by E. M. Hardy
“Ah, much like how we utilize prana,” Venkati said with a sway of his head. He went silent for a moment, twirling the tips of his moustache. “Would you be interested in learning how to cultivate your chi using mandalas and Sahaasi meditation practices?”
Ishida opened his mouth as if to protest, but simply sighed and shook his head. “Venkati, I do hope you realize that Qiu Ja is still a general of the Ren Empire. I know you’re infatuated with her, but could you at least hold off until you’re no longer at war with her Empress?”
Martin chuckled at first, amused by Qiu Ja’s angry glare at Ishida’s reasonable argument. Martin stopped chuckling when inspiration struck him. “I don’t see the harm, Ishida. In fact, it might do a lot of good to mend ties between all three of your peoples. Not only that, but maybe Qiu Ja and her people could teach you how to manipulate chi as well.”
Martin forced his walker to stand, to pace around while holding his chin and nodding stupidly to himself. “Imagine a warrior armed with blood-bound weapons, fueled by a core of prana within him, supported by a magic-wielding jinni, and capable of healing injuries and spouting gouts of fire with chi.” Everyone in the tent widened their eyes, both alarmed and excited by Martin’s proposal.
Martin wasn’t done thinking, however. “Or what about a blacksmith with tools sharper and tougher than regular steel, capable of hammering metals out with crushing blows as his jinni stokes the flames of the furnace? A farmer that never tires because of his mandala and can double, triple his yield by infusing the lifegiving properties of chi into his crops? Hell, probably everyone in the land will be able to do so much more with the right infusion of abilities!”
He nodded quickly, excitedly, as he digested everything that the two men said. If their theory held true, if the pnevmatic links emitted by his obelisks could help cultivate new powers in the people of the land, then he would not need to bear his responsibilities alone. The soul-magic powering his core would not only connect him to his constructs, but somehow allow the people near his obelisks to develop new techniques.
This would change everything for Martin. The people of Copsis were no longer sheep waiting to be slaughtered. No, if they held together long enough, amassed enough of their skills and talents together, they might be able to effectively fight back against the invaders when they inevitably arrived in their reality-tearing portals.
All he had to do was get everyone to stop turning on one another and start working together—especially since he no longer had the strength to simply force the issue upon others.
Chapter 18
Martin swung his sword down too slowly, missing the thrown javelin. The scene repeated itself repeatedly across multiple walkers attempting to slice javelins flung their way. Only two out of ten walkers managed to hit the javelins with their swords, and none were able to cut through the thick ceramic shaft with their blades. The same happened with bows and arrows. Where he could previously snap the shafts of blooded arrows mid-flight, he could barely intercept regular, unblooded arrows before they slammed into his walkers. He could still remember the motions, the reactions he learned from his time fighting the Shogunates. The only problem was that his walkers just didn’t move fast enough or swing hard enough. His walkers weren’t even tough enough to survive a direct hit from javelins. One walker’s shoulder cracked and nearly crumbled off when struck by the projectiles.
All this took place just outside the ruins of an underground construct facility hidden under the sands of the Bashri Desert. This was where he tested the limits of his walkers, safely away from the prying eyes of scouts or random passersby, and he was not happy with the results.
He could still remember the invincibility he felt a few weeks ago, when he slaughtered the Shogunate troops with his badly-outnumbered walkers. Their elite samurai were a joke, barely able to connect with their speed and power. Any strokes and stabs that managed to hit simply scratched his walkers. The poorly-trained spearmen supporting them fared even worse. Once he blew through their walls of blooded spears, slashed away their hilts, they fell like wheat to his blades. His enemies quailed and quivered under the onslaught of his walkers, stabbing and slashing this way and that.
Now? Now his walkers were barely a shadow of their former selves.
All their speed, strength, and durability had escaped along with the souls of the dead trapped in his core. Martin wanted to believe that he did not regret the loss of such power, especially when his core tortured the souls trapped within him. He wanted to shout out loud and proud that he did the right thing, that all the power in the world wasn’t worth inflicting endless suffering upon others. He wanted to bask in the acceptance of the jinn, who embraced his aid now that he no longer carried the taint of the damned. Hell, he even played his part in purifying the souls of the raging souls floating around the world—the very same souls that would inhabit soulless corpses and raise them from the dead!
But all the righteous indignation in the world wouldn’t save him if he got caught with his pants down, like what happened when Empress Zi Li betrayed him a few months ago. Martin sighed ruefully to himself as he thought about it. Here he was, lecturing Isin about letting go of power and replacing it with vision, yet he was scrambling desperately to regain the power he lost. Hypocrisy at its finest, indeed.
Martin shook himself free from his dismay, from the possibilities open to him if he still possessed the overwhelming power he once had. He focused instead on the mandala pattern burned into his core. He traced the patterns once more, drew his focus inward into himself, and examined his entire being.
He no longer saw a self-contained ball of black hell designed to siphon the power from the trapped souls of the damned. He instead witnessed a much-reduced ball of pure light, its tendrils gently siphoning the meager energies provided by the generators in his pyramids. Well, meager compared to the torrent of power that he could force out from the souls of the trapped dead. Whatever energies the generators drew their power from, it was a far cry from what he previously possessed.
