“I’m a child exploring the forest, gleeful to discover what I’ll find next. I have such ideas for techniques, but I won’t spend a drop of effort on them until my bases are covered. With my current progress, two years is about where I see myself properly being able to walk again.”
He trailed off, and Yvessa pushed his drinking cup into his hands, reminding him to hydrate. “Oh, thank you, my dear.”
She nodded and scooted her chair closer, scraping it across the floor. “Listen… Artorian.”
Her voice was soft. Yvessa didn’t want him to make himself suffer like this; all that internal Essence moving must have hurt. She also found, very suddenly, that she didn’t want to stop him. “Just don’t go overboard or get to a point where you can’t call for help. Now that I’ve seen what you’re doing, I know exactly how wasteful it is. This is not something an F-rank should be doing—if you can even be considered in that rank at all. This is upper-D kind of stuff at the minimum, and I don’t know of a single person not in C-rank that figured out how to use their Aura.”
“Eventually, you’re going to find something by accident that isn’t healthy for you. Not to mention the problems you’ll run into from a technique that nobody else uses or can support you with. A way to clear out corruption? Even if it is slow? The progress you’re making has me incredibly jealous, and I don’t know how I’m going to explain this to the others.”
Artorian tensed. “I don’t suppose I could convince you… not to share this? I don’t mind knowing you all read my notes. However, I don’t like the idea of my personal growth being shared. I can’t imagine that… Tarrean, for instance, would be pleased with me.”
Yvessa shook her head as a firm no. “I don’t believe he would, no, but this is something I feel needs to be shared, Artorian.”
Artorian shifted uncomfortably, considering less than savory alternatives. His voice was pensive but low. “What if I were to give you some cultivation? Boost your rank? A small bribe between friends?”
Yvessa felt electricity course down her spine and jumped from her seat in shock. “Long Beard, don’t you dare lie to me about a possibility like that. I have been struggling with growing my spiral, and that is a horrible slap to my face now that I know just how quickly you gain… you gain…”
She was shaking, her breath unsteady. Yvessa had her hands balled so tightly her knuckles were white. Artorian regarded the borderline enraged cleric and shook his head because he wasn’t playing with her. “Not a lie. A trick I learned from Jiivra that would allow me to directly push my Essence into your system. Perhaps not your Center but certainly the system. Before she left, she tried to heal me and pushed Essence into my chest. I was still awake, not that she could tell.”
“If I take the time to tap purely from my celestial source, I believe I could do it. We’d have to hold hands, where one of our hands pulls Essence while the other pushes. I’m reasonably confident of the safety. I really don’t want you to tell them, and if it costs me my time and effort to bribe you to look the other way… well… I am willing to pay that cost. Are you?”
Without further ado, he held both of his hands out to her and sat up with a grunt. Yvessa was clearly a person torn. On one hand, speaking out was the right thing to do, the proper thing. On the other, a gain of Essence was unbelievably beneficial. Unlike her, who could only cultivate a few hours per day, Artorian could afford to cultivate nearly non-stop. If he wasn’t actually asleep or doing some other activity, he was gorging in the influx of Essence like an endless feast. Not only did he pull in mountains of the stuff, but he had the type she needed neatly sectioned off and already corruption scrubbed.
She had no idea just how much Essence he was hiding in his Aura or even how to read one. Since he had so forwardly offered, the sacrifice he was making wasn’t irrecoverable. But if she took his hands, she would be hiding important information from her order; she would be complicit in losing what could end up being an amazing option for her order. But she would gain something amazing for herself. “Abyss it.”
Yvessa took his hands and drew a firm breath to steady herself. She could already feel the push of energy building against the skin of her left hand. It was deterred from moving as Artorian only formed half of a conduit, and so the energy just waited. With a hesitant acceptance, the young priestess began cycling her Essence through her body as if she was starting active cultivation. She pushed her Essence out from her right hand and had the horrible fright that she was about to lose it for good.
