you don’t have something stable to connect it to.”

  “Abyss be blazed…. what did ya do!” The Head Healer then immediately realized this had not been a problem for Artorian. Cycling Essence to his eyes, Hadurin investigated the old man’s Center. “Yep. All meridians still closed. Nothin’ to tether a cycle to.”

  Artorian smiled. He relished in the little outbursts anytime the topic came up. He looked inwards, pensively stroking his beard without thought. “There most certainly is, my friend. All you need in order to cycle is to have a set return point with a firm enough Essence weave. So, any of my rings will do. Now, I can only bind a single cycle to a specific ring or set of rings, locking off those sources for anything else I may have needed them for. I will admit it’s not very efficient, but it does work.”

  “I don’t see the problem. Looks like it works fine, just that a meridian would be much better,” Tibbins joined in. His cooking was fine to let simmer, and he didn’t want to keep being left out. The cook was exploring around Artorian’s cycle with Essence-filled eyes, fascinated by just how different it all was.

  “I’m honestly having difficulty telling what rank you are.” Tibbins had some newfound pep in his voice, and Fellhammer joined him.

  “Aye! Yer entire method blurs the clear lines of separation we’ve come to expect. Can’t say you’ve broken through into the C-ranks with how yer core is set up. It ain’t solid. So, I’d set ya in a solid D but anywhere from one to five!”

  Artorian pulled his attention out of his Center so he could answer. “My incremental improvements lead to faster breakthroughs and weaker bottlenecks. I’ve no need to break my spiral into a fractal, as I follow the theme of the progress by adding additional rings. From what I’ve seen, the vortex of a spiral is just repeated in a fractal. Two spirals just mean twice the refinement. A fractal could likely be any number of vortex spirals, but the method of gain remains the same.”

  He paused and grumbled, “I must admit it’s incredibly space efficient. I’m still working on discovering optimal distance between rings myself. Two rings just can’t occupy the same space or intersect. Both will break when they impact each other, and that’s quite the mess. However, we’re getting off track. Meridians?”

  Fellhammer snapped back to his explanation, mesmerized by the spinning artwork on display in the old man’s Center. “Oh, ya just spindle yer Essence. Think of something like a rope or a line. Ya poke the tip into the holes on the outer edges of your Center. It’s harder than threading a needle, but after ya do, the Essence thread will get pulled. So be prepared to visualize a bunch because it’s going to unspool straight from yer spiral. It’s going to feel like you’re being drained of Essence via it bein’ ripped out of ya, but really, it’s just condensin’ and makin’ new paths all about yer insides. It’s all still there; it’s just spread out.”

  “That means ya aren’t act
ually losing any Essence; it’s jus’ put to permanent use. I warn my Acolytes that they’re likely to drop some ranks in cultivation and to expect pain. Essence is forcing a new, energy-only cardiovascular system to exist in yer body after all. This is why in the Choir the first meridian we open is the heart. It’s the most dangerous, and we don’t want to lose a person when they’ve gotten that far. From the heart, ye can go most anywhere else. But for Essence, it connects to the–”

  “Small intestine,” Artorian interrupted him.

  The Head Healer lost track of his explanation from the mention and turned in his stool. He had been expecting some questions, not total understanding beyond what was told. “…Aye. How did ya figure that one out?”

  The kindly old man just laid one of his hands over the other. “All those pathways used to be filled with highly volatile corruption. I’ve got a grasp of them but just didn’t know how to connect them with Essence. Flooding the system didn’t seem like the way to go, but I hadn’t figured out how to move Essence out of my Center without it being lost or spent. Cycling Essence by itself is costly. I was using a weave like what I’m doing for my circles to accomplish the effect but being told you can just thread the Essence and feed it in is very helpful. I’m honestly surprised it’s that simple. I take it the process is exceptionally painful, or you wouldn’t have bothered to mention it?”

  The Head Healer dropped the need for explanation, concerned about the patient instead. “Aye, every single time. Tibbins can tell ya.”

  Both older men turned to look at the cook, who was already violently nodding. “There isn’t a cooking accident that has hurt me more than the pain I experienced when opening my heart meridian, and I have neither the Essence nor the tolerance for the next. Not only is controlling the flow crucial, but it took me a year to have enough stored Essence just to not run dry during the attempt. Now, I always need a set amount in my system, or my heart will outright stop. It may be easier for the next one, but then I’ll need to keep hold of more ‘safety’ Essence, and I’m just… not ready for the pain.”