Sure, his ability to quickly manufacture constructs was still his biggest asset. He already had five thousand walkers stationed with Shen Feng’s army, ready to provide support as needed. More were on the way, with even more massing up in his pyramids. His eyeballs provided oversight over massive swathes of land, and his ability to instantly transmit information throughout his web of walkers and eyeballs gave him a significant edge in communications and reconnaissance. He could also manipulate chi to a limited extent, pushing out with waves of force, and cycle some to strengthen the bodies of his walkers. Venkati’s lessons on cycling prana might help; perhaps he could find some way to combine the principles of cultivating chi with centering himself using a mandala?
This was why partitions of Martin’s consciousness observed his various friends and acquaintances as they developed their talents. Qiu Ja was starting to gather prana within herself, augmenting her chi-gathering abilities. Ishida moved like lightning with his blade, darting and slashing faster than Martin’s walkers could manage even when bolstered by the trapped souls. Venkati was an absolute beast, knocking down trees with a few well-timed punches. Knowing the Maharaja magnified his punches with blooded straps helped Martin better understand where all that power was coming from. The Empress’ elite Balancer agents walked around accompanied by jinni now, mean-looking spirits wielding both magic and weaponry. Even Yao Xiu, who was never martially inclined, could wield her staff with incredible skill and precision thanks to her mnemonic capabilities. Martin observed all these people as they went about their business, and took in the ideas from others who began experimenting with their newfound abilities.
One armsmaster in Suhaib’s entourage was messing around with chi, working together with her jinn to guide throwing knives mid-flight. Martin could see the blade curve in the air from their combined efforts, the woman dumping chi into the blade and her jinni partner remotely manipulating the chi to steer the blade at its intended target. One
of Venkati’s gurkhas tested a pair of blood-bound boots, seeing how high he could leap into the air. Good thing he was testing his efforts on a pile of unwashed laundry. Or maybe not, considering how tough the gurkhas were thanks to the mandala tattoos pouring prana into their body. Martin even observed one intrepid bushi etching a mandala into his blood-blade, seeing if he could extend the vital energies of prana to augment the living blood locked away inside the weapon’s steel.
Sharing ideas, unlocking new discoveries, finding new ways of strengthening themselves—this was exactly why Martin encouraged the peoples of this world to start mixing with one another. These kinds of discoveries would never have come around if they continued to lock themselves away in their little corners of the world, jealously hoarding their secrets. Martin accepted that his pnevma-projecting obelisks may have helped accelerate the process, produced more immediate results when it came to mixing techniques and abilities. The long-term effects, however, would be just as beneficial. Trade, culture, diplomacy, research—all these would see a boost as the nations began seeing one another as partners and rivals instead of targets and enemies.
But this would only be possible if Martin had the power to back up his vision. Isin was right in this regard: might does not make right, but right will wither without might. Martin may not be willing to torture souls to empower himself and his walkers, but he needed to find something else to replace it with. These new techniques would take time to develop, to see which would be compatible with his pnevmatic core. He needed power now, especially since the Shogun would be marching out sometime soon. His troops had finished recovering and resupplying, while reinforcements had arrived from the Isles of Taiyo.
Martin refocused his attention back to the underground ruins hidden deep in the desolate regions of the Bashri Desert. Dolls had swarmed the site day and night for months now, clearing the collapsed tunnels of rubble and repairing what equipment they could salvage—converting them to become compatible with the clay that he could control with pnevma. Without the hostile Custodian getting in the way, Martin slowly but surely began taking over the facilities within. His dolls had already tunneled into the kill room, where Martin was forced to sacrifice wave after wave of walkers to overwhelm the stoic crystals. One crystal was so powerful that it could burn out his walkers in mere seconds, and this room was filled with more than a dozen of those crystals. Their only weakness was a tendency to overheat and eventually break down after sustained fire. It had cost Martin hundreds of walkers just to take this one room—right before the Custodian decided to blow the entire facility up just to deny Martin the secrets locked inside.
And today was the day that his dolls brought online their first production vat in the Underground Base.
This vat was located in the more remote reaches of the base, in a room relatively untouched by the Custodian’s explosive self-termination. Martin’s dolls quickly pulled out the metal and silicon components of the vat, replacing them with clay before hooking the vat up to Martin’s consciousness. It was by all rights identical to the production vats in his pyramids, but it was exceptionally valuable for one reason and one reason alone.
It contained schematics for a scarab.
Martin remembered the annoying little beetles and the crystals mounted on their heads. They discharged concentrated bursts of light that did little against the heat-resistant ceramic of his walkers. This was why he had a relatively easy time invading the pyramid with his walkers. Sure, a walker would succumb if a team of scarabs managed to corner and overwhelm it. They could rip the walker apart with their sharp claws, or they could focus their lasers at it until the ceramic body of the walker grew too brittle and crumbled under its own weight.
Those lasers, however, would do a lot of damage against softer, fleshier bits.