Then she felt the connection knot together like two loose ropes being tied, their hands acting as the bonds as she willingly completed the conduit. With a short gasp, she instinctively pulled from her left. Heaving, her stomach exploded with tingles as a sensation of numbness coursed through both her arms. The right felt drained while the left was overburdened, but the Essence… oh, the Essence.
Instead of the slow, melodious pull to her Center that she gained during daily cultivation, this was a torrential river. Yvessa directed the energy to siphon straight into her spiral, allowing her body to store it in her cells. Doing this, she realized why it was so valuable for Artorian to externally cultivate with his Aura. He couldn’t store a lot of energy in his aged cells. His body was still nearly completely tainted, which must be why he was cleaning it up.
Artorian funneled from the celestial energy circle but was pushing it with outer energy that Yvessa could feel crackle and pulse as it danced along her fingers. F-rank seven. F-rank eight. The ebb and flow of cultivation level spiked as her cells saturated in what seemed to be minutes but was instead hours of real time. F-rank nine.
“Stop, stop! I feel like I’m going to burst!” The flow of energy halted slowly, the knot of their hands tightening and forming a blockage. She ceased giving him refined bits of Essence to keep up the bond and stopped drawing in rivers of it via her other hand. She was bordering the upper limit of her current rank, and her spiral roiled in a whirlpool of activity, further refining the energy. Unable to keep up with the previously unseen volume, her spiral just did what it could.
With a final crackle, Artorian released some Essence to close off the connection, forcibly sealing the openings on Yvessa’s hands as well. He collapsed on to his bed, out of breath, drained, and exhausted. The old man was sweating, and his hands, wrists, and arms were bright red from swelling and internal injury; conversely, Yvessa’s hands were spotless—the clear difference between a clean, young body that held Essence and an aged, tainted one.
“Oh, that rather hurts.” The diminished old man’s voice was weak, yet Yvessa reeled with power. She was drunk off the rapid rise but forced her head into reality when she gathered just how taxing it had been for Artorian.
“Well. *Gasp*. Why don’t. * Gasp *. Why don’t we wrap those up after treatment, with all this extra time I have from not making a report?” She spoke the words but realized they went unheard; the old man was out cold.
Yvessa broke into the D-ranks a month later.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Two years had passed since Yvessa entered the D-ranks. This morning was notable for only one reason—Irene had unbalanced the daily routine by making a massive cacophony at the gate. She was furious, and it roused absolutely everyone from whatever they had been doing.
A messenger had come to declare a new expeditionary force once again chasing raiders was moving their way in. The scout was there early to bring the matter to the attention of the cloister since the area was officially bound to the Church. The expedition force would be occupying it as temporary lodgings and would use the centralized outpost as a headquarters while they performed their duty. Irene was irate not because this disrupted the comfortable days they had come to know but because that swine known as Keeper Kendra was part of the incoming force.
This was that day everyone learned that Keepers famously do not get along and hold bitter rivalries due to their interpretations of the scriptures. Interpretations meant different opinions. Unless there was an Ar
biter on the matters being discussed, the discussion was more along the lines of screaming. Keepers became aggressive and violent to one another, never feeling the need to hold back in order to come out on top.
Artorian was woken that day by the crude sound of a guard tower crumbling to the ground as shattered splinters. He poked his head from the window, only to take in the absolute smackdown raging between two livid Keepers. Both of them found the energy to scream obscenities—as well as break half the cloister—without regard for what the other appeared to be uttering.
The argument was something about… the correct amount of bread one took during prayer? Artorian couldn't tell, too distracted by emergency ducking away from shrapnel slicing through his open window. Kendra was infuriated, and she picked up a wooden beam from the ground like it weighed little more than a broom, sweeping the courtyard with the support pole. The beam was kicked away by Irene, forcing the tip to slam into the hardened ground. This provided more than enough stability for her to leap on the beam and dart a few steps along its surface to roundhouse kick the other Keeper.
Kick may have been too gentle a description, as Irene spun her body before unleashing the Essence-fueled blow. Kendra didn’t have the time to pry her fingers free as her world went blank. The woman crumpled into a pile after being launched into the damaged cloister. Cracked scaffolding noisily collapsed on top of her.
*Thud*!
“I said. Half. A. Loaf! No exceptions!” Irene vengefully punted the unconscious Kendra out from under the ruined logs and sent her barreling into the surrounding expedition force members. Before a raging Irene had a chance to continue the attack, the freshly arrived group rushed their Keeper off to get medical aid. Glancing back to ensure there was no pursuit, they saw the sizable new hole in the outer wall—a hole made during what had likely been the gentlest of arguments to come.
Tarrean arrived in full armor and cleric regalia to break up the commotion but only managed to disperse the onlookers when his shouts were joined by Nefellum, the Head Cleric of the expedition force. They firmly shook wrists on meeting and plowed through welcoming rituals with elaborate hand-sigils. Artorian stopped paying attention once the action passed, feeling no further need to spy. The gossip mill wouldn’t be turning for a while, but it would be sure to catch him up in due time.
This new expedition force looked to be all business, and Artorian recognized no one when he cycled Essence to his eyes to get a better look. Having forgotten what cycling pure Essence did to your vision during the day, the colors lathered in richness and the sunlight stabbed right into his eyes. “Argh!”
The shiny sky orb was always there with the sneak attack, just waiting for you not to pay attention! Artorian stopped cycling and smoothly eased his way out of bed, doing some test motions. He went through basic stretches, bothered to dress properly, and picked up a gnarled walking stick that hung next to the table. The commotion in the cloister already made it sound like regulations and organizational plans were in full effect. He could hear a large man snap at Initiates to pick up the pace, followed by the distinct *fumble-bump* of someone hitting the dirt. Artorian made a mental cue to expect more yelling, and sure enough, it was almost instant.
The drill instructor’s voice was a hardy baritone. “Get up, Initiate! If I have to pick you up from the dust one more time, then by the celestial… I swear I will find the worst job in this cloister and dedicate you to it for a week!”
The wet *fwack* of a strong hand striking a rear spurred the risen Initiate to start jogging laps around the cloister’s outer perimeter. Poor boy looked like he was going to collapse any second. Artorian’s shout was far friendlier than the one the drill sergeant had let out. “You can do it, m’boy! Don’t let up!”
One could tell from a distance that the cleric in charge of the Initiates was a simple man with simple tastes and simple methods. The drill instructor’s dark head shone like a cue ball, perfectly bald and smooth. His ashen skin made it clear the man was from a warm climate. Right now, his arms were crossed, and displeasure was aimed at the old man shambling along in the Church’s holy cloister. “Sir. I must please ask you to leave the premises. This is holy domain. Members not part of the Church are not to tarry here.”
Artorian put some pleased pep in his stride. It had been ages since he’d gotten to be sly, and the opportunity was given to him on a platter! “Oh, goodness me! No, my good man. I very much live here and have for quite a few years longer than your cloister has been up. I suppose you should consider me the current landowner until the reigning Head Cleric is granted the title.”
The drill sergeant's eyes went wide. Oh, abyss… did he just insult the landowner? He knew well that he could be magically persuaded to leave the lands by force of Mana if he was told to do so. Whether the old man knew it—or not—was not a risk he was willing to make. “My apologies, sir. I did not know. Please, do be careful in your travels. My Initiates are blinder than moles, and I do not wish for their incompetence to cause you harm.”
Artorian slowed his shamble, his hand pressing to the small of his back dramatically. After all, why not play the cards you were given? He took his time and strolled right up to the instructor, holding out his hand in greeting. “The name is Artorian. Well met, my good man.”
The instructor shook wrists with the assumed landowner. “Marud, Choir second-in-command Battle Leader. It is both my pleasure and a surprise to meet a member not of the Church in the domain. May your health stay firm through the sands of time.”