This fact didn’t bother Martin much. War is never a clean thing, especially when you’re personally responsible for the deaths of thousands of men and women. Martin fully absorbed each life he took with spear, sword, or javelin. He was there when a woman gurgled to her death from a punctured neck, when a man screamed in anguish when he finally realized his bowels were spilling out, and when young teens discovered firsthand that stripped flesh and broken limbs were far more painful than the ballads described.
He just hoped that these lasers killed their victims faster than a spear to the gut.
A few hours later, and Martin’s first batch of laser scarabs skittered out of their production vats in the Leizhu Swamp. Ceramics taken from the plentiful clay around the swamp, the crystals a mixture of the ones salvaged from the ruins and ones imported from the League of Merchants. The dolls near the vats crowded around the newcomers, eager to learn more about a new neighbor they could play with. Martin felt the collective consciousness of the scarabs hiss at the dolls, telling them in waves of hostility and paranoia to back the hell up away from them. The scarabs reared their claws up menacingly, crystals glowing with energy. The dolls waddled away in panic and hid behind the legs of the walkers Martin sent to oversee the new arrivals.
Martin probed the consciousness of the scarabs, met them, and instructed them to stand down. The scarabs hesitated for a few moments, then lowered their claws and powered down their crystals. Martin formed the twenty scarabs up behind his walkers, wanting to test their capabilities. The scarabs obeyed, but Martin felt a hint of distaste at being ordered around. Martin didn’t expand his essence, overwhelm the scarabs with his will. They might transmit feelings of discontent and dissatisfaction, but it was enough that they obeyed his instructions and didn’t attempt to subvert his commands.
His walkers led the scarabs outside his pyramid, and they seemed to look this way and that—marveling at the sights around them. The scarabs glowed with wonder, seeing so many plants and wet mud for the first time. They could only remember the sterile surroundings of their underground facility, as well as the harsh sands and desolate rock formations around it. The dolls picked up on the excitement of the scarabs and waddled out cautiously, wondering if the six-legged creatures their size would want to play.
The scarabs reared back up again as the dolls neared them, raising their claws up and powering their crystals up. Martin sent a rebuke through his connection, ordering the scarabs to stand down and desist from attacking the dolls. The scarabs paused for a few seconds before they obeyed, allowing the dolls to get closer. One of the dolls approached a scarab and reached out with a tentative hand to pat its head. The scarab tensed up, then slowly melted as the doll continued stroking the scarab’s head. Soon enough, the scarabs were ambling up to the dolls who began enthusiastically patting and rubbing the heads of the scarabs.
Figures, Martin chuckled to himself as one scarab leaned into a doll’s nub-like hands, savoring the rub like an affectionate dog—if said dog had six insectile legs, two of them being sharply clawed forelimbs, and a laser capable of melting your face off. Leave it to the dolls to charm the prickly little things after just a few minutes. They truly are fearsome weapons of mass public relations.
Only the dolls seemed to care about the scarabs. The collective consciousness of the cow-boxes just wanted to travel about with their loads and butt heads when left idle for too long. The eyeballs, on the other hand, just floated above everything. They took one look at the newcomers before losing interest and going back to patrolling their assigned routes.
Martin instructed a separate team of dolls to set up targets while the dolls near the pyramid mingled with the scarabs, pulling them to a more secluded testing area away from prying eyes. Martin’s road through the treacherous Qleb Sierra connected the Empire to the Bashri Desert, meaning lots of traffic coming to and from the main road. The road continued away from the pyramid in the swamp to the nearby city of Five Gorges, but Martin didn’t want to take any chances exposing his secret weapon against the Shogunates. He knew for a fact that the Empress’ Balancers were still running around, cleaning up cells of agents from the Order of Rats, so he still had to be careful with h
is testing.
The twenty scarabs finally made their way to the testing area, a secluded clearing with eyeballs watching from above and multiple teams of walkers patrolling the nearby areas. The dolls rode the scarabs as they arrived, straddling them like miniature mounts. Martin gently nudged the dolls, encouraging them to dismount their noble steeds. The dolls and the scarabs, however, resisted. The dolls enjoyed riding around too much while the scarabs enjoyed the company. Martin shrugged his shoulders and permitted the two groups to do whatever they wanted. He did, however, notify them that he wouldn’t be responsible for any dolls getting cooked alive and crumbling to dust if the lasers accidentally fried them. That got both groups of constructs to part ways in a hurry. The scarabs sulked a bit as Martin instructed them to try burning the ceramic targets.
Martin felt the drain as soon as the scarabs fired in unison on their respective targets. His control suddenly weakened, and he felt his connection to his constructs thin. The scarabs continued firing their lasers for a few more seconds, heating their targets but never quite succeeding in getting them hot enough to crumble. Martin halted the firing, and immediately felt his control come back up.
Martin groaned as he quickly understood why the underground base held so many huge generators. If he could already feel the drain now from just twenty scarabs, then he couldn’t imagine the amount of power he would need to blast away with thousands of the little things. And what about those big, honking crystals? How much power would those need to keep firing away?
He would obtain more power once he fixed up and converted the generators inside the underground facility, but he simply didn’t have enough time. He needed to find some way to power more scarabs before the Shogun pushed through with another attack. This wouldn’t be a problem if he still had souls to tap, and—