Such a strong shake! Artorian shook his wrist for effect if only to unsettle the large man. Why were all the people in the Church so tall? He dismissed the thought; after all, he was slightly hunched over. “I do appreciate it. Teaching the kids to run?”
Artorian watched one slop by with the dexterity of drunk rabbit exclusively using its hind legs to push onward.
“Indeed,” Marud stated with displeasure, keeping a watchful eye on his slacking recruits. “Move your feet, Initiate! Even this villager here could outpace you!”
Marud’s eyes went wide as he got a sassy reply from the exhausted man. “No, he. *Wheeze*. Abyss-well. *Wheeze*. Couldn’t!”
Before Marud could scold the recruit, Artorian had stabbed his walking stick into the dirt and was disrobing, hanging the lapis lazuli cloth on top of the firmly planted stick. With a twist, it pushed deeper into the ground than an old man should have any capability to do. His words were full of fight. “Young man, I am going to shuffle my way over, and I will be hot on your heels. When I catch you, I am going to give you a scolding on the benefits of being kind to your Elders!”
With a truly awful gait, the old man waggled rather than walked forwards, wearing only pants and shoes. His scars and shriveled appearance unsettled even the seasoned Marud. However, the instructor could see there was health hidden in the man. Sure, he might look old, have terrible posture, and a beard so long you could make rope out of it… yet he also had what Marud recognized as war-scars. In Marud's culture, one didn’t gain honor-marks by resting on one’s laurels.
His drill-instructor attention caught that Artorian had a vibrancy to his skin. There was a brightness in his eyes and a forward momentum to his step that said he didn’t hurt one bit when he was getting a move on. He was just awfully slow. The old man clearly could not run. His legs were thin and spindly, and there was so little muscle on the aged wreck that Marud didn’t want to put any effort into thinking about how the old codger even remained upright.
What was he, eighty? Still, the old landowner was a delight. The instructor now had extra fuel to light under his recruit’s rumps. If they could not pass the aged grandfather, then he could hold that against them in future training and long-term practice. Marud’s thick fingers rubbed his forehead at the thought ‘long-term’. Bleh. They were going to be stuck here for at least a full season. His dark eyes watched the old fool fail to keep up with his exhausted recruit—much less catch him—but Artorian didn’t quit.
Fou
r hands worth of time later, a disheveled, sweaty, heaving, and out of breath old man was pressing a hand against the small of his back before he hobbled his way to the point he had started. Once there, his hands fell to press on his knees, catching his breath as his iron gaze caught Marud’s amused little smirk. “Again. *Gasp*. Tomorrow.”
Artorian coughed out the words with an energetic wave of the hand, grabbed his walking stick, then draped his robe over his shoulders before staggering off. “I am going to catch those unbaked little loaves and put them in the oven!”
The Marud suppressed a snort at the old man’s ire and persistence. He was fine with this, as it was just a few more measuring sticks to goad the recruits. “Sure, old-timer, come back tomorrow.”
“Ah… ahaha! I did it. I did it!” Marud’s face snapped back to the Elder, who sounded absolutely elated. His fist was shaking in the air. Even though Artorian was wobbly, he was clearly pleased about some sort of accomplishment. What? Had it been a few years since he’d even made it around the perimeter?
“Hah.” The drill instructor didn’t see the Elder again until the next morning came. When the second in command rolled up with a powerful stride, ready to discern which recruits to chastise, he was surprised to actually find Artorian mingling with the crowd of Initiates. In fact, he was joining in their stretches.
“No, a little more down, m’boy. You want to push your leg down as far as it will go while you keep your opposing knee bent. Feel the muscle stretch in the taut leg. That little tremble? That’s what you’re looking for. Remember to stretch after training as well; it’s awful being sore.”
Marud let the instruction slide, and his voice boomed through the mottled line of tents. Half-asleep Initiates scampered, partially dressed, from their resting spots and made their way to the front gate in a hurry. When they were all present, Marud firmly gave them a short speech on preparedness. Only one person had vanished.
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